The Cypress House(129)

“Yes,” Arlen said. “The sheriff didn’t want to let me borrow it.”

The rain had begun to fall now, steady but quiet, and Arlen got the wipers going, then removed a waterlogged handkerchief and pressed it to the wound on his shoulder. Paul looked over at him.

“Owen is—”

“I know,” Arlen said. “We found him. They’d hung him upside down from the roof.”

Paul shuddered.

“How bad did it go?” Arlen asked. “You’ve taken a beating, clearly.”

“Went fast, that’s all. One minute it was only Tolliver out in the yard and the next they were on us.” His voice was close to breaking when he said, “It’s all on me, Arlen. It’s on—”

“Stop,” Arlen said. “There’ll be no more of that. It’s on Wade and these bastards who work for him. None other.”

“Where’s Rebecca?”

“Driving north,” Arlen said. “I sent her alone. Then I came for you.”

“How?” Paul said. “How did you do this?”

“Wasn’t easy” was all Arlen could answer. He thought of those gray trances and the harsh whispers of dead men and the snakes coming at him through the water, and he shook his head. The idea that he was in this car now with the boy at his side was incredible. Because he’d known from the start that he was going to die out there, and yet…

He looked up then. Raised his eyes and shifted his face to the mirror. What he saw chilled even the searing pain of the bullet wound in his shoulder.

There was still smoke in his eyes.

How? He dropped back into his seat, lips parted and mind spinning. How in the hell could it still be there? He’d survived every challenge, taken every comer, was driving toward safety. The wound in his shoulder throbbed, but it wasn’t a killing wound.

“What?” Paul said. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Arlen said. He was remembering the battlefields of France, though, remembering the Belleau Wood and what he’d discovered there. The dead couldn’t save themselves. He could help those men with smoke in their eyes, but they couldn’t ever help themselves.

He said, “Hey—look at me.”

Paul turned to face him. He was a wreck, all right, covered with dirt and dried blood, but his eyes were clear. Nothing but deep brown. Not even a hint of those gray wisps.

“All right,” Arlen said softly. “Let’s keep driving, son. Let’s not stop.”

It was no more than a minute later that they rounded a bend and the bridge came into view and they saw the roadblock. The convertible was parked where Arlen had left it, and Tolliver’s body still dangled from the trees, but another car had been pulled in sideways on the other side of the bridge, blocking any attempt at exit. It was a steel-gray Ford coupe.





55


FOR A MOMENT they sat in silence and stared ahead. Arlen was squinting to see through the fractured windshield, and finally the bullet holes rang a bell in his mind and he said, “Get down, Paul. Get real low, out of sight.”

The shots Arlen had taken at Tolliver had been clean and simple. He didn’t want to leave Paul exposed to the same.

“Pass me that rifle,” he said.

Paul handed him the Springfield. It felt good to have it in his hands again, but hard in his mind was the knowledge that he had one cartridge left. The other rifle was still in the weeds down there with the McGraths. In the moment he’d seen Paul, he’d forgotten it. All he’d wanted to do then was move, get the hell away from this place and do it fast. Now he was wishing for those extra rounds.

No one was in sight, though. The rain fell gently and pattered off the hood of the sheriff’s car. Paul was crouched low, keeping his head below the dash.

“That’s Solomon Wade’s car,” he whispered.

“Yes, it is.”

“And that body in the trees, that was the sheriff.”

Indeed it was. Tolliver’s body was swinging more vigorously now.

Paul said, “Did you—”

“Yes,” Arlen said. He was still staring at the Ford. It didn’t look as if there were anyone inside. The headlights were on, pointing down at the swollen, swift-running creek, but inside there was nothing but shadow. The rain was falling harder, making visibility difficult. Arlen’s left side was wet and warm. Blood.

He was feeling a touch dizzy and nauseated, the pain working at him, and when he thought of the three McGrath boys back there, with vengeance in their hearts, he knew that he didn’t want to wait this game out. Wade had come down and parked his car in a way that blocked the bridge, but he didn’t appear to be in it. Perhaps he’d gone ahead on foot, or maybe he’d had a boat in the creek. Maybe he’d been accompanied by someone in another car and they’d taken that one and headed back up the road. Arlen wasn’t short on maybes. Just on time.