The Cypress House (49 page)

    He
backed the sheriff's car off the bridge and pulled it far enough away that the
road was clear for the convertible, which he drove over the bridge and parked
behind the sheriff's car before climbing out again. It took him only two tries
to toss one end of the tow chain over the limb, and then he lowered it until
both ends were on the road. It was just long enough. He took one set of
handcuffs and wrapped them around Tolliver's ankles, then fastened them
together. Dragged the body over and fastened the chain to the cuffs, then
pushed Tolliver's body into the ditch and went back to the convertible and
fastened the free end of the chain to the back bumper. When he climbed in this
time, he drove very slowly, pulling forward inch by inch. The chain tightened
and began to slide over the tree limb, and then Tolliver's feet were tugged
into the air. There was a short hitch as the chain hung up on something, and
Arlen pushed harder on the gas pedal, driving the car into the weedy, rutted
ditch. The chain slid free again, and Tolliver's bulk was hoisted into the air.

    He
kept the car moving until the sheriff was dangling about four feet over the
road, upside down, his body swinging just as Owen Cady's had. Blood dripped off
the corpse and found the muddy road below. It would be the first thing visible
for a driver who rounded the bend.

    "Come
on down, Wade," Arlen said softly as he got out of the convertible and
went back to the sheriff's car, positioning himself behind the wheel with the
rifle across his lap. "Come on down."

    He
cast one look in the rearview mirror before he drove on, saw the dark sky and
the body swinging in the wind, and the smoke — thicker now, darker — in his own
eyes.

    He
was close.

    The
road ran downhill over the bridge, and the ground on either side grew marshy,
black puddles lining the ditches and tangled mangrove roots visible farther
out, where the creek curled around and followed the road. He went at least
another mile without seeing a thing, and the distance reassured him — it was
unlikely that the McGraths had heard anything of the gunfire at the bridge.

    Finally
the road hooked to the right and narrowed even more, and there he shut off the
engine and got out of the car. He couldn't see a house yet but felt he must be
close. For a moment he knelt beside the car and listened and watched. The trees
gave him nothing but wind rustle and birdcalls. Water lapped against the shore
just through the woods, the creek riding high after the previous day's
downpour. The way the sky looked, another was due soon enough. He wished the
rain would begin to fall; it would offer sound cover that he needed. So far,
though, the clouds had just continued to build and darken without letting
loose. There was occasional thunder, but it was well to the south.

    He
started forward on foot. It was awkward moving with a rifle in each hand and
the pistol and handcuffs on his belt, but he'd rather have all the weapons if
it came to that sort of fire- fight. Empty one Springfield, drop it and pick up
the second, empty that and roll on to the pistol. If he ran that dry, too, he
probably wouldn't have much need to reload one way or another.

    Here
the road was so deeply wooded that it was almost dark. The trees pressed close
on every side and the wind roused them to a constant rasping sound that
unsettled him because the noise was so damn close. It was one of the things he
didn't like about this part of the country; the leaves were right at your side,
not well overhead. A rustle in the leaves fifty feet above you was less
disturbing than one ten inches to your left.

    He
didn't even consider leaving the road and venturing into the woods. It would
slow him down and make him noisier. Even though they likely hadn't heard the
gunfire, the McGraths would be ready for trouble. It was a day of trouble, and
they were well aware of that by now.

    To
his right the woods opened up, and he could see the creek merging with the
mangroves, creating a knee-deep swamp of tangled roots that looked like
hundreds of frozen snakes. He came to the bottom of the gentle slope, and then
the dirt road rose again and he could see the first building just ahead.

    It
was a shed or barn of some sort, with a hide stretched over the wall. A dark
gray skin, probably a boar. There was the smell of smoke from that building,
but he couldn't see any. Whatever fire had burned there was extinguished now.
Farther on he could see the roof of another building, this one a cabin, long
and low. He pushed down into the weeds and dropped to his knees, felt moisture
soak through his trousers. He laid one Springfield in the weeds and brought the
other up and held it against his thigh.

    There
were voices coming from up ahead but not from inside the cabin. He thought they
might be at first, but then his sense of the place corrected and he realized
they were coming from below the cabin, out of sight to him but close to the
creek. He heard the thump of boots on boards and the sound of a splash and
realized there must be a dock of some sort down there.

    How
many sons did Tate McGrath have? There'd been three with him the night they'd
come to the Cypress House. If all of them were with him now, that meant four
enemies to contend with. Unless there were others. Neighbors, cousins,
collaborators of some sort. Hell, maybe even men from New Orleans by now, maybe
the Cubans themselves. Could be a dozen down there.

    He
pushed farther down from the road, water bubbling up and soaking his boots and
pants. Pointed the rifle at the cabin and squinted down the barrel and liked
what he saw. He could pick men off quickly if they'd just walk out there and
stand around. It hadn't been so long since he'd fired a Springfield rapidly
that he'd forgotten how it was done.

    First
he had to bring them out, though.

    He
waited a few more minutes, heard those muffled voices but saw nothing, and then
he slid back out of the wet ditch and returned up the edge of the road, walking
backward and holding the gun high. He left the second Springfield tucked down
in the weeds. He could find it again if he needed it.

    His
focus coming up the road was on the sheriff's car. Particularly the windshield.
He wanted to see how close you had to be before the bullet holes were obvious.
Here in the shadows, he found it was better than he'd expected. Even knowing
they were there, he had to close to within about a hundred feet before they
became obvious.

    The
sheriff's car was the only bit of cover he had, the only touch of confusion. He
figured there were two ways to approach this: One was to slip right up into the
homestead and start shooting. The other was with a bit of a ruse. He knew he
could take some bodies down with the first approach, but taking bodies down
wasn't enough. He had to get to Paul, and doing that required finding out where
the boy was. Once the shooting started, nobody would be volunteering that
information.

