The Cypress House (52 page)

    
That,
Arlen thought, again with some measure of admiration,
is a damn soldier
right there. That's a warrior.

    And
then Arlen fired again, one round into the reeds. He didn't hit anything, but
the hand jerked away and the gun sank, leaving the boy unarmed.

    Behind
Arlen, Tate McGrath's body floated free, the flesh on the side of his neck
already puffed with venom. Arlen reached out and grabbed his foot and pulled
him closer. The minute he touched him, his brain was racked with the single
most terrible sound he'd ever heard — a dead man's howl.

    It
came at him from the unknown just as Tate's whisper had before, but this was a
cry, a shout of anguished pain, and Arlen jerked his hand free as if McGrath's
foot had seared it. For a moment he stood where he was, waist-deep in the
water, holding the Springfield and searching the rest of the swamp. When he saw
nothing, he reached out again, tentatively this time. When his hand touched
McGrath's calf, he said, "I told you, you bastard. It was up to you. Still
is. I can see him now, and I can kill him. You know how easy I can kill
him."

    The
boy was trying to push out of sight into the reeds but couldn't, and Arlen
watched him twist and moan and said, "I was told that love lingers. I
suppose you didn't have enough of it."

    
Don't,
McGrath's ghost said
. Don't kill him. Don't you kill my boy
.

    "You
walked me into a nest of snakes. I'll kill them all now. I'll kill every son
you have left."

    
No.
I've told you where he is. You can find him. I'll guide you
—

    "You
won't guide me to shit," Arlen said. He'd ducked low because as McGrath
talked his vision faded again, and though the wounded boy couldn't do him harm,
the others well could. He had no time for this.

    
I'll
tell you how,
McGrath whispered
. You got to use Davey. It's the only
chance you have. You'll never leave this swamp without him. They'll kill you
.

    "Use
him?”

    
Get
to him quick, and keep him alive. His brothers won't kill you if it means his
life. That's the only
—

    Arlen
released him and shoved him free, because the world was going too gray and the
hum in his ears too loud. McGrath bobbed in the water, twisting and sinking,
the side of his neck and face already grotesquely bloated with venom. Arlen
watched him drift away, then looked back at the road and realized that in the last
moment Tate McGrath had told him the truth.

    Having
that wounded boy as a hostage was his best chance.

    Love
lingered, all right. Tate McGrath had just needed a bit of convincing.

    The boy
McGrath had called Davey was not making a sound as he lay in the reeds. Arlen
was certain he wasn't dead; Arlen had probably cost him the use of a leg, maybe
the leg itself if this water was as filthy as it looked, but he hadn't shot to
kill. Anybody else, he'd have thought perhaps the silence was due to a blackout
from pain, but with this young man he imagined otherwise. He was faking death,
probably, holding silent and willing the pain aside as he hid there like an
animal caught in a trap and tried to think of a way out. His way out was in his
brothers. He knew that, and so did Arlen. The only difference was the boy knew
where they were, too. Arlen had not the faintest damn idea, and because of that
he knew he had to move fast.

    He
splashed through the mangroves, heedless of the noise because it was long past
the time when noise mattered. With every step he thought he saw snakes. If
there were any, though, they didn't strike. He was twenty feet from the reeds
when the first shot came.

    A
rifle, and not a large one. Maybe a
.22, some old varmint gun. It had a
dry, sharp crack, not a powerful sound like the

    Springfield.
The bullet it fired, though, was plenty hot and plenty painful when it found
Arlen's shoulder.

    It
burned a furrow between his left shoulder and his neck, and the pain sent him
stumbling face-first into the water, and that was probably all that saved him
from the next shot. He'd been looking left as he ran, up toward the houses, and
had seen no one. Whoever had taken that shot was mighty fine with a rifle. Fine
and cocky — they'd been looking to take a headshot and had damn near succeeded.
Matter of inches.

    When
he hit the water, he kept moving his legs, driving forward through the mud and
into the nearest cluster of mangrove roots. Two more shots came in quick
succession, but they caught only the roots.

    He
came up spitting water and gasping with pain. He could feel hot blood on his
neck and chest but didn't look at the wound, turned quickly and fired the
Springfield twice in the direction of the shots. It was blind shooting, useless
shooting, painful shooting, and he stopped himself before pulling the trigger a
third time, finally realizing that it was the last cartridge he had in this
Springfield. The second, the one he'd used to kill Tolliver, was up in the
weeds with three rounds left in it, but he had to get there first.

    The
tree sheltering him was one of the closest to the road. He pushed deep into the
roots, and the absence of gunfire told him that the tree screened him for now,
and whoever was taking those shots knew better than to waste bullets.

    He
looked into the reeds and found Davey McGrath, hunkered in the ditch with his
right leg bent sideways, a painfully bright and clean bone showing amid all the
red. The Springfield had been built to do damage, and built well. It was a gory
wound, to be sure, but there was no smoke in his eyes — just rage.

    This
was the oldest of the remaining sons. Probably twenty years old. Arlen
remembered him from the night they'd come to the Cypress House. He lay on his
side now with his cheek in the mud and took fast, shallow breaths and kept his
eyes on Arlen. He never looked at the wounded leg.

    Arlen
turned and pointed the rifle at him and said, "Call out to your brothers,
boy. Call out and tell them to cease fire."

    He
didn't answer. The shotgun was gone, down in the water that separated them.
Arlen saw for the first time that he had a knife in his right hand. He was
trying to hide it in the reeds.

