The Cypress House (23 page)

    Her
room was dark and the door was closed. There was no sound inside but the
occasional creaking of the house in the wind. Paul's room was directly next to
hers, but it was silent as well. Arlen opened the door as softly as he could,
looked inside and saw the outline of her body on the bed. Her chest rose and
fell slowly. She was asleep.

    He
crossed the room until he was standing at the side of her bed. There was a
chair next to the bed, and a pair of pistols rested on it. He stared at them
for a few seconds, and then he reached out and laid his hand on her shoulder.

    She
came awake with a start, was about to let out a cry, but he moved his hand to
her mouth in time to muffle it. She twisted to the side and reached for the
chair where the pistols lay, but he blocked that with his hip and said,
"Easy."

    She
bit his hand.

    It
was a damn good bite, one that broke the flesh and made him grunt with pain. He
jerked away and stepped back and she went for the guns again, but he kept in
front of the chair.

    
"Get
out.
What are you —"

    "You
lost your box in the ocean," he said in a low voice, conscious of Paul in
the room next to them, wanting very much for the boy to sleep through this.
"I went in and found it for you."

    She went
still and silent. She was propped up on the heels of her hands now, pushed back
against the headboard, lit by the moon glow.

    "I
think it's time we talk," Arlen said. "At least it's time I talk to
somebody. You got a chance for it to be you. Pass, and I'll find someone
else."

    She
said, "All right. We'll talk."

    "Downstairs,"
he said. "We don't need Paul waking up for this."

    "I'll
be down in a minute."

    Arlen
smiled in the dark and shook his head.

    "We'll
go on down together," he said. "I'd like to make sure those pistols
don't make the trip with you."

    They
went downstairs and she motioned at one of the tables in the barroom, but he
shook his head.

    "Outside.
Like I said, I don't want to wake the boy."

    So
they went out on the porch, and Arlen leaned against the railing and faced her,
his hand oozing blood from the bite. She didn't sit but stood with her arms
folded under her breasts. The breeze had cooled, and her nipples budded against
the thin fabric of the gown.

    
She
cleaned a pool of blood off the floor and didn't call anyone to report the
crime, Arlen thought. She threw a pair of severed hands into the ocean and
wouldn't have said a word about that either. Don't you look at her, Wagner.
Don't you dare let yourself keep looking at her like that. It's only trouble
.

    "I
was out on the beach," he said. "I saw you go in the water and throw
Wade's box out there, and I figured I ought to see what was in it. Took a damn
long time to find the thing, but I did."

    "You
were watching me ?" she said, squeezing herself tighter.

    "That's
right," he said. "But I'm a lot more interested in that box than I am
in your body. It's a fine-looking body, even in the dark, but I don't give a
damn. I want to hear what in the hell it is that Solomon Wade is doing out
here, and why you're letting it happen. And I want to hear the truth."

    She
was quiet, looking past him at the moonlit sea.

    "You
got one chance to tell it," he said. "Otherwise, I'll be back with
the law. It won't be Tolliver either. There's real law in places not far
off."

    She
dropped into a chair as if the strength had left her legs, leaned forward and
clasped her hands together, like a woman in prayer.

    "It's
my brother."

    "Your
brother?"

    "He's
in prison," she said. "Raiford. He's only twenty years old. It was
working with Solomon Wade that got him into trouble."

    "That
experience made you eager to work with him yourself?"

    She
looked up at him. "If I don't, Solomon will have Owen killed. He's done it
before. I can show you newspaper articles if you'd like. There are at least
three men who have been killed in prisons or work camps in this state because
Solomon Wade ordered it to happen."

    "That
shows up in the papers?"

    "Of
course not. But I can show you articles about the men who died, and then I can
tell you the truth about why they died, and how."

    "He's
a judge," Arlen said. "A crooked one, sure, but still a judge. He's
not some sort of Al Capone or —"

    But
she was shaking her head.

    "He's
as dangerous as anyone in the state."

    "Who
in the hell is he?" Arlen said. "How does a backwoods county judge
like that get so much power?"

    "He's
not a backwoods county judge," she said. "He's a hand- picked choice
of evil men, sent here from New Orleans."

    "Why?
What was here for him?"

    "Smuggling."

    "What's
he into now? It isn't rum-running these days."

    "Morphine.
Or that's what he calls it. Heroin."

    "What's
the difference?"

    "Strength.
One grain of heroin is the same as three grains of morphine."

    "You
seem to know a lot about it."

    "Yes,"
she said simply.

    "He
brings this in from Cuba?"

    "That's
right. Hidden in orange crates. The crates are dropped off in my inlet, loaded
up in trucks, and taken to New Orleans, Memphis, and Kansas City. My brother
was driving one of them when he was arrested. He refused to talk to the police,
because to do so would implicate my father and Wade. So he told a pretty lie
and now he sits in Raiford with no idea that Solomon Wade, his trusted boss, is
using his life as blackmail."

