He couldn’t see anyone approaching yet, but he also couldn’t hear anyone, and that concerned him. Silence meant they were treating this with caution. If they’d all come running down the road at the sounds of the shots, he could have reduced their numbers quickly and easily.
Now, though, he knew there’d be no rash mistakes made by those who lingered up at the cabin. And that meant the dead man in his arms was going to become awfully important.
Love lingers.
He would see if it did.
Back into the mangroves he went, keeping low, floating the corpse and towing it through the water. The mud at his feet was very soft and difficult to move through, but the tangled root systems of these strange, hurricane-proof trees provided cover. He pushed back until he found a snarl of roots that twisted well out of the water, three feet at least, and then he nestled into them so that his back was to the road and Tate McGrath floated in front of him. From this position, he couldn’t see a damn thing, but that was fine; no one would be able to take a shot unless they were directly in front of him, and to accomplish that they’d have to come through a hell of a lot of water. He had a little time at least, and that was what he needed. Time to talk.
He looked down at McGrath’s body. The mouth was parted and showing yellowed teeth, several of them missing, and long gray hair fanned out into the swamp water. Arlen took it all in and felt awash with astonishment over the plan he’d conceived. The idea was insane, and yet he believed it could work.
Love lingers, his father had promised. If indeed it did, then Arlen was about to have a dead man’s assistance.
He took the Springfield off McGrath’s chest and leaned it against the tree, then kept his left hand wrapped around one of the mangrove roots, as if seeking anchor in reality, before he reached with the right and pushed Tate McGrath’s eyelids up. Then he moved the hand under the dead man’s back, in such a way that he could keep him upright and facing toward himself, and spoke softly but clearly.
“I’m going to kill them all. Understand that? I know you can hear it. I’ve reached the dead all day, and I’m reaching you now. Here’s a promise, old man: I’ll wipe all your sons from the earth unless you help me. Your sons, and whoever else waits up there. A wife, a daughter. Makes no difference. I’ll kill them all.”
There was no answer, but he felt himself begin to slip through that unseen door again. It was so strange, simultaneous sensations of falling and walls closing in, like taking a tumble into a long, narrow well. His peripheral vision went first, trembling at the edges and then going to gray, and the swamp faded until all that was left was McGrath’s face. He had sullen brown eyes, and even in death they carried a feral quality. Arlen squeezed his left hand tighter against the mangrove root, not wanting a repeat of the situation that he’d fallen into with Tolliver.
“You got to speak fast, Tate,” he said, his voice less steady than before. “I won’t give you much chance, old boy. I’ll leave you here and then I’ll kill them. I’ll send them to join you, if that’s as you’d like it.”
Nothing. Arlen’s head ached and his throat was dry and now everything in the world seemed gray and wrapped in mist except for those brown eyes. He felt the bark of the mangrove root rough under his palm and tried to focus on that but couldn’t, and abruptly he moved his right hand away from McGrath and let the dead man float free into the water. He drifted away slowly, and his legs sank and his torso rotated until his face had turned away. Arlen caught him and dragged him back and shoved him into the mangrove roots so that he couldn’t drift far. Then he took the Springfield and lifted it, his finger on the trigger.
“All right,” Arlen said, feeling weak. “I gave you a chance, you son of a bitch. Now I’m going to send your boys to join you.”
He leaned around the tree, slid the barrel of the Springfield between two of the roots, and looked back up at the road. The mangroves were some of the best battle cover he’d ever encountered. He didn’t like standing so deep in the water, but the root coverage was dense enough that he knew he was nearly impossible to see, and he had a decent view of the road. To his left he could make out the roof of the shed and part of the cabin beyond, but nothing else. The sheriff’s car was still running where he’d left it. They’d have to head up there soon enough. They’d have to go in search of their father when he didn’t return. Sort of boys the McGraths were, they might have even been able to recognize the gunshots as Tate’s. Could be they figured he’d dispatched with whatever trouble had come their way. But time ticked on, and when he didn’t make his way back up that road, they’d know that it hadn’t been so easy, and they’d come for him.