The Cypress House (18 page)

    Arlen
said nothing.

    "I
think she can," Paul said. "But it'll take some time. It'll take a
chance for me to show her who I really am. Who I can be. But I think . .
."

    His
words trailed off, and Arlen didn't spur them back into life or add to them. He
just leaned against the mangled side of the boathouse and smoked his cigarette,
and the boy looked out across the inlet as the heron struck and missed once,
and then again, and then it was too dark to see all the way over to him.

    They
spent an hour or two sitting and talking about insignificant things but both of
them jerking at every sound, their minds back at the Cypress House. Once, Paul
started to mosey that way, said he had to relieve himself. Arlen pointed into
the trees.

    "All
the privacy you need right there. Don't you even think about going back up into
the view of that tavern unless you want to cause trouble for her."

    That
seemed to convince him. He went off into the bushes and pissed.

    "Think
she's okay?" he said when he returned.

    "I
know she is," Arlen said. "She's run this place on her own for a
time, Paul. She's had men like that visit more than once, and she's handled herself
fine. Don't trouble yourself over it. It's a normal night for her."

    He
wasn't sure of that, but he needed the boy to be. He took his flask from his
pocket and uncapped it and offered it to Paul.

    "Sip
a little."

    "No,
I'm fine."

    "Go
on," he said. "You've earned it tonight, Paul. It'll ease your
worry."

    After
a hesitation, Paul accepted the flask and drank. They passed it back and forth
as they sat on the floor of the boathouse, which was now like a lean-to
shelter, open to the night sky on one side. Just to Paul's left, the water from
the inlet lapped gently inside the boathouse.

    "This
isn't such a bad spot to spend a night," he said at length, his voice
beginning to show the booze. "Hear that ocean, see those stars ?"

    Arlen
didn't say anything. After a while the boy slumped down against the pile of
blankets. Arlen lit a cigarette and let the sound of wind and water fill the
silence. By the time the cigarette had burned down to his fingertips, he could
tell the kid was already asleep. He always went down hard and fast, the way the
boys in the CCC had — you worked them enough during the day, and they forgot
their homesickness and orneriness as soon as their heads touched the pillows —
but he was also unfamiliar with drink, and it would help to keep him down.
Arlen had been counting on this.

    He
got quietly to his feet and left the dock and started up the sandy path to the
tavern. By the time he reached the end of the trail, he could see the
flickering light of oil lamps from the main barroom. All of the cars were still
parked out in the yard.

    He
hesitated and looked up at the cars and wondered what the best approach was. If
he really worked at being unseen, crept around staying low and in the shadows,
he suspected he could do it. The problem then was with the off chance that they
came bumbling out of the bar at just the wrong time and caught him. No, better
to just walk up to the cars as casually as he could, and if someone came out
and saw him, he'd feign ignorance, explain that they were staying at the
boathouse and that he couldn't sleep. Be easy to present as the truth, because
mostly it was.

    He
circled around to the Plymouth and had just removed a matchbook so he could put
some light on the license plate when something moved in the corner of his eye.
He spun back with his fists raised and heart thundering.

    There
was a woman inside the sheriff's car. Sitting in the passenger seat, staring
through the shadowed glass at Arlen without expression.

    For a
moment he stayed there with his hands clenched into fists, and then he dropped
them, looked once at the tavern, and approached the car, making a rolling
gesture with his hand, indicating that she should lower the window. She did so,
and he could hear a strange tinkling noise. It wasn't until he stepped closer
and knelt beside the door that he understood — she was wearing handcuffs.

    "What
are you doing out here ?" he whispered.

    "I'm
waiting," she said, "for them to finish bargaining."

    "Over
what?"

    "My
life."

    He
ran a hand over his jaw and stared at her, looking from the handcuffs back to
her face. She was a beautiful woman, with full lips and hair so dark it looked
like oil spilled across the front of her dress, which was a pale yellow.
Beneath the clasps of steel, her arms were slender and elegant.

    "What
are you talking about?" Arlen said. "Who are you?"

    "My
name is Gwen."

    "I
don't mean your name, I mean what in the hell you're doing here, with men like
that. Why does that son of a bitch have you in chains?"

    "I'm
leverage," she said, and for the first time he heard clear emotion in her
words. Not fear but sorrow. The sort that rose up from the core.

    "How?"

    "There's
a man inside who loves me," she said. "And they know that. They
intend . . . I believe they intend to test the strength of his love."

    "The
fellow who drove the Plymouth?"

    "Yes.
David."

    "Why
do they have you out here, instead of in with them ?"

    "I
was inside, once. So he could see me. Then Tate asked the sheriff to take me
back out. I believe I unsettle him."

    Her
voice was eerie, faint but firm and entirely matter-of-fact.

    "Who
is Tate? He the older guy? Long gray hair?"

    "Yes.
The three with him are his sons. A family of vipers. You and the boy will need
to be careful with them, Mr. Wagner."

    When
she said his name he tightened his hand around the door frame.

    "You
know me, eh ? Tolliver's been telling his tales."