    "That
knife might kill me if I get over there," Arlen said, "but this rifle
will kill you without the trip. And you know what? It's not going to stop with
you."

    Still
no answer. Just that rapid breathing and the flat eyes. Arlen glanced down and
saw the blood coursing over his own chest, then shook his head.

    "It
bleeds bad," he said, "but not fast enough. You ain't going to
outlast me. And all I want, all I've come for, is that boy you all have chained
up under the dock. It's a simple thing."

    He
gave him another moment even though by now he knew there would be no answer,
and then he let out a holler. The pain made his voice even louder than
intended. It echoed through the swamp woods.

    "Listen
here — your brother, this boy Davey, he is alive. I'm facing him right now with
a Springfield rifle in my hands and a finger on the trigger. I don't want to
kill him. But if you don't start down that road, I surely will."

    There
was no answer but a crackle of thunder. The wound on the top of Arlen's shoulder
was throbbing now, and the rifle felt heavy in his hands. This thing needed to
end, and soon.

    "Y'all
have thirty seconds," he bellowed. "And if you don't think he's
alive, I'm plenty ready to make him scream to prove it."

    The
wind picked up and put a tremble over the surface of the water.

    "Twenty
seconds," Arlen called. His dilemma was made worse by the fact that this
damned boy wouldn't speak, wouldn't cry out to his brothers. They had no proof
that he was alive. Arlen expected they'd need such proof to lay down their
weapons, if indeed they did.

    "Son,"
he said, looking the wounded boy in the eye and speaking low, "your
father's last wish was that I let you live. I told him I'd keep it if I could.
You're going to hinder that? You want your brothers to die, too ?"

    Davey
McGrath lifted his head and spat at Arlen.

    Arlen
nodded. "Fair enough," he said, and then he drew Tolliver's pistol
from his belt, aimed, and fired.

    He'd
wanted to put the bullet in the boy's thigh, same leg but higher, but it worked
out even better than he'd planned. He missed by a touch, and the bullet
scorched over the edge of the leg. Didn't do much damage, but it did some
hurting, enough that even this tough little bastard couldn't bite down on the
scream that rose. He cried out and then tried to twist as if to cover the wound
with his palm. When he did it, his mangled lower leg shifted and caused even
greater pain, and this time the scream was louder.

    The
shots came then, two guns involved this time. Arlen expected they would. Even
if they didn't have an angle on him, the sound of their brother's scream would
make them waste some bullets. He pushed as far down into the roots as he could
and listened as bullets cracked into the tree behind him and drilled into the
water in front of him, some coming far closer than he'd thought possible. They
were awfully good shots.

    They
didn't push it long, though. Knew that they couldn't hit him, and knew a lot of
useless fire wasn't going to help their brother. If anything, he stood a
greater chance of being hit by a wild shot than Arlen.

    "You
heard him!" Arlen bellowed as more thunder rolled and a few drops of rain
began to fall. "He's still alive, and I'm still shooting. The next one I
fire will be the last in his direction! Now put your weapons down and come up
the center of the road. If you want Davey here alive, you do it
now!
"

    This
time they came. Didn't seem like they spent much time conferring on it either.
When they stepped into view they had their hands lifted, no weapons in them.
Arlen rose up out of the roots of the mangrove, dripping with water and mud and
blood, and pointed the Springfield at them.

    "Stop
walking," he called. They stopped. From here they looked so much alike it
was as if he had double vision. Same height, same frame, same stance. It was a
bloodthirsty family, Arlen thought, but a close-knit one all the same. They'd
do what was needed for their brother.

    "I'm
here for one reason," Arlen said. "Paul Brickhill, the boy you've got
chained under the dock."

    If
they wondered how he knew Paul's location, they didn't show it. Neither of them
spoke or moved, just waited.

    "Here's
what's going to happen," Arlen said. "One of you is going down to get
him and bring him to me. The other is going to stand right where he is. I'll
wait five minutes before I set to killing."

    There
was a hesitation as they looked at each other, holding some silent conference.

    "Something
you'd better keep in mind," Arlen said. "Paul Brickhill doesn't mean
a damn thing to either of you. I expect the three of you mean plenty to each
other. So ask yourself if any of this is worth dying over."

    Neither
answered, but the one on the left broke off and went back down the road. These
were the younger brothers, Arlen knew — they'd looked no more than fifteen when
they'd come up to the Cypress House. Looked like the many boys he'd worked with
at Flagg Mountain, in fact.

    It
took the boy a long time. Too long. The wound in Arlen's shoulder was becoming
more painful with every passing moment, and he was having trouble keeping the
Springfield up. How in the world could eight pounds possibly feel so heavy? He
shifted his gaze from the boy in the road to the one in the reeds, but neither
moved. The wounded one had closed his eyes, his face drained of color.
Suffering. Arlen thought about their father, floating dead back there in the
swamp, and felt a sudden, savage hate. Who raised boys like this? Put guns in
their hands and knives on their belts and sent them out into the world as
killers? He was glad he'd dispatched with Tate. Had probably been far too late
to save his sons from the life he'd set them on, but he was glad all the same.

    When
the boy finally reappeared, with Paul Brickhill walking at his side, Arlen
almost dropped the rifle. He'd been struggling with it anyhow, but the sight of
Paul took strength from him that the bullet had not. He felt his breath slide
out of his lungs, and the Springfield almost went with it.