The Cypress House (48 page)

    "Where
am I going?" he said aloud, hoping for an answer, hoping that Owen's voice
might reach him even here. There was nothing but silence, though. The road
wound on and on, and no sign of humanity existed, just that green jungle.

    He'd
believed in each move he'd made in the car, believed that the dead man was
guiding him, but what if that was all a foolish trick of the mind and he was
driving away from Paul? His doubt grew as the road led him farther into the
woods and farther from anyplace he knew, and he dropped the speed off again so
the car was moving at a crawl and began to consider turning around. The road
was so damn narrow that such a feat would be difficult. There were tire tracks
in the mud and hoofprints from horses, but what did that prove? Only that
someone had come this way; it didn't have to be the McGraths.

    A
stretch of muddy water showed through the trees then, a creek winding into the
woods. Arlen studied it, saw that while it was narrow it was also deep, and
remembered the boat from the inlet the day he'd been up repairing the roof just
after the hurricane. Tate McGrath. And Owen had said the McGraths emerged from
the inlet today.

    "It's
the right place," he said. "You're getting me there, aren't you
?"

    Again,
no answer. He wished he could hear him, or at least feel him, know that he
wasn't making this ride alone, but there was nothing. He had to take it on
faith, had to believe, and the sight of the water made that easier.

    He
drove on, and a rickety wooden bridge appeared ahead. It was many years old.
Arlen wasn't sure it could even support the weight of the car, but then his
eyes drifted ahead and what he saw made that concern vanish.

    There
was a car coming his way. It had just rounded a bend well ahead of him and was approaching
the bridge, driving at a slow speed. Arlen pushed the brake all the way down
and stayed where he was, watching it come on. When it passed out of the shadows
and took on enough clarity, he recognized it — the county sheriff's car.
Tolliver.

    He
felt his breathing slow, felt his muscles go liquid and soft, the way they once
had in fields far from this country, and he wrapped his hand around the walnut
stock of the Springfield and waited.

    The
sheriff's car had slowed when the driver spotted Arlen, but it kept coming on,
up to the edge of the wooden bridge, which was maybe a hundred yards ahead, and
then stopped. Arlen could see Tolliver clearly now, the big man riding behind
the wheel with one hand out of sight. Surely resting on a gun, the same as
Arlen's was. Only Tolliver's gun was a pistol, and it didn't have the range to
do damage until he crossed that bridge. The Springfield had plenty.

    They'll
hear the shot,
Arlen thought.
He's come from a good ways off, but not so
far that they won't hear the shot.

    Tolliver's
car lurched forward again, out of the mud and toward the old bridge, and Arlen
knew that the sound of the shot was going to be the least of his concerns if he
let him drive on.

    He
engaged the parking brake and rose up as the sheriff's car spun mud and neared
the bridge. Put one knee on the seat to support himself and then cleared the
Springfield and rested it across the frame of the windshield. The engine of the
sheriff's car howled with a sudden increase in gas as Tolliver saw the weapon
and realized what was coming. Arlen dropped his face and pressed his cheek
against the smooth stock of the rifle and gazed down the barrel. The car was
driving fast but still centered; until it cleared the bridge, Tolliver couldn't
maneuver to the right or to the left. Arlen let the front wheels find the
boards of the bridge and then he exhaled a slow, patient breath and focused
right-center on the windshield and squeezed the trigger. The gun gave a gentle
buck in his arms, an old but unforgotten sensation, and then he ejected the
shell and closed the bolt and fired again. There were three shots left in the
Springfield, but he didn't need to use them. The car gave a last lurch forward
and then the growl of the engine dropped off, and the car rolled slowly down
from the bridge and came to a stop in the mud. The engine was still running,
but no foot remained on the gas pedal. Tolliver was out of sight. He'd fallen
sideways, down onto the passenger seat.

    Arlen
left the convertible running, climbed out and jogged toward the sheriff's car
with the gun held out in front of him and the mud sucking at his boots. When he
got close enough, he dropped to a knee and pointed the rifle at the passenger
door and waited. Tolliver could be baiting him, could rise up with the pistol
in his hand the moment Arlen reached for the door handle.

    He
didn't rise, though. The two
.30-caliber bullets from the Springfield
had landed true; there were twin holes cracked through the windshield, inches
apart, fractured glass surrounding them just above the steering wheel. Arlen
gave it a few more seconds, listening to the engine run, and then he saw
something drip out of the car near the base of the door frame. Blood.

    At
the sight of it, he rose and walked to the passenger door and pulled it open,
holding the Springfield against his side with a finger on the trigger.
Tolliver's wide body was jammed between the dashboard and the passenger seat,
shoulders wedged tight. Blood pooled on the floor beneath him, and a thin
stream of it ran out onto Arlen's boots when the door was opened. Arlen could
see the big man's back shudder. Trying to breathe. Not gone yet.

    There
was a pistol on the driver's seat, the weapon Tolliver had held when the
bullets found him. Arlen reached over and picked it up and slid the barrel
through his belt. Then he took a handful of the sheriff's shirt and hauled him
out of the car and down into the mud.

    Not a
sound had come from anywhere up the road. The shots from the Springfield had
been loud, though, and Arlen suspected the McGraths could move as silently as
they chose through these woods. He kept his back against the car, protected, as
he rolled Tolliver over. He had to set the rifle down to do it; the sheriff
must have gone every bit of two fifty. When Arlen got him over, he saw the
holes punched through him, one high on the right side, blown through the
collarbone, and another lower and centered. Tolliver gave a long blink, smoke
billowing out from under his eyelids, moved his lips like a fish searching for
water, and then he died. Arlen knew the moment that he went; he'd watched
enough men find that moment in the past.