    The
only time he'd seen the sons at all had been the day they arrived at the
Cypress House to avenge their brother's death, and then it had been Tate who
did all the talking. Likewise, it had been Tate who dealt with Wade, Tate who
traveled with Wade. He was the decision maker, the leader. He would also, Arlen
assumed, be the one who came out to see why Tolliver had returned.

    Maybe
not. Maybe they'd all come slinking through the woods with guns. If that were
the result, the second of Arlen's options would blend quickly into the first,
and he'd have to open up with the Springfields and hope the old instincts
weren't far gone. But if Tate McGrath came out alone . . .

    "Love
lingers," Arlen said quietly as he opened the door of the Corridor County
sheriff's car and slipped behind the wheel. They'd been his father's last
words, and he hoped like hell they'd been accurate. What was it Tolliver had
said of Tate McGrath? The only human lives he valued were those of his sons.
Arlen intended to test the truth of that. If he could bring old Tate out to
this car alone, he intended to do something that had probably never been
attempted anywhere in this world before—hold hostage the living to gain the
help of the dead.

    A few
drops of rain splattered off the windshield as he drove, and he was momentarily
hopeful that the sheltering storm would finally appear, but then the sprinkle
ceased entirely. The Springfield was in his lap and the pistol on the passenger
seat. He could feel warm moisture under his thighs. Tolliver's blood. The
inside of the car reeked of it, a wet copper scent baked by the heat.

    He
drove down just short of the point where he'd left the second rifle. Just out
of sight of the buildings. Nothing moved around him, but the sound of the
approaching car had surely been heard, and his throat felt tight. The moment
was here now. Preparations had ceased; battle would begin.

    
I've
come out of worse places, he thought. I was in the Belleau Wood. Will come a
time when that doesn't mean anything to a soul in this country, but for those
who were there, it did one of two things: killed you, or changed your
perception of fear. This place doesn't scare me. Not after the Wood
.

    He
cast a look in the mirror, watched the smoke swirl in his eyes, and thought,
I won't be coming out of this one, though. So I should fear it even less.

    The
end was here. There was a certain measure of peace in that. All that remained
was a bit of unsettled work.

    It
was a good spot, close to the mangroves and where the creek had flooded well
over its banks and turned the marshy ground into a shallow pond of shadowed
water. Reeds and grasses grew tall and thick in the ditch, offering prime cover.
The clouds were a roiling mass, some layers as black as fresh-laid tar, others
the color of wine. Beneath them the mangrove trees stretched endlessly and cast
shadows on an already dark day, the gloom so deep it seemed to be dusk.

    He
turned the headlights on, and their beams cut farther down the road than should
have been possible during the day, harsh and white and, he hoped, distracting
from the bullet holes in the windshield. They'd also draw focus away from the
water and make the area just beside the car seem darker still.

    As
soon as the lights were on, Arlen popped open the driver's door and pushed the
Springfield into the driest weeds he could find. When he glanced back up the
road, he saw nothing. Tate McGrath had no doubt selected this location for his
homestead because of the near impossibility of sneaking up on it, but that
worked against him as well; it would be damn hard to sneak away from the cabin.
Arlen would hear them when they came.

    When
the rifle was hidden, he put Tolliver's pistol in one hand and took out his
pocketknife and opened it with the other. It wasn't a large knife, but it was a
good one. Had a strong handle with a textured grip and a four-inch stainless
steel blade that he worked over a whetstone regularly. He held it tight in his
left hand as he leaned out of the door, then reached back inside and hit the
horn with the butt of the pistol. Two short taps, then one long bleat. He hoped
it sounded like a signal. He flashed the lights three times, and then he was
out of the car.

    He
slipped down into the ditch, moving carefully into a gap between the reeds so
that they wouldn't be trampled and broken down. The water soaked through his
clothes and chilled him. He dipped his hand into the soil, took a palmful of
thick black mud, and coated his face and neck with it. Insects buzzed over him
and one mosquito drank from his forearm, but he didn't swat it away. Instead he
kept his eyes on the road and on the trees.

    He
was quickly hidden behind the tall grass as he slid away from the gap and
deeper into the water, taking care to avoid crushing the reeds in a way that
would be easily spotted. He remembered the paces he'd carefully measured toward
the car before he'd seen the bullet holes in the windshield and tried to match
that distance. The best place he saw looked to be about eighty feet ahead of
the car. He was moving as quickly as possible, keeping to a crouch so that his
shoulders were submerged in the water, holding only the pistol up to keep it
dry.

    He
was now neck-deep in the water, the same water where just a few miles
downstream the girl from Cassadaga, Gwen, had been left by these very men. He
positioned himself behind a thatch of reeds close to the edge of the road. He
laid the pistol in the reeds, then lowered himself until his chin touched the
top of the water. He was able to see up the road with his left eye only; the
reeds blocked any other field of vision. The glow of the headlights cast long,
empty beams into the gloom. No one appeared inside them.

    He
was counting on the sheriff's car, counting on it to a critical level. Tolliver
was a friend, not a foe, and he'd left in this same car less than an hour
earlier. His return, while unusual, should not necessarily be an indication of
true trouble. Arlen's hope was that Tate would hear the horn and see the flash
of the lights and perceive it to be a signal, Tolliver calling for him because
something had changed. Perhaps he'd encountered Wade and had new instructions;
perhaps he'd seen something he didn't like or thought of something he should
have said. It might be odd for the sheriff to sit outside the homestead, but on
the day he'd driven down to the Cypress House to drop off the money with Owen,
he'd parked at the top of the hill and leaned on the horn. It had been pouring
rain then, but rain was threatening now as well.