The Cypress House (51 page)
Authors: Michael Koryta
The
water eddied around Arlen, and Tate McGrath's corpse shifted in it slightly,
his legs bobbing against Arlen's back, trying to sink but prevented by the
roots below. As his father's body floated in the water, the boy moved on, moved
like a creature of the swamp, and that, of course, was exactly what he was.
Arlen watched him and thought that in his own way this boy was very much like
Paul — gifted, truly and deeply gifted, at a very particular craft.
It
was almost a shame that he had to die.
Arlen
lowered his cheek to the stock of the Springfield, sighted, and trained the
muzzle on the boy's chest. He was close enough that a headshot was possible,
and Arlen thought maybe that's what he would take, even if conventional wisdom
ruled against it. He'd end things quicker that way.
No.
He
wasn't sure he heard the word. A whisper in his brain but so faint, so weak,
that at first it seemed like a figment. Then he heard it again, and this time
it was clearer and seemed pained, as if the delivery of the word came at a
terrible strain.
No!
Arlen
pulled his head away from the stock of the Springfield and looked back at Tate
McGrath's body. The legs were banging against Arlen, the only form of contact
he had with the corpse, and the eyelids had slipped nearly closed. But he was calling
to Arlen. He was calling out for a second chance.
Arlen
reached out and laid a hand on McGrath's chest, close to the knife wounds, and
whispered, "Come around, did you?"
Don't
take that shot. Don't.
Arlen
slid soundlessly back around the tree, so that he was hidden completely, and,
with his hand pressed firmly on the corpse, watched the edges of the world
shudder and go gray again.
"I
told you I'll kill them all," he whispered, his face close to the dead
man's. "I wasn't lying. You don't want me to take that shot, you best be
prepared to guide me to Paul. It's the only thing that saves them."
I
will
.
"How
many are there?"
Three.
Only my boys. That's all. They're my sons. They're my
—
"Owen
Cady was a son," Arlen whispered.
You've
settled that. Was me that killed him, and you've settled that
.
"Do
you have Paul? Is he here ?"
Yes.
Yes, he is here
.
"Where?
That cabin?"
No
.
"Where
?" He was talking in the softest whisper he could, but even that was a
risk. The trance was intensifying, pulling him in deeper and pushing the real
world farther away, and he couldn't afford to let it go on for long. A few more
seconds, at most. If Tate wouldn't help him in that time, or couldn't, he'd let
him go and kill the first of the sons. He'd have to.
Not
the cabin. Other side. The creek.. Under the dock
"Under?"
Arlen echoed, his voice barely audible. "He's dead? You killed him, too,
you —"
Alive.
In chains. We was waiting on Solomon. He'll be here soon enough
.
Just
as Tolliver had promised. He'd also promised that Arlen wouldn't make it back
across that bridge, and the smoke in Arlen's eyes hadn't shown him to be a
liar. But Paul was alive. That was all he needed to know.
The
thought of Rebecca entered his mind then. For a long
time
it had been held at bay by the action of battle, but now he thought of her
driving north, alone, the image of her dead brother lingering in her eyes, and
he felt a sense of loss more acute than any he'd felt in his life. It unsteadied
him for a moment, but then he squeezed his eyes shut and made himself say,
Paul.
Had to stay focused. Had to stay at this task. It was the only one
left for him, and he'd better do it well.
"You
guide me," Arlen whispered to Tate McGrath. "I know that you can do
it; was a dead man who guided me here. You get me to him, and those boys won't
die today."
Yes.
I can guide you.
"Well,"
Arlen said, "let's get to it."
He
released the body then. Leaned back into the trunk of the mangrove and took a
few deep breaths as the gray mists that had built around the edges of his eyes
drifted free and the world took on clarity again. When he cautiously swung his
head out around the trunk and looked for McGrath's son, he found him now almost
to the place where Arlen had killed Tate. He was moving much slower now, taking
inventory of the signs ahead of him and shooting occasional glances up at the
car. He'd be seeing the blood by now, certainly, the blood and the bullet holes
in the windshield, and trying to determine what had happened.
If
Tate led Arlen in the way that Owen Cady had, Arlen wouldn't hear a voice,
would operate more through an instinct that wasn't his at all, moving with
confidence but without reasoning. Without known reasoning at least.
He
didn't trust such a technique here. There was a whisper in the back of his mind
that said a man like Tate McGrath was not to be trusted dead or alive, and that
while he surely wanted to see his sons survive, he'd rather achieve that by
watching Arlen perish.
So he
reached back to Tate, laid his palm flat on the still- bleeding chest wound,
and said, "Where?"
Walk
backward. Have to put more distance between Davey and you. He knows these woods
better than you, better than anyone. He'll hear you soon enough, but that
shotgun in his hand don't have much range. If you don't make much of a sound
you'll be able to circle down and come up behind the cabin. Need to get into
the creek on the other side to get to the boy. That'll take time
.
Deeper
into the swamp. Some of what the dead man had said made sense, but when Arlen
looked up and surveyed the brackish water extending through the trees and into
the marsh beyond, he wasn't sure he liked this plan.
Could
just shoot him, then. Say the hell with trying to negotiate with a dead man and
kill his son right now, kill this one he'd called Davey and then keep moving and
try to take the rest of them. So far he was doing just fine — two for two with
Tate and Tolliver.
