He’ll be riding close soon enough, Tolliver had said. Wade was on his way.
Arlen thought about that and then turned and studied the trees that grew thick alongside the road on either side of the bridge. There was one limb that was low enough and stout enough for his purposes. He’d have to hurry, though. He reckoned if the McGraths had held Paul alive for this long, they’d continue to do so until Wade arrived, but he couldn’t afford to be caught on the road like this.
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.
51
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 firefight. 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.