The Cypress House (27 page)

    They
wrestled the body into the tarpaulin and wrapped it as if they were folding a
sail. Halfway through, the deputy straightened up as if someone had slipped a
bayonet into his side, lifted a hand to his mouth, and then lurched sideways.
He fell on his knees at the edge of the creek, splashing, and tore the scarf
free just before he vomited.

    Tolliver
gave a sigh and leaned back and waited. The deputy purged and then stayed on
his hands and knees above the creek, breathing in unsteady gasps.

    "Come
on," Tolliver snapped, holding the scarf down from his mouth with one
mud-streaked finger. "Let's get it out of here before sundown."

    They
finished wrapping the woman's corpse and then carried it back through the woods
and dropped it into the bed of the truck. Wet stains were showing through the
canvas by the time they got it there.

    "Enjoy
your afternoon," Tolliver said, wiping his hands on his trousers as he
walked for the car, leaving the deputy to drive the truck. "You'll see me
again soon enough."

    He
got into the car and drove away, and the three of them stood together in the
yard and watched the truck with the corpse follow the sheriff through the dust
and into the woods.

    "Wasn't
what I expected from him," Paul said. "I thought he'd have plenty of
questions, like he did with Mr. Sorenson. Didn't seem to have any at all with
this one, though."

    "No,"
Arlen said. "No, he didn't."

    They
didn't hear about the body again until the next afternoon, when they had their
first visitor from the water.

    Paul
and Arlen were on the dock, had fresh planking laid twenty feet out now. Paul
was chest-deep in the water, hammering braces back into place, when they heard
an engine. Arlen looked up toward the house automatically, thinking it was a
car, but then he realized the sound was coming across the water, and when he
turned around he could see the boat.

    It
was a motor sailer with one forward mast, sails furled, and a raised cabin
making up the back third of the boat. Maybe thirty-five or forty feet long, and
wide across the beam. A good- size craft, and one that had seen some weather —
its white hull was pocked with nicks and gashes and streaks. Ran steady,
though, the engine hitting smoothly as it came out of the Gulf and entered the
inlet.

    "Who's
this, I wonder?" Paul said, still in the water.

    "Don't
know."

    The
boat came up the center of the inlet with the confidence of a pilot who knew
the waters — it wasn't a wide stretch of water but evidently was plenty deep —
and then the engine cut and the man at the wheel stepped back to the stern and
let a windlass out, anchor chain hissing into the water. It was Tate McGrath.

    Once
the anchor was out, he straightened and stood at the stern and stared at them
for a moment, then set to work lowering the small launch mounted on the stern.
Coming ashore.

    He
got the launch into the water and then climbed down and rowed in. When he had
the boat pulled up to shore, he walked past them without a word and headed up
the trail to the inn.

    Paul
stood with the hammer in his hand and his eyes on the trail.

    "One
of us ought to be up there. She shouldn't be alone with him."

    "She
was alone with him for a long time before we got here," Arlen said.
"She can be alone with him now."

    He
didn't like it either, though. He had a memory of her standing in his room with
one side lit by moonlight, a memory of her beneath him with her mouth close to
his chest and her breath warm on his skin . . .

    He
missed the nail head and bent it sideways instead of driving it straight. It
had been years since he'd done that. Many years.

    Paul
had started working again, but his eyes kept going to the house even though he
couldn't see a damn thing from here but the top of the roof. Arlen let him
glance up there a half dozen times before he finally said, "You want to
keep your head down while you work?"

    They
hammered away for a while, and McGrath didn't return and no sound came from the
Cypress House. Too damn quiet. There should be voices.

    It
was just while he was thinking this that another engine came into hearing
range, a car this time. Arlen finally sighed and said, "Okay, I'll go see
who it is," when he saw Paul staring into the trees with that same dark
frown.

    "I'll
come with you."

    "Like
hell you will. Stay down here and keep working."

    The
kid didn't like that at all, but Arlen ignored the grumblings and went on up
the trail. When he got back within view of the inn, he saw it was the sheriff's
car. Tolliver stood on the porch with Solomon Wade, Rebecca, and Tate McGrath.
Arlen came out of the trees and walked up to the porch with his head down, as
if he had no interest in the gathering. When he reached the porch steps he
said, "Pardon," and stepped past McGrath, who didn't move to clear
out of his way, and entered the inn without so much as breaking stride. He
walked back behind the bar and into the kitchen and retrieved a beer from the
icebox and cracked it open. Drank about a third of it down, standing there in
the shadows, and then he took the bottle and went back out onto the porch.

    He
was ready to do the same routine, walk past them without a blink and return to
the dock, when Wade spoke.

    "Mr.
Wagner?"

    He
pronounced it Vagner, like the composer, as Tolliver had in the jail. Arlen
kept walking, said, "That's not my name," without a look back.

    "My
mistake," Wade drawled. "Hold up. Don't hurry off."

    Arlen
turned to face them.

    "Where
is it you're from?" Wade said. He and Tolliver were standing close to
Rebecca, and Tate was leaning on the porch rail.

    "No
place near here."

    "That's
not an answer."

