The Cypress House (46 page)

    "Paul,"
she said.

    "Yeah."
He got to his feet again and flicked open the cylinder on the gun, checked the
load, then spun it shut and walked to the stairs. It was very dark inside now,
lights off and the clouds thickening, and he went up the steps in the gloom
with the gun held out in front of him. Five rooms upstairs, five checks, five
views of undisturbed furniture.

    Back
downstairs, he saw Rebecca crawling out onto the porch. He frowned, not wanting
her to see that sight again. It was her brother, though, and if she was going
to insist on seeing him, he wouldn't stop her. He followed her onto the porch
and pressed the gun into her hand and said, "Here. Use it if anyone comes.
I'm going down to check the boathouse for Paul. Then we have to leave."

    She
didn't answer. He dropped her hand and she held on to the gun and stared out at
the ocean. He watched for a few seconds and then told himself that there was
nothing to be done for her right now, left the porch and jogged down to the
boathouse.

    It
was incomplete, no roof on it yet, the smell of sawdust mingling with the brine
of the sea and decaying fish. He checked the boathouse and walked the length of
the dock and stared into the water and saw nothing. The boat was where it had
been. He looked at it for a minute, hesitating. He didn't want to take the time
to go out to it, but he remembered that it was where Rebecca's father had been
left six months earlier, and maybe the act had been repeated with Paul.

    He
dragged the rowboat into the water, splashing out in a hurry, thinking that
they'd been here for far too long already, and then he rowed out to the fishing
boat and climbed aboard. Empty. Before he left he took the two rifles from the
gun rack and tossed them down into the boat. They were loaded, but he didn't
see any additional shells and couldn't take the time for a thorough search.
When he reached the beach again, he carried a rifle in each hand as he jogged up
the path to the Cypress House. Even the gulls were gone now; nothing could be
heard but the waves. Any trace of that clear sky had vanished.

    When
he got back to the porch, he saw she was standing and was glad of that until
she turned to him and said, "Why didn't you know?" "What?"

    "You're
supposed to know!" she shouted, her face streaked with tears but her blue
eyes alight with anger. "You're supposed to see it coming! To be able to
warn, to be able to stop it, why couldn't you stop it!"

    She'd
rushed toward him with her hands raised as if she were going to strike him but
fell into him instead and began to sob.

    "Why
couldn't you stop it?"

    "I
didn't see anything," he said. "I'm so sorry, Rebecca. There was
nothing there this morning. Something changed. Whatever happened . . . whoever
came for him . . . they weren't coming when we left this morning. Death wasn't
close to him then."

    The
truth of that caught him, and he realized what it meant.

    Someone
had told Wade recently. Had they been coming to kill this morning, he should
have been able to look into Owen's eyes and see the promise of death there. But
he hadn't, and he thought now of the long delay Barrett's federal contact had
put them through, all of them sitting around the garage waiting for an arrival
that never came, and understood the source of the leak. It wasn't Barrett; it
was someone in Tampa or Miami. The man who'd sent them back. What was his name?
Cooper.

    Rebecca
was still crying against his chest and he wanted to hold her, but he had a
rifle in each hand.

    "Find
out who did it," she said.

    For a
moment he didn't respond, just stood there numbly. Then he dropped the rifles
and wrapped his arms around her and said, "I will. I promise. But right
now we need to —"

    "No,"
she said, her lips moving against his neck, which was now wet with her tears,
"find out now. Talk to him."

    "Rebecca
. . . what are you —"

    "You
can speak to him," she cried, pushing away from Arlen to look into his
eyes. "You know you can, you can do it just like your father did."

    He
shook his head, reaching for her again, but she stepped away.

    "That's
not real," he said. "I'm sorry, but that isn't real, it can't be
done."

    "Yes,
it can!" she shouted.

    He
wanted to argue, but those two words —
There's time —
were trapped in
his brain and with them the certainty that it was true, always had been true,
his father's gift was real and it was also his own.

    "Owen's
dead," he said in an unsteady voice. "He's gone."

    "I
know that. But you can hear him."

    She
began to cry again then, and he held her for a while. He did not let her go on
long, though. There wasn't time. He pushed her back from him and said,
"Come on."

    "What
about Owen?"

    "There's
nothing to be done."

    "We
can't just leave him here. We can't —"

    "I'll
see to him," he said. "But you're leaving."

    She
shook her head, and he said, "Yes. You're leaving. You have to."

    He
took her unresponsive fingers and tugged her down off the porch and into the
inn, retrieved the bag of money from where it lay on the floor, and then led
her all the way up to the truck. She wore a face he'd seen often during the war
after the shells had stopped, and he knew that her mind was not entirely her
own anymore. That would pass, and when it did the real agony would sink its
teeth into her. For now, though, it was better that she be this way.

    He
opened the door to the truck and helped her inside. She didn't say a word, just
followed his guidance, and then, when she was behind the wheel, turned and
looked at him with questioning eyes, as if she didn't understand.

    "I've
got to go for him," Arlen said. "For Paul. I can't leave him
behind."

