The Cypress House

by Michael Koryta

  “Get out of the car!”

  “Leave me,” she hissed.

  “I won’t. Get out of the damn car.”

  He got the door partially opened, but then, with surprising strength, she slammed it back. The sound of metal on metal rang out loud in the still night. She said, “Hide. Now.”

  He did not argue this time. He knew that he could not. He dropped to the grass and rolled forward, toward the Plymouth, as the front door of the Cypress House banged open and footsteps slapped onto the porch and someone called for a lantern. It was still dark back by the cars, and Arlen wriggled forward until he was entirely beneath the Plymouth. He was there when Tolliver tramped past him, nothing showing but a pair of boots and the angled glow of a lantern.

  “You were told not to move,” the sheriff was saying. “Not to make a sound. Think you’ll be able to take so much as a step, chained like that?”

  She was chained to the car, Arlen realized. Maybe at the feet. She couldn’t have run if she wanted to.

  “We’re about done, darling,” Tolliver said, his voice so rich with mocking menace that Arlen clenched his teeth together, willing down the urge to roll out from under the Plymouth and start swinging. There were more men inside. All of them probably armed.

  “We’ll be on our way soon. We’ll be taking you home. But if you move again, make a sound again, I’ll put a bullet in your beautiful face. Understand?”

  There was a long pause, and then Tolliver passed the Plymouth a second time. Arlen waited until he’d heard his boots on the porch and the sound of the door closing, and then he slid back out from under the car. He crept around to the sheriff’s car and stared in at her. The skull face regarded him.

  “They’re going to need you,” the woman named Gwen said. “Paul and Rebecca. You can’t leave them here. They need you.”

  There were loud voices inside again. She looked in that direction, then back to him, and said, “Go. You can’t be caught here. Go now.”

  He backed into the trees without answering, unsure of himself. He was there, among the storm-torn mangroves, when they all came out of the tavern. Sheriff Tolliver and the gray-haired man she had called Tate led the way. The three boys followed—dragging the man from the Plymouth between them. He could not hold his own footing, and though he mumbled constantly he could not make intelligible words. It sounded as if he were trying to speak without lips or teeth.

  They loaded him back into the Plymouth, but this time he was in the backseat, and this time all three of Tate’s boys rode with him. Tate fired up the truck as Tolliver leaned in the Plymouth window with an inspector’s stare, spoke to the boy at the wheel, and then moved back to his own car. He climbed in and started the engine and led the procession out of the yard and up the road.

  Arlen searched for the girl in the darkness, hoping that her appearance would change as they left this place. It was too dark, though. He couldn’t see a thing.

  18

  HE WENT TO THE BOATHOUSE to check on Paul first. The boy slept soundly, curled up against the stack of old blankets, water lapping at the dock pylons beneath him. It was pitch-black, but the later it got the louder the night seemed—insects and nocturnal animals and wind sounds filling the trees all around the inlet. To the east, farther inland, the woods thickened, a mass of weaving silhouettes against the night sky. Arlen thought that if he lived in this part of the country, he’d want to hug the coast as much as possible, where things were open and bright and you could see what was coming.

  He picked the flask up from where it lay on the dock and had a long drink. Then he capped it and walked back to the inn. The lights were still glowing, and he could hear a scraping sound. He swung open the door and stepped inside, and Rebecca Cady gave a shout of fear.

  She was standing in the center of the barroom with a mop in her hands, and when he opened the door she pulled the mop back and brandished it like a weapon. Then her shoulders sagged and she dropped it back to the floor.

  “What are you doing? I told you to stay out!”

  He stood in the doorway and looked around the room. Everything was as it had been, except that the floor around the fireplace was shining with soapy water.

  “Late for washing the floors, isn’t it?”

  “Get out.”

  He let the door swing shut behind him. There was a strange smell in the air. Kerosene and cleansers, yes, but there was something else to it. A faint copper tinge. He felt his stomach stir and the muscles in his neck go tight.

