The Cypress House (25 page)

    It
was at lunch that Paul asked about the clock.

    The
thing was massive, with a brass frame set in a beautiful piece of walnut that
sloped away on both sides, its hands stopped dead on midnight. Arlen had seen
it the day they'd entered with Sorenson but paid little attention to it then or
anytime else.

    "My
mother ordered that clock," Rebecca said, and though her eyes were empty
her voice seemed to be coming from somewhere out at sea. "She loved it.
It's been broken for years now."

    "Maybe
I'll have a look," Paul said.

    "I
think you'd have to know about clocks."

    "That's
what we all said about the generator, too," Arlen pointed out.

    "Exactly,"
Paul said. "Arlen, help me get that down ?"

    The
kid wanted so badly to have something to do for her.
Let me help you
seemed
to issue forth from him like a constant shout, as if by helping her enough he'd
convince her of something.
I'll show her that she needs me,
he'd said.
Now Arlen wanted to grab him and shake him and shout that he had no damn idea
what she needed and what it could cost him. Her needs went beyond any that Paul
could imagine. Her needs involved people who cut off a man's hands and
presented them to her in a box wrapped with twine, like a gift.

    "Arlen?"

    "Yeah,"
Arlen said, blinking back into the moment. "Sure."

    They
brought a ladder in and, with Paul on the ladder and Arlen standing on the bar,
got the whole piece down. It weighed less than the generator but not by much.
Paul studied the casing and then went in search of a screwdriver. When he was
gone, it was just Rebecca and Arlen in the barroom. She looked at him in
silence for a few seconds and then said, "You're still here."

    "Wondering
about my decision," he said. "That it?"

    "Yes."

    "Here's
a start on it," he said. "There are two pistols on the chair beside
your bed. I'd like one of them." "What?"

    "Seems
like a fair gesture of trust to me," he said.

    Paul's
footsteps slapped off the floor, and then the door to the kitchen banged open
and he was back with them, in mid- sentence and midstride, discussing his
theories on the clock's malfunction before he'd even gotten the case off. When
he'd knelt on the floor above it and ducked his head, Arlen stared back at
Rebecca Cady, a look in his eyes that said,
The rest is up to you.

    She
turned away.

    All
day long they worked, speaking to each other as if nothing lay between them.
All day long Arlen watched the road for Wade and McGrath, and all day long he
considered the countless reasons for gathering his bags and walking away from
this place.

    When
darkness fell, his bags were where they'd been for days.

    She
came for him in the night.

    He
was in the chair at the window, had dozed off, and the sound of the door
opening woke him. He could see her reflection in the glass as she entered. The
pistol was in her left hand, looking big and ugly.

    "Do
you ever sleep?" she said, apparently thinking that because he was in the
chair he'd been awake.

    "I
used to."

    He
still hadn't turned, and after a short hesitation she crossed the room to him.
When she reached the chair, she didn't say anything at first, just joined him
in staring out at the sea. Then, still silent, she switched the gun from her
left hand to her right and extended it to him.

    He didn't
move to take it.

    "There
are bullets inside, if they make you feel better. I can give you more if you
want them."

    He
stared at the horizon line. Even in the dark of full night, you could make out
the distinction once your eyes had adjusted. Shades of gray.

    "Well?"
she said, and gave the gun a little shake.

    "You
intend to leave," Arlen said, not moving his hands from his lap, letting
the big Smith & Wesson float in the air in front of his chest.
"What?"

    "When
your brother is released, you intend to leave."

    "That's
right."

    "He'll
look for you," Arlen said. "And you want to know something else?
He'll look for me and Paul."

    "It
has nothing to do with you." "It didn't."

    "It
doesn't now."

    "Like
hell. It does now, and it will then."

    She
moved the gun away, dropped it back to her side.

    "So
when he's released, you'll leave," Arlen repeated. "And then I'll
have to deal with Wade, whether here or far away. You told me that
yourself."

    She
still didn't say a word. He looked up at her for a time, and then he reached
over and took the gun. He had to lean across her body to get it. When he
touched the stock, his hand pressed against hers. Her skin was very cool.

    He
pulled the gun from her fingers and flicked open the cylinder and saw the
cartridges, snapped it shut and set the weapon down on his lap.

    "All
right," he said.

    She
didn't move. He looked up at her and then got to his feet.

    "That's
my answer," he said. "I'll be here in the morning again. Be damned if
I know why, but I'll be here in the morning."

    He
crossed to the bed and leaned down and placed the gun on the floor beside it.
She was still standing at the window, staring out at the ocean.

    "When
you kissed me," she said, "I thought that's what you wanted. That
you'd make me . . . earn your silence."

    "I
understand. You weren't right, but I understand, and I shouldn't have done it.
It was a mistake."

    "I
shouldn't have hit you."

