The Cypress House (50 page)

    When
he finally heard the first footstep, it crunched on brush, which meant the
approaching man was walking on the side of the road and not up the middle of
it. The car's horn and lights had drawn him out, but he didn't trust them yet
either. Not completely.

    This
was good. This was as planned.

    He
was advancing along Arlen's side of the road. Also good, also as planned.
Whoever was coming now was approaching the driver's-side door. The footsteps
came on and on, and still Arlen could see nothing. He had sunk so low in the
ditch that even his chin touched the water, his head buried in the thicket of
reeds and painted black with mud. The footsteps were very close when they
stopped entirely, and at the cessation of the sound, Arlen felt his heart go
cold.

    
Seen
?
Have I been
—

    Crunch,
crunch, crunch. The feet were on the move again, and no more than twenty paces
away. Down in the water, Arlen tightened his fingers around the handle of his
knife. He could see the pistol resting in the reeds and knew that he could grab
it quickly, but would it be quickly enough?

    
You're
a good shot,
Tolliver's ghost had whispered
. Tate's better
.

    
Were
about to find out,
Arlen had said. Yes, they would.

    He
didn't want to shoot. Wanted this —
needed
this — to be a silent
killing.

    There
was another step, and another. They seemed to be coming quicker now, with more
confidence, as if the sight of the sheriff's car had proved reassuring to
whoever was approaching. Arlen hadn't so much as glimpsed the man yet, but he
was almost sure it would be Tate. There was only one man on the way, and he
wouldn't have sent one of his sons to talk to Tolliver alone. He'd have come
himself.

    Right
then a shadow flicked into the edge of the headlight beam, and Arlen saw a
heavy canvas boot and mud-streaked trousers above. Another step forward, and
now he could make out the man completely — Tate McGrath. He was walking at a
fast clip, but his head was on a swivel, looking everywhere but at the
sheriff's car. Guarding himself against attack, which was a wise play, but the
longer he spent staring into the swamp woods, the longer it would be before he
noticed the pair of bullet holes just above the steering wheel.

    Tate
had a knife in the sheath at his belt and a long-barreled revolver in his right
hand, held down against his thigh.

    
Tate's
better . . .

    He'd
certainly have the fastest draw. Arlen was going to need to move quickly,
quicker than his body had in years, quicker maybe than his body was still
capable of. And right now, Tate's attention was beginning to drift toward the
sheriff's car.

    
Wait
till he sees the holes,
Arlen thought suddenly, an abrupt reversal of his
original plan. He'd wanted to move before Tate realized someone had fired a
rifle into the sheriff's car, but now he had the instinctive thought that in
that one sharp second of realization, Tate's focus would narrow. For an instant
at least, he'd be more aware of that car than anything else.

    Tate's
boots hammered into the mud and the reeds not five feet from Arlen now and came
on. Down in the water, Arlen wriggled his fingers on the knife handle. The soil
was soft, would make it damned difficult to push off quickly, and he gave up on
the thought of trying to clear the ditch completely. No, he'd need to take
Tate's legs out first and drag him down here and finish it fast. He'd need to —

    McGrath's
foot hitched in midair, paused and fluttered as if he were searching for a step
in the dark, and as it finally descended again Arlen realized what had just
happened — he'd seen the bullet holes.

    Arlen
blew out of the water and the reeds as the soft mud clung to his boots and
tried to suck him back down, as if the land itself were Tate McGrath's ally.
Had he been attempting to reach the man at full height, he'd have surely been
killed, but that last decision, to go for the legs first, saved him. He got his
left hand around McGrath's calf and gave a powerful yank as Tate spun with the
lithe grace of a young man on a ball field, bringing the revolver around as he
did it.

    
Don't
shoot,
Arlen thought
, don't shoot, I need silence, I need silence
!

    Tate
fired. He was falling as he pulled the trigger, and the bullet sailed well
clear of Arlen, tearing into the mangroves behind them, but the damage had been
done: this time there was no doubt that the gunfire had been heard.

    Tate
McGrath landed on his back on the dirt road and seemed to hardly feel the
impact at all, was swinging the gun barrel right back toward Arlen's face when
Arlen swept it aside with his left hand and lunged with his right.

    Another
shot rang out as Arlen sank the pocketknife into Tate's chest, buried it all
the way up to the handle. He was scrambling out of the ditch now and had Tate's
gun hand pinned down against the road as he pulled the knife free, a warm
geyser of blood splashing his neck, and then slammed it down again, aiming
higher this time, finding the heart. He leaned into this second thrust, felt
the blade push in until the handle caught, and then he put his weight behind it
and the handle itself pushed through the wound with the terrible sound of
tearing flesh. Tate McGrath opened his mouth to let loose a howl of pain that
never came.

    
He
might be the better shot, Tolliver,
Arlen thought
,
but it doesn't
always come down to shooting
.

    He
knew they'd be coming now, after the sounds of those two gunshots, and so he
didn't pause at all before beginning his retreat, sliding back into the reeds
with a hand around each of Tate's ankles, dragging the dead man into the water
with him.

    The
fastest way to move would be without the body, of course, but Arlen needed the
body. He took Tate's revolver, dug Tolliver's out of the weeds, and pushed them
both into the dead man's belt. Then he laid the Springfield across Tate's chest
and backpedaled into the water, towing the corpse behind him.

    Thunder
crackled again, a low rumble that went on and on, as if the storm were
stretching out before beginning its real work. Still to the south but closer
now. Down here in the mangroves it was nearly dark, and he was grateful for
that.

    He
couldn't see anyone approaching yet, but he also couldn't hear anyone, and that
concerned him. Silence meant they were treating this with caution. If they'd
all come running down the road at the sounds of the shots, he could have
reduced their numbers quickly and easily.

