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.
When he finally heard the first footstep, it crunched on brush, which meant the approaching man was walking on the side of the road and not up the middle of it. The car’s horn and lights had drawn him out, but he didn’t trust them yet either. Not completely.
This was good. This was as planned.
He was advancing along Arlen’s side of the road. Also good, also as planned. Whoever was coming now was approaching the driver’s-side door. The footsteps came on and on, and still Arlen could see nothing. He had sunk so low in the ditch that even his chin touched the water, his head buried in the thicket of reeds and painted black with mud. The footsteps were very close when they stopped entirely, and at the cessation of the sound, Arlen felt his heart go cold.
Seen? Have I been—
Crunch, crunch, crunch. The feet were on the move again, and no more than twenty paces away. Down in the water, Arlen tightened his fingers around the handle of his knife. He could see the pistol resting in the reeds and knew that he could grab it quickly, but would it be quickly enough?
You’re a good shot, Tolliver’s ghost had whispered. Tate’s better.
We’re about to find out, Arlen had said. Yes, they would.