Paul said, “Arlen?”
He took a long drink, closing his eyes when he felt the wet heat spread through his chest.
“We’ll take advantage of Miss Cady’s hospitality.”
Rebecca Cady didn’t say a word.
“What do you mean?” Paul said.
“We’ll wait here for the rain to break. Then we’ll start walking.”
“Could be a long wait.”
“Yes,” Arlen said, topping the glass off. “It could.”
11
IT WAS AN AFTERNOON of pouring—for the rain, and Arlen. He sat at a table beside the cold, empty fireplace and drank whiskey and didn’t speak. After a few glasses the gentle burn turned to a pleasant, protective fog, and he put his feet up on the table and lifted his glass to the storm in a toast. Come on in, you big bitch. Let’s see what you can do. No worse than what’s already been done to me. Think I’m scared of some wind and rain? Then you weren’t in the Wood, friend. You weren’t there when the gas went off and the men too slow with their masks ended up choking on their own insides, spitting and sneezing out pieces of pink and gray while I watched it all with a gun in my hands. No, I’m not scared of some wind and rain.
Paul had wandered off somewhere. He and Rebecca Cady both. Hell with her. Arlen still wasn’t certain she hadn’t stolen the money herself, but she damn sure wouldn’t be telling him to leave until this storm was past. He wasn’t about to go walking down that dirt road in the rain without so much as a nickel in his pocket, turned into just another beggar in a country full of them, no better off than the migrant pickers or hoboes in search of a breadline.
Three hundred sixty-seven dollars. Three hundred sixty-seven…
It was his own fault. Hid his money in a canteen, like a child saving coins for the candy store. Back at Flagg Mountain, though, it had been safe enough. Safer than the banks, where your only question was what would happen first: Would the bank fail or get robbed? Either way, you lost. His canteen had looked more secure.
In a small room on the other side of the bar, something shook and rattled. The generator, probably. He’d not paused to think about it until now, but the place was lit with electric lights, there’d been an icebox in the kitchen behind the bar, and a fan hummed and pushed warm air around the room. There were no electric lines out here, so the Cypress House had to have one of those kerosene generators. They cost some dollars, though, and this place didn’t seem to be thriving. So where’d the cash come from?
He sat with his head against the stone that surrounded the fireplace and closed his eyes, trying to focus on the feeling of the liquor in his belly. Outside, the wind had pulled something loose and was banging it against the house. An incessant hammering. He scowled and snapped his eyes open, wishing Paul were here so he could tell him to find the source of that damn noise and make it stop. That was when he saw that his view of the ocean had been cut in half and understood the hammering sound was truly hammering. Paul was out there with Rebecca Cady, out in the rain, nailing sheets of plywood over the windows. She was holding the boards in place while he drove the nails, and even under the overhang of the porch the rain had found her and drenched her. That dark blond hair hung in wet tangles along her neck and shoulders, and the pale blue dress she wore was pressed tight to her body, her breasts pushing back against the wet fabric. Arlen stared at her for a moment and felt a stirring, then frowned and looked away and took another sip of the whiskey.
Beautiful, yes. The sort of gorgeous that haunted men, chased them over oceans and never left their minds, not even when they wanted a respite. But was she trustworthy? No. Arlen was sure of that. Whatever had led her out here was nothing honest. Whatever paid for the electric generator and the icebox and the liquor behind the bar, whatever brought someone like Walt Sorenson on a long drive to see her, it wasn’t on the level.
Shadows deepened around the room, all but the last window on the ocean side boarded up now. Arlen cast one more glance that way, and when he did he saw Rebecca Cady staring in at him as water dripped out of her hair and ran along her cheekbones, tracing her jaw. She looked him full in the eyes.
Go out there and help.
The thought flicked through his mind, and he shook it off. Be damned if he’d help this woman who’d shown no inclination to help them, who may well have stolen from them, who’d stood in silence as the sheriff put them in handcuffs. Let her work in the rain. He’d stay inside with the whiskey.
By late afternoon Arlen’s head was beginning to pound, that pleasant fog turning into something with teeth, and he went in search of a privy. He’d seen no outhouse; seemed this place had indoor plumbing to complement its lights.