The Cypress House (19 page)

    "They're
going to need you," the woman named Gwen said. "Paul and Rebecca. You
can't leave them here. They need you."

    There
were loud voices inside again. She looked in that direction, then back to him,
and said, "Go. You can't be caught here. Go now."

    He
backed into the trees without answering, unsure of himself. He was there, among
the storm-torn mangroves, when they all came out of the tavern. Sheriff
Tolliver and the gray-haired man she had called Tate led the way. The three
boys followed — dragging the man from the Plymouth between them. He could not
hold his own footing, and though he mumbled constantly he could not make
intelligible words. It sounded as if he were trying to speak without lips or
teeth.

    They
loaded him back into the Plymouth, but this time he was in the backseat, and
this time all three of Tate's boys rode with him. Tate fired up the truck as
Tolliver leaned in the Plymouth window with an inspector's stare, spoke to the
boy at the wheel, and then moved back to his own car. He climbed in and started
the engine and led the procession out of the yard and up the road.

    Arlen
searched for the girl in the darkness, hoping that her appearance would change
as they left this place. It was too dark, though. He couldn't see a thing.

    He
went to the boathouse to check on Paul first. The boy slept soundly, curled up
against the stack of old blankets, water lapping at the dock pylons beneath
him. It was pitch- black, but the later it got the louder the night seemed —
insects and nocturnal animals and wind sounds filling the trees all around the
inlet. To the east, farther inland, the woods thickened, a mass of weaving
silhouettes against the night sky. Arlen thought that if he lived in this part
of the country, he'd want to hug the coast as much as possible, where things
were open and bright and you could see what was coming.

    He
picked the flask up from where it lay on the dock and had a long drink. Then he
capped it and walked back to the inn. The lights were still glowing, and he
could hear a scraping sound. He swung open the door and stepped inside, and
Rebecca Cady gave a shout of fear.

    She
was standing in the center of the barroom with a mop in her hands, and when he
opened the door she pulled the mop back and brandished it like a weapon. Then
her shoulders sagged and she dropped it back to the floor.

    "What
are you doing? I told you to stay out!"

    He
stood in the doorway and looked around the room. Everything was as it had been,
except that the floor around the fireplace was shining with soapy water.

    "Late
for washing the floors, isn't it?"

    "Get
out."

    He
let the door swing shut behind him. There was a strange smell in the air.
Kerosene and cleansers, yes, but there was something else to it. A faint copper
tinge. He felt his stomach stir and the muscles in his neck go tight.

    "How
was the party?"

    "It
wasn't a party." The mop was shaking in her hands. She tightened her grip,
trying to still it, but that only seemed to intensify the rattling. As she
stood there and stared at him, a tear leaked out of her right eye and glided
down her cheek, dripped off her jaw, and fell to the wet floor.

    "What
in the hell happened?" Arlen said, walking toward her.

    
"
Get out
!"

    He
stopped halfway across the room. She pulled her shoulders back and gave him a
look that would have been cold and strong if not for the tears.

    "Maybe
if you want me out of here so bad, you should go call the sheriff," he
said. "My guess is he'll see that I'm gone fast enough. Me and the boy
both. And he'll probably help you clean the floor."

    He
had edged closer to her, was only a few feet away now. He looked from her face
down into the pail at her feet. Even in the dim glow of the oil lamps, the
crimson tint was clear. There was a lot of blood in that water.

    "I'd
like you to leave." Her voice was shaking, and Arlen had the sense that if
he reached out and laid one fingertip against her skin, she'd collapse.

    "Did
you see her?" he asked. "What?"

    "The
woman they brought in. Her name was Gwen. Did you see her?"

    She
shook her head, and another tear fell free.

    "They
had her in handcuffs," he said. "Chained up in the sheriff's car.
They went all the way to Cassadaga to find her."

    "I
was upstairs," she said in a whisper so faint he could scarcely hear it.
"I always stay upstairs. I don't want to see any of them. I don't want to
hear . . . anything."

    "Like
the sounds of that man getting beaten within an inch of his life ?" Arlen
asked. "You didn't hear that upstairs ?"

    Her
face was wet with tears now.

    "I
can't speak to you about this," she said. "I
can't.
Just
promise me that you'll leave. That you'll take Paul and go. You don't belong
here. You shouldn't be here. Leave."

    "All
right," he said. "You want us gone, I'll see that it happens. But
something to remember? If we're not around, it means you're here alone."

    He
watched her eyes break from his and go to the pail of bloody water.

    "The
mess you've got on your hands," he said, "isn't the sort you clean up
with a mop."

    He
woke to the sound of the generator.

    It
was well into the morning, and he lay on his stomach on the boathouse floor.
Somehow he'd thrashed his way off the blanket in his sleep, and his cheek was
pressed to the bare boards. He was lucky he hadn't pitched himself into the
water. Dreams of a woman in a yellow dress had stalked him.

    He
pushed himself upright now and blinked and cocked his head, listening. Yes, it
was definitely the generator; he could hear the distinctive hammering of the
cylinders. The timing was off, making it sound like the motor had a limp, but
it was running. The damn thing was running.

