The Cypress House (21 page)

    Wade
didn't answer. Arlen hadn't seen Tate move, but the older man's hand was
resting high on his thigh now, near the pistol.

    "Your
business is of no interest to me," Arlen said. "None. Nor to the . .
. nor to Paul. But I'll tell you something else: ours ought not to be of any
interest to you. It better not be."

    It
was quiet for a long time. The sun was all the way gone now, the porch covered
in darkness. Wade finally spoke.

    "Fourteen
days left," he said. "You be ready for him?"

    Arlen
didn't understand what in the hell he was talking about. Then Rebecca Cady
spoke, and it became clear the comment had been intended for her.

    "You
know the answer," she said. Her voice was strained.

    Wade
nodded congenially. "Yes, I do. I just wanted you to know I can keep track
of the days, too."

    He
stood up, scraping his chair back across the porch floor. "Becky, let's
take a moment inside. In private. Just you, me, and Mr. McGrath."

    McGrath
was apparently Tate's last name. The three of them started for the door, but
Arlen interrupted.

    "Hold
on. You can stay right out here and have your talk."

    Wade
spun back to him. "You were just telling me the virtues of minding your
life while I mind my own. Weren't you?"

    Arlen
ran his tongue along the inside of his lip and stared at him but didn't say
anything. Wade gave a short nod and pulled the door open and went inside.

    "Who
do you think he really is?" Paul said in a whisper when they were alone.
"Doesn't behave like a judge."

    
I
am the match,
Wade had said.

    "He's
a big fish," Arlen said, "in a small pond. Sharp teeth, though. Even
the ones in the small ponds got their teeth."

    He
was watching them through the shadowed glass. Wade was standing close to
Rebecca, talking to her, while Tate McGrath floated around in silence. Arlen
thought of McGrath's three sons and the man they'd loaded into the black
Plymouth the previous night, of the way his legs wouldn't support his weight
and his mouth couldn't form words. He thought of the woman in the yellow dress.

    Rebecca's
face was flat, betraying no emotion. She turned away from Wade and lit an oil
lamp while he talked, the light throwing a pale glow across his face, making
his glasses shine again. At length he turned to Tate and snapped a few words,
and the older man went out through the front door. He was gone for only a
minute, and when he came back he had a box in his hands, what looked like a
large wooden cigar box wrapped with twine. He set it on the bar in front of
Rebecca, who kept her eyes down and didn't look at it.

    Wade
leaned close, his face within inches of hers, and he spoke softly into her ear,
tapping the box with his index finger as he talked. Still she didn't look up.
Wade wrapped his fingers in her hair and pulled slowly, until her chin lifted.

    "Hey,"
Paul said, "what's he doing? That son of a bitch."

    Arlen
said,
"Paul,"
but it was too late: the kid was out of his
chair and through the door. Arlen swore and went after him.

    Solomon
Wade still had a fistful of Rebecca's hair, and he turned to them and a small
smile showed on his face as Paul rushed forward.

    "Get
your hands off her," Paul was saying. "Damn you, take your hands off
—"

    Tate
McGrath stepped in front of Wade and swung. He hit Paul square in the forehead
with the punch, stepping into it, a good solid crack that sounded as if someone
had dropped a clay pot. Paul's feet went out from beneath him, and he fell
straight backward. He got his hands out, kept his head from drilling into the
floorboards. Rebecca Cady gave a little cry when he went down.

    Paul
struggled to his feet, unsteady, and charged back at McGrath, who sidestepped
the rush, hooked his right hand around Paul's arm, and sent him spinning into
one of the tables. He went down again, this time in a clattering mess, taking
three chairs and the table with him.

    McGrath
walked to one of the chairs and lifted his foot and brought it down hard,
shearing the leg right off the chair. He reached down and picked it up, a heavy
chunk of wood, and then he advanced on Paul, bouncing the wood in his hand, as
Arlen finally caught up to them.

    McGrath
heard him coming and whirled to strike, but Arlen had just bent to pick up what
was left of the chair and he used it to block the blow. He shoved ahead,
holding the chair, and McGrath twisted, trying to clear away from it. Arlen
leaned his weight forward, bracing the chair with his left arm, and then
reached down for McGrath's waist with his right, made one quick clean grab and
came up with McGrath's own knife.

    McGrath
gave a grunt and tried to go for his pistol, but Arlen shoved the chair into
his face and then dropped it entirely as the older man stumbled back. By the
time McGrath had regained his balance, Arlen had his greasy hair in one hand and
the knife at his throat with the other.

    He
jerked on the hair and maneuvered McGrath sideways so that the whole room was
visible. Paul had gotten to his feet, breathing hard, but Wade hadn't so much
as moved. He still had hold of Rebecca's hair, but he hadn't stepped toward the
brawl.

    "Seems
like the way schoolgirls would fight," Arlen said. "Here we are, both
hanging on to somebody's pretty locks."

    McGrath
was breathing hard through his nose. The blade of the knife was firm against
the worn, sunburned skin of his throat.

    "What
do you say, Wade?" Arlen said. "You let go of your lady, I'll let go
of mine."

    Wade's
face showed no change in expression, but he released Rebecca's hair. She
stepped back quickly, went around the side of the bar.

    "Let
him go, Arlen," she said.

    "I
guess I will," Arlen said. "I was thinking I might dance with him a
little longer, but maybe not."

    He
gave another twist of McGrath's hair and leaned his face down.