  “How was the party?”

  “It wasn’t a party.” The mop was shaking in her hands. She tightened her grip, trying to still it, but that only seemed to intensify the rattling. As she stood there and stared at him, a tear leaked out of her right eye and glided down her cheek, dripped off her jaw, and fell to the wet floor.

  “What in the hell happened?” Arlen said, walking toward her.

  “Get out!”

  He stopped halfway across the room. She pulled her shoulders back and gave him a look that would have been cold and strong if not for the tears.

  “Maybe if you want me out of here so bad, you should go call the sheriff,” he said. “My guess is he’ll see that I’m gone fast enough. Me and the boy both. And he’ll probably help you clean the floor.”

  He had edged closer to her, was only a few feet away now. He looked from her face down into the pail at her feet. Even in the dim glow of the oil lamps, the crimson tint was clear. There was a lot of blood in that water.

  “I’d like you to leave.” Her voice was shaking, and Arlen had the sense that if he reached out and laid one fingertip against her skin, she’d collapse.

  “Did you see her?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “The woman they brought in. Her name was Gwen. Did you see her?”

  She shook her head, and another tear fell free.

  “They had her in handcuffs,” he said. “Chained up in the sheriff’s car. They went all the way to Cassadaga to find her.”

  “I was upstairs,” she said in a whisper so faint he could scarcely hear it. “I always stay upstairs. I don’t want to see any of them. I don’t want to hear… anything.”

  “Like the sounds of that man getting beaten within an inch of his life?” Arlen asked. “You didn’t hear that upstairs?”

  Her face was wet with tears now.

  “I can’t speak to you about this,” she said. “I can’t. Just promise me that you’ll leave. That you’ll take Paul and go. You don’t belong here. You shouldn’t be here. Leave.”

  “All right,” he said. “You want us gone, I’ll see that it happens. But something to remember? If we’re not around, it means you’re here alone.”

  He watched her eyes break from his and go to the pail of bloody water.

  “The mess you’ve got on your hands,” he said, “isn’t the sort you clean up with a mop.”

  19

  HE WOKE TO THE sound of the generator.

  It was well into the morning, and he lay on his stomach on the boathouse floor. Somehow he’d thrashed his way off the blanket in his sleep, and his cheek was pressed to the bare boards. He was lucky he hadn’t pitched himself into the water. Dreams of a woman in a yellow dress had stalked him.

  He pushed himself upright now and blinked and cocked his head, listening. Yes, it was definitely the generator; he could hear the distinctive hammering of the cylinders. The timing was off, making it sound like the motor had a limp, but it was running. The damn thing was running.

  He got up slowly, feeling stiffness in every joint, then leaned off the edge of the dock and splashed briny water into his face, licking the salt off his lips. He groaned and rolled his head around on his neck and then started up the path. In the yard, he could see the indentations the cars had left the night before. He thought of the sheriff’s car and the woman in handcuffs and the way he’d let them drive off into the darkness, and he felt his chest tighten.

  In front of the porch, Paul stood beside the generat
or with a wide grin on his face. Rebecca Cady had her hands at her temples as if she couldn’t believe it. When Arlen joined them, Paul kept smiling but didn’t say a word.

  “I figured it out last night,” he said finally. “Woke up at dawn, thinking that everything was ready to move the way it should mechanically. I had all that done right. But it wasn’t even catching, and so I thought the problem had to be in the electrical. It’s an electrical ignition, you know. You turn that crank to make the current that fires the ignition, and then the batteries take over. The engine charges the batteries.”

  “I get it,” Arlen said. “But what did you do?”

  “Checked the cutouts to see if the circuit was alive or if one of them was open. Turned out two of them were. I closed them, and it started on the first try.”

  “Hell of a job,” Arlen said, but he was looking at Rebecca Cady instead of the generator. The gaze she returned was as cool as winter wind. No trace of the nearly broken woman that had showed last night in the trembling hands that held the mop, in the tears that slid down her face.