    "This
is still happening?" Arlen said. "The smuggling, here?"

    "Yes.
Every six weeks or so. A lot of drugs come through this inlet. And a lot of
money."

    "Solomon
suggested as much to me," Arlen said. "You said he was handpicked by
people in New Orleans, but judge is an elected position. As is sheriff. How did
those two come from other places and get themselves elected?"

    "Bribes,
swindling, and intimidation," she said. "Solomon was the first. Then
he brought Tolliver down from Cleveland and got him elected the same way. They
don't answer to the people of this county or anyone in the entire state; they
answer to New Orleans, New York, and Chicago. I don't think smuggling has
anything to do with Solomon wanting to be a judge, though. It has to do with
power, and background. He's building both. What he wants won't be found in Corridor
County. He intends to go far beyond that."

    "And
you're helping him lay the foundation."

    "I
just told you why! It's not as if I made some decision to —"

    "Whose
hands were they?" he said.

    "What?"

    "The
hands in the box. Who do they belong to? That man in the Plymouth who came by
last night?"

    "Yes.
Tate McGrath killed him, I'm sure. Tate and his sons. His name was David
Franklin. From Tampa. He worked with Walter Sorenson."

    "Doing
what?"

    "Collections.
Bookkeeping. They were the money men."

    "I
get the feeling," Arlen said, "that Mr. Franklin tried to get more
than his share. Apparently Wade and his boys didn't appreciate that he melted
Walt Sorenson in his attempt."

    She
turned away as if feeling ill.

    "Why
would they bring the hands to you tonight?" he asked.

    "That's
Solomon's idea of a message. He's reminding me of his power."

    "But
why would you care about this David Franklin?"

    "Because,"
she said, her voice dipping to a near whisper, "we do the same sort of
work for Solomon. He's reminding me to do it right."

    Neither
of them spoke for a while then. The wind blew and the waves broke and they sat
in silence.

    "There
was a woman with Franklin last night. Do you know —"

    "I
have no idea what happened to her," she said.

    But
they both knew.

    Arlen
took out a cigarette and lit it and smoked. "This is why you stayed,"
he said. "Because you believe that if you leave, he'll have your brother
killed."

    "I
don't believe it. I
know
it."

    "So
this place has value to Solomon," he said, "because he can let his
boys meet out here, bring in visitors to talk about things that can't be
overheard, maybe kill a man or two. You'll keep silent because you're worried
for your brother."

    "That's
right."

    He
smiled in the darkness and tapped ash from the cigarette. "Do you truly
take me for a fool?"

    She
pulled her head back. "What?"

    "I'm
supposed to believe that's all there is?" he said. "That's the most
ignorant thing I've ever heard in my life. It's not worth the risk to him.
There are a thousand places you could land a boat offshore here and smuggle
into these creeks. There are a thousand places you could hold meetings. Hell,
if he's so damned determined that
this
be the spot, he'd run you off
from it and take over."

    She
ran her fingertips across her cheekbone and said, "Long enough ago, he
might have done that. He didn't have to, though. He had my father working for
him willingly. My father and my brother. And there aren't a thousand places
like this, not with a deep-water inlet. You can bring a large boat in here and
get trucks right down to it, unload quick, and the whole place is such a jungle
that it would be almost impossible for anyone to watch you do it, for anyone to
surprise you. No, this is actually the
perfect
place for Solomon
Wade."

    "Your
father was partners with him."

    She
nodded. "For a time. Back when it was only liquor and people weren't being
killed and he thought Wade was someone he could trust."

    "So
your father, he just allowed the smuggling to go on, is that it? Pretended not
to know what they were doing, took a cut to keep his mouth shut?"

    "He
did a little more than that. Tate McGrath's no mathematician. Solomon needed
somebody who could think, somebody who could handle the dollars, the
real
dollars."

    "Your
father did those things."

    "He
did," she said, "and now I do."

    He
looked at her for a time and then stretched his neck first one way and then the
other, felt the stiff joints pop.

    "I
don't believe that," he said. "I don't believe a woman like you could
be forced into doing so much for a man like that based on nothing more than
intimidation. Someone like you? Shit, you'd have called the governor by now.
Called old J. Edgar Hoover himself, had all of them down at Raiford, hauling
your baby brother out while they fastened shackles around Wade."

    "Nothing
more than intimidation," she echoed. "Nothing more."

    "That's
all it sounds like to me, and you don't seem the type to crumble under it as
completely as you're wanting me to believe."

    She
lifted her chin and gave him that challenging stare she had. Her shoulders were
pulled back and he could see her breasts pushing at the gown and the smooth
lines of her sides swerving out into her hips, could see her hair tracing her
neck. When he took another drag off his cigarette, he held the smoke longer
than he intended. Almost like he'd forgotten it was there.

    "Okay,"
he said. "You've made your decisions. Something you need to understand?
I'm about to make mine."

    She
was silent.