The Cypress House (36 page)

    "I
have no idea."

    "Well,
they didn't just find a body. Someone was killed. Who?"

    "I
just said that I have no idea. But Walter . . . he wasn't a murderer. He
wouldn't have killed anyone."

    "Well,
it wasn't a mannequin that burned in that car."

    "He
wouldn't have killed anyone," she repeated stubbornly.

    Arlen
lifted the newspaper article. "Why'd they bring this to you? Why
today?"

    "Reminder,"
she said. "Solomon likes me to be refreshed, time to time, on what happens
to those who cross him. Now that Owen's out, he can't hold that one over me. So
he's turning to other things."

    She
lifted her hands to her face as if shielding her eyes from a bright light.
"Poor Walter. He was the best of them. Not a bad man at his core. Just a
man who'd made too many concessions for money."

    "If
you're right, then he didn't make the concession he needed most," Arlen
said. "He was a thief but not a killer. Right?"

    "That's
right."

    "Well,
to get away from Solomon Wade, he needed to be the latter."

    She
lowered her hands and looked at him.

    "He
has to die," Arlen said simply. "There's no running from him. All
this is simply more proof of that. We can't afford to leave him behind."

    "No,"
she said, shaking her head.

    "Yes,"
he answered. "I'm going to do it, Rebecca. It's the only chance you've
got. You aren't going to walk away from him."

    "You
can't kill him. I can't let you do that. Not for me, not for Paul, not for
anyone."

    "It's
not a matter of what you can let me do," he said, "it's a matter of
what needs to be done. What has to be done. You want out of this mess? This is
the way you'll get out. I don't believe there's any other."

    "We're
not killing anyone. No matter how evil they are, we're not going to do murder
ourselves."

    "Then
he'll find us," Arlen said, "and he will settle the score. I wonder
who will get your hands as a reminder? Mine? Your brother's?"

    They
shared a long stare, and then she broke it and turned away.

    "It's
not just him, though," she said. "Solomon Wade is valuable to people
we've never even heard of, dangerous people. He's part of a chain, and if we
remove that part, don't you think those other men will want to retaliate?"

    "I
don't intend to leave a calling card saying it was me that killed him,"
Arlen said. "And if he's in as deep as you say, then they'll have plenty
of other people to worry about. We're nothing to them."

    "Arlen,
no."

    "The
way to leave this place without having to look over your shoulder every day for
the rest of your life," Arlen said, "is by leaving with Wade dead.
You know too much about what he does. You're a danger to him. The things you
could tell the law, they're things that put him at risk. He'll find a way to
keep you under his control, just as he always has. Last time it was with your
brother. This time he may have to give up on any such patient technique."

    They
were both quiet. She had tears in her eyes, but they didn't spill over.

    "I
wanted it to be as easy as it could be," she said. "I just wanted to
take Owen and go. To run away and hide and let time pass. I thought that we
could do that. But he won't let us, will he? He'll never let us."

    "No,"
Arlen said. "He won't. And you're going to need to tell Owen the truth
now. You're going to need to trust him. Because I can assure you of two things:
one, he isn't going to leave of his own accord. And, two, we're going to need
him."

    It
was nearing sundown when they finally returned. Paul walked up to the porch in
stride with Owen, head high and shoulders back.

    "Been
a long day," Arlen said. "What were you doing, Paul?"

    "He
was agreeing to do the right kind of work for the right kind of money,
old-timer," Owen said. "Going to carve himself a piece out of this
world."

    "You
want this piece?" Arlen said, still looking at Paul. "This swamp
county, this seems big-time to you? You bothered to ask yourself what in the
hell must go on in a place like this that it's worth a damn to anybody?"

    "I
need your opinion like I need another hole in my head," Paul said.

    Owen
laughed. "Damn straight, Paulie. Why don't you mind your own,
old-timer?"

    "I'll
mind what I like," Arlen said. "And you call me old-timer one more
time, I'll have you spitting teeth, you shit-brained little bastard."

    Owen's
face darkened and he stepped toward Arlen, only to be cut off by Rebecca. Arlen
wished she hadn't been there, wished the little shit would step on up and get
his blockhead knocked right off his shoulders.

    "Owen,"
Rebecca said, her hand on her brother's chest, "we're going to talk."

    "Isn't
talking I want to do with this son of a bitch," Owen said, pointing at
Arlen.

    "Talking
is what you're
going
to do with him, and with me," she said.
"I waited in this place for six months for you, and you're going to listen
to me for once! You are going to listen!"

    Her
voice had risen to a shout, and it seemed to surprise everyone. Owen stared
down at her but didn't put forth an argument.

    Rebecca
said, "Paul, I'd like you to go inside. This is a family matter."

    "What's
he staying for, then?" Paul said, nodding at Arlen.

    Rebecca
put her eyes on him and said, "I'm asking you, please."

    Paul
wanted to object. Arlen could see that. He wanted to tell her to get lost, he'd
do what he pleased, and to hell with her, the one who'd broken his heart. He
didn't have it in him, though. Not when her eyes were on him like that. For
everything else that had changed in him, one thing had not: he cared for her.
He wanted to please her.