  “I’ve got to adjust the timing,” Paul said, shutting the generator off, the bangs slowing and then silencing altogether. “But I’ll wait until we have it back in place to do that. Then we’ll need to get that little shed put back together.”

  “I guess we have a full day ahead of us,” Arlen said.

  Rebecca didn’t offer a word of objection. I’d like you to leave, she’d screamed at him last night, but now she stood by silently.

  Paul was right, Arlen thought. She’s scared, and she doesn’t want to be alone anymore. Won’t tell anybody a damn thing, though, so she’s nearly as alone now as she would be if we were gone. You can’t find much company from inside a padlocked, stone-walled fortress.

  He had to get her to talk. If they were spending so much as another night in this place, he had to understand what in the hell was going on. And they’d be spending another night, because what he’d told her before was bullshit—he couldn’t convince the boy to leave. Not anymore. Paul was anchored here by a love that Rebecca didn’t even see.

  Love is a powerful thing, and like all powerful things, it can be used to harm, the woman named Gwen had said the previous night, just before her face became a skull. The memory left Arlen wishing for his flask, even though he hadn’t yet tasted coffee.

  “Going to need lumber,” he said, just to fill the air with talk. “Not much left of that generator shed that’ll be usable.”

  “Going to need some for the dock and boathouse, too,” Paul said.

  If she wanted them gone, now was the time to say so.

  “I’ve got enough money to get it started at least,” she said. “If you know what you’ll need, I can give you enough to get it started.”

  So there it was. They were staying. The proclamation had been issued quietly, but it rang loud and clear to Arlen, and from the satisfied smile he saw on Paul’s face, he knew the boy had registered the implication, too.

  “We’ll take some measurements,” Paul said, “and figure out what we need. It shouldn’t be too expensive to get started. We’ll build that generator shed first and then work on the dock. I think that would make the most sense.”

  Off he went, talking a mile a minute. Rebecca Cady was responding, but Arlen was no longer listening to either of them, was instead gazing up at the house and the empty expanse of sand and sea behind it.

  It was supposed to be an hour, he thought. Maybe less. Time enough for a beer and whatever business Walt Sorenson had to conduct, and then we were moving on down the road.

  This wasn’t a world you planned your way through, though. He’d known that much for many a year.

  * * *

  It was nearing noon when Thomas Barrett’s panel van pulled into the yard. Rebecca talked to him briefly and then waved a hand, calling for them.

  “So you boys going to be visiting a little longer, huh?” Barrett said when they walked over, the mellow grin on his face the same as always.

  “We got no money,” Arlen said. “Might as well make some.”

  “Good sense. Becky here tells me y’all’ll be needing some lumber.”

  “That’s right,” Paul said. “We’ve got it all written down.”

  “Well, I told her I’d be happy to pick it up for a small charge, but I’ll need a hand loading.”

  “Paul can go along,” Arlen said.

  Paul frowned. “I was going to wire that generator back in.”

  “It’ll hold,” Arlen said. “My back ain’t up to heavy lifting today, not after sleeping down in the boathouse. Go on and show off your muscles.”

  Rebecca passed Barrett a tightly folded roll of bills, all of which looked to be singles, and he slipped them into his pocket and winked at Paul.

  “Ready to go blow this on booze and loose women?”

  The two of them were off. Arlen watched the van pull away, and by the time he turned back to Rebecca, she was already gone. He gave a grim smile, thinking, Not going to be that easy, gorgeous. You and I are going to talk.

  She was back in the barroom, cleaning the stools with a rag that reeked of some powerful disinfectant. She didn’t hear him enter, and Arlen watched her work, scrubbing furiously at the nicked legs of the old bar stools.

  “Blood get on those, too?” he said.

  She gave a start, then saw who it was, and her eyes hardened and her hand tightened around the rag. A drop of the cleaning fluid dripped onto the floor.

  “I thought I was paying you to fix things,” she said. “Not stand around in the dark watching me.”