    "These
men aren't concerned with you," she said as if he hadn't spoken,
"yet. But they will be the longer you linger."

    "I
don't intend to linger. I've been trying to get —"

    "Give
me your hand," she said.

    "What?"

    "You
heard me." Her whisper now held urgency.

    The
wind picked up, blowing cool off the water, and Arlen's flesh prickled. He was
looking into her eyes, and while he meant to object he could not. He released
the door frame and extended his right hand, and she lifted both of hers, the
cuffs rattling, and grasped it. His breath caught at the touch, her slim hands
cool against his, her fingers gliding over his palm.

    "You're
the girl from Cassadaga," he said. "Sorenson's girl."

    The
fortune-teller, the palm reader. The one who'd told Sorenson to watch for
travelers in need.

    "I'm
a girl from Cassadaga," she said. "But not Sorenson's. I already told
you — I love the man in that house. David. And he loves me, and that will be
our downfall, Mr. Wagner. Love is a powerful thing, and like all powerful things,
it can be used to harm."

    She
was rubbing his palm lightly with her fingertips.

    "You
fell in love with the wrong sort of boy," Arlen said.

    "Shh.
I'm trying to see whether you're —"

    "Stop
it," he said suddenly, his voice rough, and he jerked his hand free.
"I won't have that bullshit. You can't tell a damn thing from that."

    She
frowned but didn't respond to his harshness.

    "You're
the boy's guardian," she said. "And you know that he won't fare well
in this place. I can tell that. You understand the danger and —"

    "I
told you to stop it," he said. "You want to talk truth, lady, I'll
talk it with you, but I'm not inclined to sit here and listen to
foolishness."

    "Of
course not. You've tried long and hard to block the things you need to hear. At
some point you're going to have to listen."

    "What
I will
listen
to is you explaining what happened to Walter Sorenson and
what's going on inside that . . ." His voice trailed off. He didn't even
get his mouth closed, just knelt there slack-jawed, staring into the dark of
the sheriff's car.

    The
glittering silver handcuffs were now resting on thin shafts of bone.

    "What?"
she said, and he raised his eyes, hoping to see those sculpted, full lips. A
skull stared back at him.

    No
words came. The skull tilted and studied him, then said, in a soft and sad
voice, "It's happened now, hasn't it? He's told them. It's done."

    Arlen
couldn't answer.

    She
said, "You can see it in me. You truly have gifts beyond measure."

    Finally,
he spoke. Said, "Lady, you've got to get out of that car."

    The
skull shook slowly back and forth. "No."

    
"Yes.
You have got to get out of that car and —"

    "They'll
find me," she said. "And it will end the same for me, only it will
also be bad for you and the boy. And for Rebecca. I won't initiate such
things."

    "Lady,"
he said, "Gwen, you've got to understand something. They're going to kill
you."

    "They
always were," she said. "It just took some time to confirm it."

    He
couldn't bear to look at the skull anymore. He pulled out his matchbook and
struck a match and leaned into the car, held it close to her. In the flickering
light, flesh spread like butter over the bones and she was whole again. Whole
except for the whirling pools of gray smoke where her eyes belonged.

    "Come
on," he said. "We're leaving. We're going to run. All three of us.
I'll get the boy up here and we'll run."

    "You
can't run from them," she said. "I hope you understand that. You're
going to need to. There will be no running from what lies ahead."

    "Quiet,"
he said. "We're going now." The match had burned down to his fingers,
and he shook it out and reached for the door handle.

    "No!"
she said, and she took the handle in her bone fingers and pulled back against
his efforts.

    "Get
out of the car!"

    "Leave
me," she hissed.

    "I
won't. Get out of the damn car."

    He
got the door partially opened, but then, with surprising strength, she slammed
it back. The sound of metal on metal rang out loud in the still night. She
said, "Hide.
Now
."

    He
did not argue this time. He knew that he could not. He dropped to the grass and
rolled forward, toward the Plymouth, as the front door of the Cypress House
banged open and footsteps slapped onto the porch and someone called for a
lantern. It was still dark back by the cars, and Arlen wriggled forward until
he was entirely beneath the Plymouth. He was there when Tolliver tramped past
him, nothing showing but a pair of boots and the angled glow of a lantern.

    "You
were told not to move," the sheriff was saying. "Not to make a sound.
Think you'll be able to take so much as a step, chained like that?"

    She
was chained to the car, Arlen realized. Maybe at the feet. She couldn't have
run if she wanted to.

    "We're
about done, darling," Tolliver said, his voice so rich with mocking menace
that Arlen clenched his teeth together, willing down the urge to roll out from
under the Plymouth and start swinging. There were more men inside. All of them
probably armed.

    "We'll
be on our way soon. We'll be taking you home. But if you move again, make a
sound again, I'll put a bullet in your beautiful face. Understand?"

    There
was a long pause, and then Tolliver passed the Plymouth a second time. Arlen
waited until he'd heard his boots on the porch and the sound of the door
closing, and then he slid back out from under the car. He crept around to the
sheriff's car and stared in at her. The skull face regarded him.