    Arlen
said, "Bad news, buddy: you can't hide from me that easy."

    He
left the rifle leaning against the car, and then he reached down and cupped
each side of Tolliver's head with his hands, lifted the dead man's face and
looked into his eyes.

    "Come
on back now," he said, "and tell me how many they are."

    
You'll
never cross this bridge again.

    This
voice was nothing like Owen's had been. Recognizable as Tolliver's, yes, but
changed, gone dark and twisted. As Arlen held the dead sheriff's head in his
hands, the man's flesh drained of color, went white as sand under moonlight, as
if every ounce of blood had been pulled away. Arlen felt a shiver ride through
him and nearly dropped Tolliver and stepped back. He held his position, though,
swallowed, and said, "I didn't ask about crossing the bridge. I asked how
many they are."

    
Don't
understand this game, do you? Tolliver's ghost whispered. We ain't all here to
help you, friend. Just because you can reach us doesn't mean we're required to
help
.

    Arlen
didn't say anything. Tolliver's blood was running with the slope of his torso,
dripping down his throat in warm rivulets and caressing the sides of Arlen's
hands.

    
You're
a good shot, Tolliver said. Tate's better
.

    "We're
about to find out," Arlen said.

    
Hell,
yes, you will. That man's as natural a killer as I've ever seen. More natural
than a rattlesnake, more natural than a shark. You ain't never seen his like.
And there isn't a life that old boy values but his sons. You? You're partnered
up with them that killed one of his sons. I'd call that a death warrant
.

    The
world had begun to spin around Arlen. He was holding his focus on Tolliver's
eyes, but outside of that center everything was in motion, a whirl of trees and
sky and colors. This wasn't like talking to Owen at all. It felt like being
lost in a terrible fever.

    "Is
Wade with them?"

    
Not
yet. But he'll be riding close soon enough. He'll see you before the end of
your time, and then you'll wish you'd not come this way
.

    A
high, harsh hum was in Arlen's ears now, coming in waves, like a pulse, and he
squeezed his eyes shut and grimaced. When he opened them again, the hum was
louder and the world seemed draped with fog. He could see nothing beyond
Tolliver's face, could hear nothing but that hum, and . . .

    
Let
him go
.

    It
wasn't Tolliver speaking. A familiar voice, but not Tolliver. Was it Owen Cady?
No, it seemed to come from a time much longer ago than that. So familiar,
though. So damn familiar. Whose voice was it? How could he —

    
Let
him go.

    forget
a voice like that, so deep and strong and full of command? He knew its source,
knew it well, but here in the fog and the hum everything was lost. If he could
only remember the —

    
Let
him go, son
.

    Isaac?
No. It couldn't be. How could a man so long dead reach and find Arlen now and
tell him . . .

    The
instruction finally registered. He had to let Tolliver go. He dropped his hands
from the sheriff's head and fell back against the car with a gasp as a searing
rod of pain drilled through his chest.

    
A
bullet, he thought. I've just been shot
.

    But
there was no bullet, and the pain passed. He closed his eyes and opened them
again and drew in a deep breath, and now the world was steady except for a
tingle on his hands where Tolliver's blood stained his skin. He wiped them on
his pants, looking down at the dead man and realizing what had nearly happened
— Tolliver had been holding him here. Arlen had opened the contact, maybe, but
Tolliver had nearly closed it, and that trancelike state that Arlen had entered
with Owen could have turned deadly this time. He'd been unable to see anything
around him, unable to hear, would have been utterly unable to defend himself if
he hadn't released the body and stepped back. The longer he'd held on to
Tolliver, the longer he'd tried to keep that corridor open, the deeper he'd
sunk into the trance. He might have stayed there in the road for a long time.

    That
was his father's voice. He was damn near certain of it, and somehow it chilled
him more than any of the others.

    This
was a dangerous game. Wasn't as simple as talking. There was more to it than
that, and what Tolliver had said had been the truth —the dead weren't required
to help him. The ability to reach them wasn't necessarily a good thing.

    He
stood up now and stepped over the body with the rifle in his hands, scanned the
road ahead and the woods and the creek, watching and listening and holding his
finger tight against the trigger.

    There
was no one in sight, no sound that wasn't natural. He stepped back to the front
of the car and put his hand on the hood. The engine was still running, and it
was running hot. Tolliver might have come a longer way than Arlen had initially
suspected. It could be that the McGraths remained unaware of his presence here.
Or it could be that the engine always idled hot, and Arlen's time was running
dangerously short already.

    He
went through the inside of the car quickly, searching for weapons. There were
none except the pistol he'd already taken from the sheriff, but he did find two
pairs of handcuffs. There was also a length of tow chain in the back, outfitted
with a lock. Arlen hung the handcuffs off the other side of his belt, opposite
the pistol, and then stepped back and looked down at the body, saw Tolliver's
big hands stretched open in the dirt and remembered the beating the sheriff had
given him in the jail while Solomon Wade leaned against the bars and watched
wordlessly.

    
He'll
be riding close soon enough,
Tolliver had said. Wade was on his way.

    Arlen
thought about that and then turned and studied the trees that grew thick alongside
the road on either side of the bridge. There was one limb that was low enough
and stout enough for his purposes. He'd have to hurry, though. He reckoned if
the McGraths had held Paul alive for this long, they'd continue to do so until
Wade arrived, but he couldn't afford to be caught on the road like this.