    Now,
though, he knew there'd be no rash mistakes made by those who lingered up at
the cabin. And that meant the dead man in his arms was going to become awfully
important.

    
Love
lingers.

    He
would see if it did.

    Back
into the mangroves he went, keeping low, floating the corpse and towing it
through the water. The mud at his feet was very soft and difficult to move
through, but the tangled root systems of these strange, hurricane-proof trees
provided cover. He pushed back until he found a snarl of roots that twisted
well out of the water, three feet at least, and then he nestled into them so
that his back was to the road and Tate McGrath floated in front of him. From
this position, he couldn't see a damn thing, but that was fine; no one would be
able to take a shot unless they were directly in front of him, and to
accomplish that they'd have to come through a hell of a lot of water. He had a
little time at least, and that was what he needed. Time to talk.

    He
looked down at McGrath's body. The mouth was parted and showing yellowed teeth,
several of them missing, and long gray hair fanned out into the swamp water.
Arlen took it all in and felt awash with astonishment over the plan he'd conceived.
The idea was insane, and yet he believed it could work.

    
Love
lingers,
his father had promised. If indeed it did, then Arlen was about to
have a dead man's assistance.

    He
took the Springfield off McGrath's chest and leaned it against the tree, then
kept his left hand wrapped around one of the mangrove roots, as if seeking
anchor in reality, before he reached with the right and pushed Tate McGrath's
eyelids up. Then he moved the hand under the dead man's back, in such a way
that he could keep him upright and facing toward himself, and spoke softly but
clearly.

    "I'm
going to kill them all. Understand that? I know you can hear it. I've reached
the dead all day, and I'm reaching you now. Here's a promise, old man: I'll
wipe all your sons from the earth unless you help me. Your sons, and whoever
else waits up there. A wife, a daughter. Makes no difference. I'll kill them
all."

    There
was no answer, but he felt himself begin to slip through that unseen door
again. It was so strange, simultaneous sensations of falling and walls closing
in, like taking a tumble into a long, narrow well. His peripheral vision went
first, trembling at the edges and then going to gray, and the swamp faded until
all that was left was McGrath's face. He had sullen brown eyes, and even in
death they carried a feral quality. Arlen squeezed his left hand tighter
against the mangrove root, not wanting a repeat of the situation that he'd
fallen into with Tolliver.

    "You
got to speak fast, Tate," he said, his voice less steady than before.
"I won't give you much chance, old boy. I'll leave you here and then I'll
kill them. I'll send them to join you, if that's as you'd like it."

    Nothing.
Arlen's head ached and his throat was dry and now everything in the world
seemed gray and wrapped in mist except for those brown eyes. He felt the bark
of the mangrove root rough under his palm and tried to focus on that but
couldn't, and abruptly he moved his right hand away from McGrath and let the
dead man float free into the water. He drifted away slowly, and his legs sank
and his torso rotated until his face had turned away. Arlen caught him and
dragged him back and shoved him into the mangrove roots so that he couldn't
drift far. Then he took the Springfield and lifted it, his finger on the
trigger.

    "All
right," Arlen said, feeling weak. "I gave you a chance, you son of a
bitch. Now I'm going to send your boys to join you."

    He
leaned around the tree, slid the barrel of the Springfield between two of the
roots, and looked back up at the road. The mangroves were some of the best
battle cover he'd ever encountered. He didn't like standing so deep in the
water, but the root coverage was dense enough that he knew he was nearly
impossible to see, and he had a decent view of the road. To his left he could
make out the roof of the shed and part of the cabin beyond, but nothing else.
The sheriff's car was still running where he'd left it. They'd have to head up
there soon enough. They'd have to go in search of their father when he didn't
return. Sort of boys the McGraths were, they might have even been able to
recognize the gunshots as Tate's. Could be they figured he'd dispatched with
whatever trouble had come their way. But time ticked on, and when he didn't
make his way back up that road, they'd know that it hadn't been so easy, and
they'd come for him.

    Arlen's
fatigue drained away as he waited, the physical effects of the attempt to
connect with McGrath's ghost easing. Damn it, he'd thought it might work. A
wild idea, to be sure, but on a day such as this, when all he'd known to be
true had blown apart beneath the mortar shells of firsthand experience, wild
ideas had seemed possible.
Just because you can reach us doesn't mean we're
required to help,
Tolliver had whispered from the beyond, and it had been
the truth. But Arlen had thought, had hoped, that perhaps he could coerce such
help.

    McGrath
hadn't answered him, though, hadn't heeded his request or even allowed proof
that whatever form of him remained could hear Arlen at all.

    
Come
on,
he thought, searching the road for McGrath's sons.
Come on, damn it,
let's get on with this.

    The
mosquitoes buzzed around him and drank of his blood and he forced himself not
to react. The boys were out there somewhere, and they knew this swamp far
better than he did.

    He
finally saw them. Saw one at least. And when he did, he couldn't help but feel
a sense of true admiration. This man, this
boy,
he moved through the
woods as quiet as a snake. He was coming up through the water just outside the
reeds, and even though he was moving steadily, he'd somehow avoided Arlen's
eyes until just now, when he was halfway down the length of the road. He held a
shotgun in his hands, just above the waterline, and he shifted sideways here
and there to avoid obstructions that Arlen couldn't even see. He was nearing
the place where Arlen had once hidden in the reeds. He'd detected it somehow,
had looked from a great distance away and spotted some small disturbance there
that told him it was an area of danger. Unlike his father, he no longer trusted
the sheriff's car, not after the gunfire.