    "I
let you go, you can reach for that pistol," he said. "I don't want
that to happen. So you're going to stand where you are and let the kid take the
gun off your belt. You're not going to move an inch while it happens."

    McGrath
made no response. Arlen said, "Paul."

    Paul
came forward, moving as reluctantly as if he'd been asked to handle a snake,
and reached down and got the gun out of the holster.

    "Hang
on to it and go stand by the door," Arlen said. "We'll give Mr.
McGrath his toys in just a minute."

    He
waited until Paul was at the door and then he dropped the knife from Tate
McGrath's throat and shoved him away, taking a step back as he did. McGrath
straightened and looked at him, and for a moment Arlen was sure he was going to
try, even with Arlen holding the knife and Paul holding the gun. Tate McGrath
was the sort of alley cat who fought dogs of his own volition. By holding his
own knife to his throat, Arlen had just bought a lifetime of hatred.

    "Wouldn't
be wise," he said as McGrath took a circling step toward him.

    "Tate,"
Wade snapped, and McGrath came to a stop. "I've seen more than enough
wrestling for one night. Mr. Wagner seems to have a mighty confused idea of
what it means to mind his own business, but that's all right. We'll give him a
chance to figure it out. I'm pretty sure he'll take to it quickly."

    Wade
was looking at Arlen, but Arlen wouldn't take his eyes off McGrath.

    "I'm
a mighty fast learner," he said. "Now are you boys ready to head out
for the night, or do I need to hang on to this knife much longer? "

    "We're
on our way," Wade said. "You can give him his knife."

    Arlen
shook his head. "Not until you're in the car."

    Wade
shrugged. He turned to Rebecca and extended his hand, touched her cheek gently.
She grimaced.

    "You
remember our chat," he said, and then he turned and walked toward the
door. When he reached Paul he slowed and stared down into the boy's face, then
laid a hand on his shoulder. "Watch who you travel with, son," he
said. "Bad company can be disastrous."

    Arlen
had been keeping his attention on Tate McGrath, but now, as Arlen watched Wade
talk to Paul, the backwoodsman fell from his mind entirely.

    Paul's
eyes had just filled with smoke.

    It
twisted in the sockets, two gray whirlpools set high on his face. Arlen felt
something clench in his throat and he took a step forward and raised the knife.

    Paul
turned the smoke-eyes to face him, and Wade gave the boy a pat on the shoulder
and then released his grip and looked back at Arlen. The instant his hand left
Paul's shoulder, the smoke vanished.

    Arlen
stopped where he was, halfway across the room, knife in hand.

    Wade
said, "What are you doing?"

    "Step
back from him," Arlen said. His voice was unsteady.

    Wade
gave him an unpleasant look but stepped away. Paul's brown eyes regarded Arlen
with curiosity.

    "Let's
go, Tate," Wade said, and then he stepped through the door. McGrath
followed, and Arlen kept staring at Paul. There was no smoke now, but there had
been. He was certain that there had been. Why had it disappeared so quickly?

    "Give
me the gun," Arlen said. Both Paul and Rebecca were watching him with a
measure of confusion. Paul passed the gun over, and then Arlen went out to Tate
McGrath's truck. Tate was behind the wheel, Wade in the passenger seat. Arlen
tossed the knife and the gun down in the bed, and then he banged his hand off
the side of the truck and stepped back.

    "Y'all
have a nice evening now," he called.

    "You'll
see us again," Solomon Wade said. "And there will come a time when
you will regret tonight's decision."

    "I've
never been one for regrets," Arlen said, and then he turned and walked
back to the Cypress House. The whole way, there was a tightness through his
back and he was ready for the sound of the truck door opening, Tate McGrath
stepping back out and going for the gun. The only sound that came, though, was
the truck rattling off down the road.

    It
had been Wade's touch, Arlen realized as he stepped onto the porch. Smoke had
filled Paul's eyes when Wade laid a hand on his shoulder; it had vanished as
soon as the hand was removed.

    But
the smoke had been there. He was certain of that, and of what it meant.

    Paul
had a thick red lump swelling on his forehead, just above his eye. He sat on a
bar stool while Rebecca ran a cool rag over his face and inspected the wound.
Arlen could see the boy's breathing stagger when her fingertips slid over his
skin. It wasn't from pain.

    "You
okay?" he said.

    "Yeah,"
Paul mumbled. "I wasn't expecting him to come on that fast. Once I got my
bearings, I'd have been all right."

    "Sure,"
Arlen said, knowing that Tate probably would have beaten the boy within an inch
of his life if he'd been allowed to start swinging that chair leg.

    "Thank
you for stepping in," Paul said. "I shouldn't have needed your help,
but —"

    "You
were going to need somebody's help. I would have, too, with that old bastard.
Only reason I was able to get away with what I did was that he was paying
attention to you. That's a mean son of a bitch, Paul, and a dangerous one. You
see him again, you stay the hell away from him."

    
A
family of vipers,
the woman named Gwen had said. Tate surely seemed to be,
and tonight he'd traveled alone. If he'd brought those boys of his along, it
might have been a very bloody evening.

    "Tate's
awful," Rebecca said. It was the first time she'd spoken. "He's a terrible
human being. Just like Solomon."

    "Why
do you let them come around here?" Paul said.

    She
didn't answer. Arlen went behind the bar to pour a glass of whiskey. His hands
were trembling and he shifted so they wouldn't see. When he turned back, he
noticed that the cigar box was missing from the top of the bar. She'd already
moved it.