It came at him from the unknown just as Tate’s whisper had before, but this was a cry, a shout of anguished pain, and Arlen jerked his hand free as if McGrath’s foot had seared it. For a moment he stood where he was, waist-deep in the water, holding the Springfield and searching the rest of the swamp. When he saw nothing, he reached out again, tentatively this time. When his hand touched McGrath’s calf, he said, “I told you, you bastard. It was up to you. Still is. I can see him now, and I can kill him. You know how easy I can kill him.”
The boy was trying to push out of sight into the reeds but couldn’t, and Arlen watched him twist and moan and said, “I was told that love lingers. I suppose you didn’t have enough of it.”
Don’t, McGrath’s ghost said. Don’t kill him. Don’t you kill my boy.
“You walked me into a nest of snakes. I’ll kill them all now. I’ll kill every son you have left.”
No. I’ve told you where he is. You can find him. I’ll guide you—
“You won’t guide me to shit,” Arlen said. He’d ducked low because as McGrath talked his vision faded again, and though the wounded boy couldn’t do him harm, the others well could. He had no time for this.
I’ll tell you how, McGrath whispered. You got to use Davey. It’s the only chance you have. You’ll never leave this swamp without him. They’ll kill you.
“Use him?”
Get to him quick, and keep him alive. His brothers won’t kill you if it means his life. That’s the only—
Arlen released him and shoved him free, because the world was going too gray and the hum in his ears too loud. McGrath bobbed in the water, twisting and sinking, the side of his neck and face already grotesquely bloated with venom. Arlen watched him drift away, then looked back at the road and realized that in the last moment Tate McGrath had told him the truth.
Having that wounded boy as a hostage was his best chance.
Love lingered, all right. Tate McGrath had just needed a bit of convincing.
54
THE BOY MCGRATH had called Davey was not making a sound as he lay in the reeds. Arlen was certain he wasn’t dead; Arlen had probably cost him the use of a leg, maybe the leg itself if this water was as filthy as it looked, but he hadn’t shot to kill. Anybody else, he’d have thought perhaps the silence was due to a blackout from pain, but with this young man he imagined otherwise. He was faking death, probably, holding silent and willing the pain aside as he hid there like an animal caught in a trap and tried to think of a way out. His way out was in his brothers. He knew that, and so did Arlen. The only difference was the boy knew where they were, too. Arlen had not the faintest damn idea, and because of that he knew he had to move fast.
He splashed through the mangroves, heedless of the noise because it was long past the time when noise mattered. With every step he thought he saw snakes. If there were any, though, they didn’t strike. He was twenty feet from the reeds when the first shot came.
A rifle, and not a large one. Maybe a .22, some old varmint gun. It had a dry, sharp crack, not a powerful sound like the Springfield. The bullet it fired, though, was plenty hot and plenty painful when it found Arlen’s shoulder.
It burned a furrow between his left shoulder and his neck, and the pain sent him stumbling face-first into the water, and that was probably all that saved him from the next shot. He’d been looking left as he ran, up toward the houses, and had seen no one. Whoever had taken that shot was mighty fine with a rifle. Fine and cocky—they’d been looking to take a headshot and had damn near succeeded. Matter of inches.
When he hit the water, he kept moving his legs, driving forward through the mud and into the nearest cluster of mangrove roots. Two more shots came in quick succession, but they caught only the roots.
He came up spitting water and gasping with pain. He could feel hot blood on his neck and chest but didn’t look at the wound, turned quickly and fired the Springfield twice in the direction of the shots. It was blind shooting, useless shooting, painful shooting, and he stopped himself before pulling the trigger a third time, finally realizing that it was the last cartridge he had in this Springfield. The second, the one he’d used to kill Tolliver, was up in the weeds with three rounds left in it, but he had to get there first.
The tree sheltering him was one of the closest to the road. He pushed deep into the roots, and the absence of gunfire told him that the tree screened him for now, and whoever was taking those shots knew better than to waste bullets.
He looked into the reeds and found Davey McGrath, hunkered in the ditch with his right leg bent sideways, a painfully bright and clean bone showing amid all the red. The Springfield had been built to do damage, and built well. It was a gory wound, to be sure, but there was no smoke in his eyes—just rage.