  “There are lots of things around here need fixing,” he said with a nod, stepping closer. “I’m just trying to get a sense of all of them.”

  She hesitated a moment, down on her hands and knees, and then got to her feet with a small sigh and stood with her back against the bar.

  “There was a fight. It’s not uncommon when those men get together. People get hurt.”

  “People got hurt,” Arlen said, “but that was no fight.”

  “I have no idea what happened,” she said. “I was upstairs, trying not to hear it. That’s what I always do.”

  “I believe that, but you know damn well that whatever happened in here last night wasn’t a fight.”

  “You think I should call the sheriff?” she said, scorn clear in her voice. “Or maybe call Judge Solomon Wade himself?”

  “There are other people to call.”

  She didn’t answer.

  “If we’re staying here,” he said, “I’m going to need to be told the truth about some things.”

  “Why?”

  The abruptness of the question startled him. He leaned his head back, staring at her, and said, “Because I don’t want you to be mopping up me or Paul Brickhill next time around.”

  “I don’t know why you’re staying,” she said. “You should go. Don’t you understand that? Even I understand it.”

  “You want us gone?”

  Her jaw trembled for an instant before she said, “You know that I don’t, you said it last night. If you’re gone, I’m alone again. With them.”

  “If you don’t talk to me, you’re damn near that alone anyhow.”

  “No,” she said. “I’m nowhere near as alone as that.”

  You can’t leave them here, the woman from Cassadaga had told him. They need you.

  “I can’t help you,” he said, “if you won’t speak the truth.”

  “I’ve told no lies.”

  “You’ve told nothing, period.”

  “My problems are my own. I don’t need to share them.”

  Her face floated there just before his, those smooth lines and endless eyes.

  “But you’re right about this place,” she said. “It’s filled with trouble. I’m filled with trouble. You don’t need any of it, and Paul certainly doesn’t. The best thing for both of you would be to—”

  He leaned down and kissed her. Lifted his hand to the back of her neck and ki
ssed her on the lips just as smoothly and sweetly as he could.

  She stepped back and struck him.

  Her slap caught him high on the left side of his face. He stood where he was and stared as she hissed, “That’s what you want? Is that all you want?”

  She moved away from him in a rush, went around the bar and through the swinging door into the kitchen, and then he was alone with the imprint of her slap stinging on his cheek.

  20

  HE COULDN’T SAY why he’d done it. Hadn’t been thought-out, planned. No, he’d just been looking at her face and seeing those lips and… hell, what a mistake.

  He went outside and stared at the wires coming out of the generator and knew damn well that he wouldn’t make any progress without Paul there. He walked down to the dock and set to work tearing some of the damaged planking free and stacking it on the shore. He worked hard and angry, frustrated and embarrassed with himself for what had happened. What would the boy have thought if he’d seen it?

  While he was working, he thought he heard a boat. A faint sound, but he’d have bet money it was the creaking of a set of oars working in their oarlocks. He straightened and stared up the inlet, but it curled away from him, and the trees with their draperies of Spanish moss screened what lay beyond. He waited for a time and didn’t see anything, and then he returned to work.

  It was more than an hour before Paul and Thomas Barrett made it back. The panel van had been replaced by an old pickup that was so loaded with lumber, it flattened the tires.

  “Enough for the dock and the generator shed,” Barrett told Arlen when he walked up to join them. “Won’t be enough for the boathouse, but it’ll do the rest.”

  “That’s a start. Hey, Paul? Why don’t you look at that generator while I get this unloaded. I couldn’t make heads or tails out of that.”

  “Your back’s feeling better?”

  “Yeah,” Arlen said. Rebecca had come out on the porch to watch them, and he didn’t look her way.

  Paul went off to the generator, and Barrett hung around to help Arlen with the boards. They unloaded the lumber and carried it down to the boathouse. By the time they got back from the last load, the generator was running again, and Rebecca Cady stood on the porch with a rare smile on her face.