    "I
think you probably should have," he said.

    She
turned and took a few steps toward him.

    "Why
did you do that, though? It didn't seem like something you would do. That's why
I reacted that way. It didn't seem to fit you."

    "Why
did I kiss you? I think you had it right. I wanted to control you. I'm a brute,
same as McGrath or Tolliver or Wade."

    "That's
not the truth. Why did you do it?"

    He
studied her for a moment and then said, "You don't need to ask a man why
he'd be moved to do a thing like that. You don't need to ask that at all. You
damn well know why."

    She'd
stepped even closer, was an arm's length away now.

    
Tell
her to get out,
he thought
.
Tell her thanks for the gun, honey,
but go on your way now
.

    She
took one more step forward and he reached up with his right hand and placed it
on the back of her head and pulled her face to his and kissed her, just as he
had the last time. She didn't slap him tonight. She returned the kiss but kept
her body distant for a moment. Just a moment. Then she leaned in and he felt
the press of her chest against his, the graze of her thigh.

    He
broke the kiss.

    "All
right," he said. "You let me have one. Thanks. It was awfully nice.
Now you need to leave."

    She
stepped back from him and looked him in the eye and then she reached down and
took hold of her gown and lifted it, brought it up over her head just as she
had that night on the beach before she'd waded into the water. She held the
gown in her hands for one long second and then dropped it onto the floor, and
she was naked before him.

    
This
is how far she's willing to go,
he thought
. This is how far she thinks
she needs to go. You'll get your reward for keeping your mouth shut. How do you
feel about yourself now? You proud of what you've got her ready to do
?

    "Go
back to your room," he said, and his voice was hoarse. "I'm a rotten
son of a bitch, some days, but I've never been this kind of rotten. Get out of
here."

    She
didn't move. The moonlight lit the curve of one breast, traced the swell of her
hip and the length of her leg with white light.

    "All
I asked for was the gun," he said. "You can go back to bed now. Go on
and get to bed."

    "You
want me to go?" she said.

    "Yes."
But even as he said it he felt himself step forward. It was wrong, it was all
mighty damn wrong, this moment built from everything that a moment like this
should not be of — distrust, power, manipulation. A flickering thought —
Just come toward me a little, don't make me go all the way there, come toward
me a little, that will make it better, so much better
— danced in his
brain.

    She
leaned into him just before he reached her. She leaned into him and something
broke free in his mind and floated clear and then his lips were on hers again
and his hands were resting first on the small of her back and then on her hips.
Her hair slid over his cheek and her chest pressed into his, her nipples
tightening against his skin.

    When
he pulled her back to the bed, his foot brushed against the Smith & Wesson.
He almost tripped over it just before they hit the mattress, the old bed frame
creaking under their weight. She had both of her hands on his belt now and he
was trying to help with one of his own. He twisted and tugged free from his
pants, then ran his hands along her sides, tracing the lines of her body as he
moved his lips to her ear.

    "Quiet,"
he whispered. "Quiet. I don't want the boy hearing."

    She
was gone when he woke, but the gun remained.

    He
turned away from the window to hide from the sunlight. The sheets and pillow
smelled of her. He didn't remember when she'd left, but he remembered the
night. Long would he remember the night.

    He
heard voices from downstairs then, hers first, then Paul's. The sound of the
boy's voice made him squeeze his eyes shut.

    
Out
of all the reasons you shouldn't have done it, his schoolboy's infatuation
doesn't rank anywhere near the top,
he told himself
.
Not even
close
.

    Somehow
it seemed to, though. Somehow it seemed mighty near the top.

    They
worked a full day, completing the first third of the dock, Paul in his usual
high spirits. Once, Arlen went up to the house to fetch them both some water
and found Rebecca with a set of ledger books. He didn't ask what she was
studying on, and she didn't offer.

    During
dinner Paul mentioned how much he'd like to try some fishing. Rebecca left and
came back with two beautiful rods and reels. "My father's," she said
shortly. That evening Arlen stood on the dock and smoked a few cigarettes while
the boy tried casting. He caught two black drum before the night was done, fish
with high backs, steeply sloped heads, and a tangle of chin whiskers. They gave
him some fun on the line, and he brought them up to the inn and made an awkward
job of cleaning one before Rebecca stepped in and did the other.

    "Fresh
fish tomorrow," she said. "You caught it, and we can keep it cold now
because you fixed the generator."

    There
was nothing the kid liked more than her praise.

    She
came back to Arlen's room that night.

    "I
told you," he said, "you don't have to do this. I didn't ask it of
you."

    "No,"
she said. "You didn't."

    "If
you don't want to be here, then go on back to your room."

    "If
I didn't," she said, "I would."

    He
sat on the edge of the bed and stared at her in the dark and said, "I need
to believe that."

    "You
should."