    "Don't
make me go on alone," she said, and for a moment his resolve nearly
evaporated. He looked back at the house and the dark clouds blowing in off the
sea and thought of Paul Brickhill and shook his head.

    "I
can't leave him."

    "I'll
stay with you."

    "No."
He leaned into the truck and put the bag in her lap. Then he took her face
gently in his hands and forced her to meet his eyes. "You've got five
thousand dollars. You can get to Maine easy. But drive fast and drive steady.
You need to get far from here."

    "What?
I can't —"

    "What's
left here? " he said. "They've killed him, Rebecca. Your brother is
gone. They'll come for you next."

    She
was silent, her lips parted, eyes hazy.

    "Was
there a town in Maine?" he said.

    "What?"

    "Where
you wanted to go. Was there a specific town ?"

    She
blinked at him, as if she no longer recognized his face, and then said,
"Camden. I wanted to go to Camden."

    "Then
go," he said. "Find your way there. Drive careful and keep the pistol
at hand. If anyone tries to stop you, use it."

    "I
can't. Don't send me on my own. I can't go alone."

    "It's
not done yet," he said. "When it is, I'll join you. But I'm not running
out on that boy, Rebecca. He's with them. With the same men who murdered
Owen."

    At
the sound of her brother's name, she winced.

    "I'll
go to Barrett," she said.

    "It
was going to Barrett," Arlen said, "that led to this. Maybe it wasn't
him directly, but it was damn sure the men he's working with. You can't go to
him. You need to leave, and you need to leave now."

    She
didn't answer.

    "Drive
north," Arlen said, and then he stepped back from her. "I'll find
you. I'll catch up soon enough."

    "Arlen,
no."

    But
he'd closed the door, and now he held it shut and looked through the window and
into her eyes and said, "Rebecca, you have to go."

    She
was silent, staring at him through the glass. He said, "I'll settle up for
him. Believe that. I'll put an end to it. To them. Then I will find you."

    She
started the engine. He let go of the door and stepped back and lifted his hand
in a parting wave. Then he turned and walked down to the house and her
brother's body to make good on his promise.

    By
the time the sound of the truck's engine was gone, he stood above the corpse as
a freshening sea breeze pushed the salt smell toward him and rustled the
portions of Owen's blond hair that were not held down by dried blood.

    "All
right," Arlen said in a whisper, his throat thick with tension.
"Let's give it a try."

    He'd
merely had to touch Owen's legs the first time. He could try that much again.

    He
knelt on the porch beside the body and reached out and laid his right hand
against Owen Cady's calf. He felt no warmth through the pant leg. Just stiff,
unresponsive flesh.

    
Let
me hear you again,
he thought
. Speak again. Let's see if I can hear it
.

    He
heard nothing, felt nothing.

    All
right, speak aloud, then. He wet his lips and said, very softly,
"Owen?"

    Nothing.
This was the height of insanity, so damned foolish it was —

    
You're
going to need to try harder
.

    It
was Owen's voice again, reaching Arlen like a piece of ice laid gently on the
back of his neck. He sat there on the porch with his hand on the boy's leg and
didn't move, didn't speak.

    "What
do you mean, try harder?" he said finally. His voice was a whisper.

    
I'm
farther from you now
.

    Arlen
took his hand away and sat back on his heels and wiped his hand over his
forehead. It came back slick with cold sweat. He had an idea. Or a memory,
really. He moved forward, laid a hand on each of Owen's shoulders, and looked
down into his face. The gray, blood-streaked flesh showed nothing. He hesitated
for a moment and then reached out and, very gently, used his thumbs to lift
Owen's eyelids. They rose just a touch, a trace of blue showing, and at the
sight Arlen's chest tightened, making the simple act of breathing difficult. He
forced himself to look into the eyes, his hands still on Owen's shoulders, and
then he spoke again. A little louder this time, a little more forceful. As if
he believed.

    "All
right," he said. "I'm trying. Come back to me, damn it. Come
back."

    
I'm
here
.

    It
was beyond eerie, that voice. Beyond anything Arlen had ever heard or even
imagined. It floated up from within his own brain, but it was so clear, the
voice so recognizable. His mouth was dry and his words croaked. He cleared his
throat and tried again.

    "Tell
me," he said, and the familiar old phrase sent an electric shiver over his
skin. "Tell me what happened."

    
They
knew.

    "Knew
what?" he said. "That we were setting them up?"

    
Yes.

    The
wind gusted hard and with a strange touch of cool to it as a loud wave broke on
the beach, and Arlen wanted nothing more than to remove his hands and get the
hell off this porch, join

    Rebecca
and drive and drive until they were far from this terrible place. He took a
moment to will the urge down, and then he asked his next question.

    "Who
did it? Who came for you?"

    He
didn't get a response this time. It felt as if a whisper slid through his
brain, but it came too quick and too soft, and then he saw that Owen's eyelids
had fallen shut again, and he reached out and opened them. Peeled them back
farther this time, saw more of the blue, felt something cold and sickly melt
through his stomach at the sight.

    "Who
came for you?" he asked again.