    In
the end he went inside as he'd been asked, shoved past Arlen and stomped
indoors like a sullen child.

    "All
right," Owen said, "I've got strong patience for you, Rebecca, because
you're my sister and I love you. But I don't need a mother."

    No,
Arlen thought,
what you need is a swift kick in the ass.

    "I'm
not trying to be your mother," Rebecca said. "I'm trying to be the
one who keeps you from behaving like a fool any longer."

    "I
don't want to hear this," Owen said, stepping toward the door.

    "You're
going to hear it," she said, cutting him off. "I've got some things
you
better
hear. Like how your father died. My father.
Our
father."

    He
stopped and tilted his head and stared at her. Then he flicked his eyes over to
Arlen, a suspicious look, and stepped back.

    "What
are you talking about?"

    "He
didn't drown," Rebecca said. "He was murdered. His throat was cut.
And Solomon Wade did it, or had it done."

    Owen
gaped at her. He looked at Arlen again and forced a laugh, as if maybe Arlen
could join him in appreciating this ludicrous situation.

    "You
are so full of shit," he said.

    She
was calm. Even-keeled, the way she was so often. She'd grown remarkably good at
holding her emotions at arm's length. Arlen wondered if that was a healthy
thing.

    "He
was trying to run away," she said. "To fake his own death. He owed
Solomon money, lots of it, and he was tired of the way he had to pay it off.
Tired of the way his life had infected yours, tired of what you were becoming.
I was supposed to get him off the boat that day, and we were going to sink it,
and he was going to disappear. I'd stay long enough to sell the idea that he
had drowned. Then I would take you and leave, and we'd find him again."

    Owen
shook his head. Not believing it, not wanting to hear it.

    "I
saw him," she said. "I saw him lying on the deck of that boat, I saw
his blood drying in the sun, I saw his eyes, Owen,
I saw it all!"

    Her
voice was trembling, and he was still shaking his head.

    "You
don't want me working for Wade, fine, say your piece, but don't you dare tell a
story like that."

    "Look
at me."

    He
shook his head and stared away.

    "Look
at me."

    This
time he met her gaze. There was a wet sheen to her eyes, but no tears fell and
she stared at him and did not speak. Arlen could see the resistance dying in
him. His bravado and bluster couldn't hold off the truth that was in that look.

    "I
want you to read something," she said. "Then you tell me I'm
lying."

    She
took a piece of paper from the pocket of her dress. It was a sleeveless dress,
and though the day was warm Arlen could see a prickle along the flesh of her
arms. She unfolded the paper and passed it to her brother.

    Arlen
knew what it said by now. She'd shown it to him while they waited for Owen and
Paul to return. It was a letter that had been mailed from Corridor County more
than a year earlier, when Rebecca's father was still alive and she was still in
Savannah, a two- page lament of the life Owen was falling into.
I don't
believe he has a dark heart,
David Cady had written,
but I fear he has a
dark mind. I fear he can rationalize so much evil away, and perhaps I've put
that in him... surely I have. But if we can get away from this terrible place
and these terrible people, Rebecca, I know that he is not lost.

    Owen
took his time reading. He didn't say anything, but Arlen could see his jaw
tightening as he read, and when he finally folded the letter and passed it back
to her, his movements were very slow, controlled.

    "Neither
of you ever told me a thing," he said. His voice had gone huskier.

    "He
thought that was safest. We would tell you when we were away."

    
Before
you could get them into trouble, Arlen thought, and it's the same damn plan she
had this time around. I'm the one who talked her into this change, who talked
her into this trust. So don't let me down. Don't you let me down
.

    "Was
likely McGrath that did it," Owen said eventually, his eyes vacant.
"Or one of his boys. I never did think they could be trusted."

    "Whoever
did it," Rebecca said, "did it at Solomon Wade's instructions."

    He
shook his head. "I've worked with Wade many a time, Rebecca. He's not what
you believe."

    Her
eyes went wide. "Not what I believe? He's what I've
lived with
for
the last six months! Don't tell me it's about what I
believe.
Do you
know why I'm still here? Why I've not gone back to Savannah or somewhere,
anywhere, else?"

    Owen
didn't answer.

    "Because
I'd been told he would have you killed if I did," she said. "He
explained it to me very clearly, told me all of the power he had at Raiford and
that he could make your stay as easy or as painful as he wanted. That was up to
me. It depended on whether I continued to help him. While you were in prison, I
was here. I was watching drugs and fugitives pass through my doors, I was
counting
the drugs and the money and providing the records to Solomon Wade.
He won't get his hands dirty; if anyone ran into trouble with the law, it would
have been me. I played our father's role for him because our father had left an
unsettled debt. That's what Wade told me. So I paid his debt, and they kept me
here paying it by promising me what would happen to you if I didn't.
That
is Solomon Wade."

    Owen
said, "He wouldn't have done that. Not to someone in my own family.
Solomon respects me. Likes me and respects me. He wouldn't have —"

    Rebecca
turned to Arlen and said, "Go get the shovel, please. I'd like to see the
box you buried."