What
Tate had said was true enough, though — his sons knew these woods, and
eventually Arlen was bound to run into trouble because of it.
He
hesitated only briefly and then began to backpedal, walking deeper into the
marsh, moving slowly enough so that his passage was nearly soundless, even with
the corpse that floated behind him. He moved in a straight line, so that the
large mangrove would continue to shield him from view.
It
was foolish, maybe; the awkward extra weight made every maneuver more
difficult, but he also had the notion that as soon as the sons located their
father's body, they'd have but one thing on their minds: killing. So long as
Tate was missing, they might take a different tack. The idea that there were
still two of them out there, unseen, was bothersome. After watching the first
of McGrath's sons move through the water silent as an eel, he felt no degree of
confidence in his ability to detect the others before they were upon him.
He
was cautious with each step, the Springfield grasped in his right hand and Tate
McGrath's belt in his left as he moved backward. Every now and then he turned
to glance over his shoulder at what lay ahead. There was an empty stretch of
water, maybe thirty feet across, and then more trees. Looked like the water
grew shallow over there, which was tempting because he'd love to be out of it,
but that would also make his movements noisier and his ability to tow McGrath's
body nearly impossible. Again he wondered if he was making a fool's play by
trusting Tate's guidance.
It
was just as this thought slid through his mind that Tate's voice returned, a
whisper that came from nowhere but that rang clear in Arlen's head.
Arlen
pulled up short, the corpse floating against his belt, Tate's mouth open and
slack, and then turned to look over his shoulder. He found the tree Tate was
indicating but couldn't imagine how it would prevent his being seen. If
anything, it might put him in the son's sight line.
Get moving,
Tate McGrath whispered
, and
you best do it quick
.
There
was urgency to his voice, and Arlen decided he had to listen. This was the
bargain he'd made, and the time had come to put it to the test. He walked on
toward the base of the tree, and as he walked he turned so he was moving
sideways, tugging Tate alongside him. He could no longer see Davey in the
reeds, but he could make out the top of the sheriff's car.
Go on,
Tate said
,
close in now
.
Each
time he spoke the world tightened on Arlen, the edges going gray, the hum
coming back to his ears. He didn't like it much, wished the old bastard would
stop trying to communicate. Arlen was headed exactly where he needed to be,
only a few steps from the tangled roots of yet another mangrove . . .
He
was one stride away when one of those roots moved. For an instant he froze, and
then he saw another shift, the roots sliding among one another, and he realized
that they weren't roots at all.
They
were snakes.
Four
of them at least, maybe more, a nest of water moccasins coiled at the base of
this tree, the tree to which Tate McGrath had urged him. He tried to take a
step back, but he was too close, the evil little creatures felt threatened now,
and the first snake slid down out of the roots and struck.
It
caught Tate McGrath's neck. Arlen didn't know what sort of senses snakes had
beyond vision, but it was as if this one had smelled human flesh and assumed it
was the enemy, had been unable to tell the dead from the living. Its fangs sunk
into the side of McGrath's neck, just below his dead eyes and just inches above
Arlen's hand.
The
first miss was enough.
Arlen
twisted the dead man in the water so that the body was between him and the
snakes and watched as two more moccasins came down out of the roots and struck
with stunning speed. One caught the corpse's shoulder and one the arm as the
first of them pulled back and struck a second time in the neck.
Arlen
snatched Tolliver's pistol from McGrath's belt, praying that the water hadn't
left it useless, and then he took aim and fired.
It
was mighty close range. He blew off the head of the closest snake, the one on
McGrath's arm, then turned and fired at the one floating just off McGrath's
shoulder as it struck forward again, this time coming at Arlen. The shot caught
the fleshy body solid and dropped it into the water no more than a foot from
Arlen, but still the jaws snapped, so he fired again, blowing the snake clean
in half this time. By the time he turned to the one that had struck first, it
was gone. He felt a cold, horrible fear —
It's under the water, it's coming
right at me, I'll feel those fangs any second
—but then he saw the ripple
ten feet away, watched as the snake glided into the swamp. The roots were empty
now, all others gone as well, and Arlen's flesh prickled as he pictured them in
the water that surrounded him.
He
waded clear of the mangroves so he could see the road. Tate McGrath's son was
standing in the reeds just where his father had died, and he'd turned and
lifted the shotgun. When he saw Arlen, he fired. Tate had been telling the
truth about one thing: the shotgun didn't have much range. It blew bark off the
trees well ahead of them, but nothing touched Arlen as he lifted the
Springfield and took aim.
Tate's
whisper came again, urgent, clear:
No!
"You
had your chance," Arlen said aloud, and then he put his cheek to the
gunstock, sighted, and pulled the trigger.
The
sound was shatteringly loud in the still swamp, and McGrath's boy let out a cry
as he fell. He was able to let out a cry because Arlen had sighted low instead
of high and blown out the boy's legs. He was down now, down in the water and
the reeds, but he was alive. He moaned and thrashed, but he did not scream
again. As Arlen watched, the boy pulled himself deeper into the reeds, seeking
cover. Then he put a hand out and grasped for the shotgun.