    Arlen
took a drink of his beer. "West Virginia."

    "Really?
What town?"

    "It's
not someplace you've heard of."

    "I've
heard of some Wagners from West Virginia," Wade said. His face was damp
with sweat, accentuating the glare from his glasses. "Only they pronounced
it properly. Vagner. The ones I've heard of were from Fayette County, I believe.
What was your father's name?"

    Arlen
felt the back of his neck go colder than the beer in his hand.

    "You
haven't heard of any of my people. We aren't a famous bunch, and it's a mighty
small town."

    "Maybe
so," Wade said, "but you'd be surprised at all that I hear."

    A
tremor worked into Arlen's hand, the sort of muscle shake that white-hot anger
touched off just before you swung on a man, but he willed it down.

    "I'd
be surprised, indeed, if you've heard anything of my people," he said.
"Like I said, it's a mighty small town."

    "Why'd
you leave it behind?"

    "The
war. Never went back. Went a lot of places, but never home."

    "And
what did you do in the war?"

    "Killed
Germans," Arlen said, wondering what in the hell this was all about.

    "Well,
good for you." Wade seemed to amplify his southern accent when he desired.
Right now he was laying it on heavy.

    "What
about you, Judge?" Arlen said.

    "Pardon?"

    "Where
are you from?"

    Wade's
eyes flickered. "Florida, sir. Florida."

    "You
like the area, then. Trust the locals."

    "I
do. They are fine people."

    "How
is it you ended up with a sheriff from Cleveland, then?" Arlen said. He
was doing now exactly what he'd promised himself he would not do — poking at
Wade and Tolliver with a stick, riling them. He couldn't help it, though. Not
after that bullshit about the Wagners of Fayette County.

    Tolliver's
eyes narrowed and then went to Rebecca Cady.

    "Don't
look at her," Arlen said. "She didn't tell me. You want people to be
unaware of your roots, you ought not go on about the Cleveland Indians in front
of them, Sheriff. Nobody from another city would follow such a shitty ball
club."

    Tolliver
did not smile. He turned his gaze to Arlen and let it rest, cold and hard.
Arlen winked and lifted his beer to his lips.

    "That
all you fellows need? Or do you want me to write a family tree? "

    Tolliver
turned to Wade. "It's amazing he's grown as old as he has, talking like
that to men he doesn't know. Someday it'll be the wrong words to the wrong man,
don't you think?"

    "I
surely do," Wade said.

    "I
believe it," Arlen said. "It's the reason I don't do much talking to
strangers. You might remember that you stopped me for this chat."

    "Speaking
of being a stranger," Wade said, "you seem to have made yourself
right at home. Interesting, with the way people keep dying out here."

    "It's
one of the many things I don't like about the place," Arlen said.
"I'll be moving on soon enough."

    He
waited for more questions, waited for some sort of threat relating to the dead
woman they'd found in the creek, a promise of jail time, but nothing came. Wade
stared at him for a few seconds, but then his eyes shifted, and when Arlen
turned he saw Paul coming up the trail and felt a surge of annoyance. Why
hadn't the kid listened and stayed at the dock?

    Paul
walked to Arlen's side, looking at the men on the porch warily.

    "Afternoon,
son," Tolliver said. "Find any corpses today?" "No."

    Tolliver
smiled.

    "What
are you doing here?" Paul said.

    Tolliver
turned and gave Wade wide eyes. "Nosy little bastard, ain't he? Why, we've
come to provide a Corridor County resident with transportation. Mr. McGrath
here was needing of a lift, and we take care of our citizens in this part of
the world."

    Solomon
Wade looked bored with the dialogue. He stepped down off the porch and walked
toward the sheriff's car. He paused when he reached Arlen and looked into his
eyes.

    "I'll
see what I can remember about those Wagners in West Virginia," he said.
"Be interesting to see what all I can recollect."

    Arlen
reached out and extended a hand. Wade stopped and looked down at it as if he'd
never seen the gesture.

    "Always
a pleasure, Judge," Arlen said.

    Wade
gave a small cold smile and took his hand. Pressed hard against it and kept his
eyes on Arlen's.

    "Paul,"
Arlen said, "show some respect: shake the judge's hand."

    Everyone
looked confused at this.

    "Do
it, son," Arlen said.

    Paul
glowered, but he reached out and offered his hand. Wade watched Arlen as if he
were trying to understand the game, but he took the boy's hand.

    When
he did it, Paul's eyes went to smoke.

    "Mention
the man's family," Solomon Wade said, "and of a sudden he is most
polite. I find that curious."

    He
released Paul's hand, and the smoke disappeared instantly.

    "Take
care now," Arlen said.

    Wade
walked on to the car, with Tolliver and McGrath at his heels. The sheriff took
the wheel and they went clattering away. Dust hung in the air long after they
were gone.

    Paul
spoke to Arlen in a low voice.

    "You
see it again?"

    Arlen
nodded.

    Paul
seemed to blanch, but he nodded as if it were expected and said, "I'll
just have to stay out of his way, then. That's all. Isn't hard to do."

    Arlen
didn't answer.

    "What
are you talking about?" Rebecca said.