    He
got up slowly, feeling stiffness in every joint, then leaned off the edge of
the dock and splashed briny water into his face, licking the salt off his lips.
He groaned and rolled his head around on his neck and then started up the path.
In the yard, he could see the indentations the cars had left the night before.
He thought of the sheriff's car and the woman in handcuffs and the way he'd let
them drive off into the darkness, and he felt his chest tighten.

    In
front of the porch, Paul stood beside the generator with a wide grin on his
face. Rebecca Cady had her hands at her temples as if she couldn't believe it.
When Arlen joined them, Paul kept smiling but didn't say a word.

    "I
figured it out last night," he said finally. "Woke up at dawn,
thinking that everything was ready to move the way it should mechanically. I
had all that done right. But it wasn't even catching, and so I thought the
problem had to be in the electrical. It's an electrical ignition, you know. You
turn that crank to make the current that fires the ignition, and then the
batteries take over. The engine charges the batteries."

    "I
get it," Arlen said. "But what did you
do?
"

    "Checked
the cutouts to see if the circuit was alive or if one of them was open. Turned
out two of them were. I closed them, and it started on the first try."

    "Hell
of a job," Arlen said, but he was looking at Rebecca Cady instead of the
generator. The gaze she returned was as cool as winter wind. No trace of the
nearly broken woman that had showed last night in the trembling hands that held
the mop, in the tears that slid down her face.

    "I've
got to adjust the timing," Paul said, shutting the generator off, the
bangs slowing and then silencing altogether. "But I'll wait until we have
it back in place to do that. Then we'll need to get that little shed put back
together."

    "I
guess we have a full day ahead of us," Arlen said.

    Rebecca
didn't offer a word of objection.
I'd like you to leave,
she'd screamed
at him last night, but now she stood by silently.

    
Paul
was right,
Arlen thought
.
She's scared, and she doesn't want to
be alone anymore. Won't tell anybody a damn thing, though, so she's nearly as
alone now as she would be if we were gone. You can't find much company from
inside a padlocked, stone-walled fortress
.

    He
had to get her to talk. If they were spending so much as another night in this
place, he had to understand what in the hell was going on. And they'd be
spending another night, because what he'd told her before was bullshit—he
couldn't convince the boy to leave. Not anymore. Paul was anchored here by a
love that Rebecca didn't even see.

    
Love
is a powerful thing, and like all powerful things, it can be used to harm,
the woman named Gwen had said the previous night, just before her face became a
skull. The memory left Arlen wishing for his flask, even though he hadn't yet
tasted coffee.

    "Going
to need lumber," he said, just to fill the air with talk. "Not much
left of that generator shed that'll be usable."

    "Going
to need some for the dock and boathouse, too," Paul said.

    If
she wanted them gone, now was the time to say so.

    "I've
got enough money to get it started at least," she said. "If you know
what you'll need, I can give you enough to get it started."

    So
there it was. They were staying. The proclamation had been issued quietly, but
it rang loud and clear to Arlen, and from the satisfied smile he saw on Paul's
face, he knew the boy had registered the implication, too.

    "We'll
take some measurements," Paul said, "and figure out what we need. It
shouldn't be too expensive to get started. We'll build that generator shed
first and then work on the dock. I think that would make the most sense."

    Off
he went, talking a mile a minute. Rebecca Cady was responding, but Arlen was no
longer listening to either of them, was instead gazing up at the house and the
empty expanse of sand and sea behind it.

    
It
was supposed to be an hour, he thought. Maybe less. Time enough for a beer and
whatever business Walt Sorenson had to conduct, and then we were moving on down
the road
.

    This
wasn't a world you planned your way through, though. He'd known that much for
many a year.

    It
was nearing noon when Thomas Barrett's panel van pulled into the yard. Rebecca
talked to him briefly and then waved a hand, calling for them.

    "So
you boys going to be visiting a little longer, huh?" Barrett said when
they walked over, the mellow grin on his face the same as always.

    "We
got no money," Arlen said. "Might as well make some."

    "Good
sense. Becky here tells me y'all'll be needing some lumber."

    "That's
right," Paul said. "We've got it all written down."

    "Well,
I told her I'd be happy to pick it up for a small charge, but I'll need a hand
loading."

    "Paul
can go along," Arlen said.

    Paul
frowned. "I was going to wire that generator back in."

    "It'll
hold," Arlen said. "My back ain't up to heavy lifting today, not
after sleeping down in the boathouse. Go on and show off your muscles."

    Rebecca
passed Barrett a tightly folded roll of bills, all of which looked to be
singles, and he slipped them into his pocket and winked at Paul.

    "Ready
to go blow this on booze and loose women?"

    The
two of them were off. Arlen watched the van pull away, and by the time he
turned back to Rebecca, she was already gone. He gave a grim smile, thinking,
Not going to be that easy, gorgeous. You and I are going to talk.

    She
was back in the barroom, cleaning the stools with a rag that reeked of some
powerful disinfectant. She didn't hear him enter, and Arlen watched her work,
scrubbing furiously at the nicked legs of the old bar stools.