The Cypress House(18)

Tolliver dipped one of his big hands to his belt and came out with a .45, held it loose, along his thigh.

“I know what you told me. I also know that Walt Sorenson, poor dead son of a bitch that he may be, was not the kind of man who took on riders he’d never met. So I’ll give you two a chance to work on adjusting your story until you come out with the truth. Take another try right now if you’d like. Why were you riding with Sorenson?”

For a moment there was only silence, a light salty breeze blowing in, and then Arlen said, “A fortune-teller told him to be aware of travelers in need.”

The sheriff nodded as if this were what he’d expected to hear. “It’ll go that way, will it?” he said, and then snapped his chin at the deputy. “Burt.”

The redheaded kid shook out a pair of handcuffs and advanced on Arlen. Paul Brickhill said, “Arlen, what… we didn’t… Arlen,” as the deputy grabbed on to Arlen’s wrist and twisted it, and the big sheriff stood with the gun in his hand and a dare in his eyes. Rebecca Cady squeezed her arms tighter and stared past them all, over the top of the demolished car and off to the horizon, where clouds hung low over the water. She stood that way until both Arlen and Paul were in handcuffs and in the back of the sheriff’s car.





8


PAUL TRIED TO TALK to Arlen when they were under way, but Tolliver said there’d be no conversation in the back unless someone wanted a skull-cracking. Arlen didn’t say anything. It wasn’t the first time he’d felt cuffs close around his wrists, and he knew the drill by now—you’d eat some shit, wait till they tired of feeding it to you, and then they’d kick you loose.

They drove past the service station where they’d called for Tolliver originally and on down the road. A few miles south they arrived in a small town laid out on a square, buildings lining a total of four roads and lasting for two blocks in each direction. A few of the signs indicated the place was called High Town, which was intriguing considering it was as flat a place as Arlen had seen. There were cars parked on the street but also two horse carts in view. The modern world had touched this place, yes, but it had made limited headway so far.

The deputy parked in front of a single-story building with clapboard added on to an older stone section in the rear. They went up the steps and into the station, and Tolliver said, “Keep the boy out here,” and then led Arlen through a narrow hallway and out into a room where three small cells lined the back wall. He took a key from his belt and unfastened one of the doors and swung it open. Arlen went in without comment or objection.

“You walk around here like you been in a jail before,” Tolliver said, facing him with his legs spread wide, a hint of a grin on his face.

“I’ve seen ’em.”

“Prison, too?”

“Not a one. And I’ve never been charged with anything in my life except having a drink in my hand when it wasn’t legal to do so.”

“You say.”

“It’s the sort of thing can be checked on.”

Tolliver cracked his knuckles, slowly and deliberately, and then said, “You call yourself Wagner.”

“It’s my name. Check on that, too.”

“I believe it’s pronounced Vagner,” Tolliver said. “I believe I shot some men who may well have had the same name. I shot a lot of Germans in my day.”

“So did I,” Arlen said. “Probably more than you. And where I’m from, the name is Wagner.”

Actually, it hadn’t been. Arlen had pronounced it Vagner until his second day on the transport ship, when he determined it would be wise to alter that German sound, distancing him not only from the enemy but from his father. The latter felt like a more valuable gain than the former.

“Where might that be?” Tolliver said.

“All around,” Arlen answered. “I’ve done some drifting.”

Let the sheriff make his calls to Alabama, Georgia, Pennsylvania, Kentucky, or any of the other places Arlen had spent time over the years. Let him make calls to everywhere except Fayette County, West Virginia. The only secrets Arlen had worth hiding had been left there many years ago. The first blood on Arlen Wagner’s hands hadn’t come in the war.

“You want to keep drifting,” Tolliver said, “you’ll need to be on the other side of these bars. And for that to happen, I’m going to need to know the truth.”

“Sheriff, you’ve already heard it.”

Tolliver shook his head, the smile showing clearer now, as if this were what he’d expected, and it pleased him. He opened the door of the cell and stepped out, then swung it shut and locked it.