The Cypress House

by Michael Koryta

  They were both quiet. She had tears in her eyes, but they didn’t spill over.

  “I wanted it to be as easy as it could be,” she said. “I just wanted to take Owen and go. To run away and hide and let time pass. I thought that we could do that. But he won’t let us, will he? He’ll never let us.”

  “No,” Arlen said. “He won’t. And you’re going to need to tell Owen the truth now. You’re going to need to trust him. Because I can assure you of two things: one, he isn’t going to leave of his own accord. And, two, we’re going to need him.”

  38

  IT WAS NEARING SUNDOWN when they finally returned. Paul walked up to the porch in stride with Owen, head high and shoulders back.

  “Been a long day,” Arlen said. “What were you doing, Paul?”

  “He was agreeing to do the right kind of work for the right kind of money, old-timer,” Owen said. “Going to carve himself a piece out of this world.”

  “You want this piece?” Arlen said, still looking at Paul. “This swamp county, this seems big-time to you? You bothered to ask yourself what in the hell must go on in a place like this that it’s worth a damn to anybody?”

  “I need your opinion like I need another hole in my head,” Paul said.

  Owen laughed. “Damn straight, Paulie. Why don’t you mind your own, old-timer?”

  “I’ll mind what I like,” Arlen said. “And you call me old-timer one more time, I’ll have you spitting teeth, you shit-brained little bastard.”

  Owen’s face darkened and he stepped toward Arlen, only to be cut off by Rebecca. Arlen wished she hadn’t been there, wished the little shit would step on up and get his blockhead knocked right off his shoulders.

  “Owen,” Rebecca said, her hand on her brother’s chest, “we’re going to talk.”

  “Isn’t talking I want to do with this son of a bitch,” Owen said, pointing at Arlen.

  “Talking is what you’re going to do with him, and with me,” she said. “I waited in this place for six months for you, and you’re going to listen to me for once! You are going to listen!”

  Her voice had risen to a shout, and it seemed to surprise everyone. Owen stared down at her but didn’t put forth an argument.

  Rebecca said, “Paul, I’d like you to go inside. This is a family matter.”

  “What’s he staying for, then?” Paul said, nodding at Arlen.

  Rebecca put her eyes on him and said, “I’m asking you, please.”

  Paul wanted to object. Arlen could see that. He wanted to tell her to get lost, he’d do what he pleased, and to hell with her, the one who’d broken his heart. He didn’t have it in him, though. Not when her eyes were on him like that. For everything else that had changed in him, one thing had not: he cared for her. He wanted to please her.

  In the end he went inside as he’d been asked, shoved past Arlen and stomped indoors like a sullen child.

  “All right,” Owen said, “I’ve got strong patience for you, Rebecca, because you’re my sister and I love you. But I don’t need a mother.”

  No, Arlen thought, what you need is a swift kick in the ass.

  “I’m not trying to be your mother,” Rebecca said. “I’m trying to be the one who keeps you from behaving like a fool any longer.”

  “I don’t want to hear this,” Owen said, stepping toward the door.

  “You’re going to hear it,” she said, cutting him off. “I’ve got some things you better hear. Like how your father died. My father. Our father.”

  He stopped and tilted his head and stared at her. Then he flicked his eyes over to Arlen, a suspicious look, and stepped back.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “He didn’t drown,” Rebecca said. “He was murdered. His throat was cut. And Solomon Wade did it, or had it done.”

  Owen gaped at her. He looked at Arlen again and forced a laugh, as if maybe Arlen could join him in appreciating this ludicrous situation.

  “You are so full of shit,” he said.

  She was calm. Even-keeled, the way she was so often. She’d grown remarkably good at holding her emotions at arm’s length. Arlen wondered if that was a healthy thing.

  “He was trying to run away,” she said. “To fake his own death. He owed Solomon money, lots of it, and he was tired of the way he had to pay it off. Tired of the way his life had infected yours, tired of what you were becoming. I was supposed to get him off the boat that day, and we were going to sink it, and he was going to disappear. I’d stay long enough to sell the idea that he had drowned. Then I would take you and leave, and we’d find him again.”

  Owen shook his head. Not believing it, not wanting to hear it.

  “I saw him,” she said. “I saw him lying on the deck of that boat, I saw his blood drying in the sun, I saw his eyes, Owen, I saw it all!”

  Her voice was trembling, and he was still shaking his head.

  “You don’t want me working for Wade, fine, say your piece, but don’t you dare tell a story like that.”

  “Look at me.”

  He shook his head and stared away.

  “Look at me.”

  This time he met her gaze. There was a wet sheen to her eyes, but no tears fell and she stared at him and did not speak. Arlen could see the resistance dying in him. His bravado and bluster couldn’t hold off the truth that was in that look.

  “I want you to read something,” she said. “Then you tell me I’m lying.”

  She took a piece of paper from the pocket of her dress. It was a sleeveless dress, and though the day was warm Arlen could see a prickle along the flesh of her arms. She unfolded the paper and passed it to her brother.

  Arlen knew what it said by now. She’d shown it to him while they waited for Owen and Paul to return. It was a letter that had been mailed from Corridor County more than a year earlier, when Rebecca’s father was still alive and she was still in Savannah, a two-page lament of the life Owen was falling into. I don’t believe he has a dark heart, David Cady had written, but I fear he has a dark mind. I fear he can rationalize so much evil away, and perhaps I’ve put that in him… surely I have. But if we can get away from this terrible place and these terrible people, Rebecca, I know that he is not lost.

  Owen took his time reading. He didn’t say anything, but Arlen could see his jaw tightening as he read, and when he finally folded the letter and passed it back to her, his movements were very slow, controlled.

  “Neither of you ever told me a thing,” he said. His voice had gone huskier.

  “He thought that was safest. We would tell you when we were away.”

  Before you could get them into trouble, Arlen thought, and it’s the same damn plan she had this time around. I’m the one who talked her into this change, who talked her into this trust. So don’t let me down. Don’t you let me down.

  “Was likely McGrath that did it,” Owen said eventually, his eyes vacant. “Or one of his boys. I never did think they could be trusted.”

  “Whoever did it,” Rebecca said, “did it at Solomon Wade’s instructions.”

  He shook his head. “I’ve worked with Wade many a time, Rebecca. He’s not what you believe.”

  Her eyes went wide. “Not what I believe? He’s what I’ve lived with for the last six months! Don’t tell me it’s about what I believe. Do you know why I’m still here? Why I’ve not gone back to Savannah or somewhere, anywhere, else?”

  Owen didn’t answer.

  “Because I’d been told he would have you killed if I did,” she said. “He explained it to me very clearly, told me all of the power he had at Raiford and that he could make your stay as easy or as painful as he wanted. That was up to me. It depended on whether I continued to help him. While you were in prison, I was here. I was watching drugs and fugitives pass through my doors, I was counting the drugs and the money and providing the records to Solomon Wade. He won’t get his hands dirty; if anyone ran into trouble with the law, it would have been me. I played our father’s role for him because our father
had left an unsettled debt. That’s what Wade told me. So I paid his debt, and they kept me here paying it by promising me what would happen to you if I didn’t. That is Solomon Wade.”

  Owen said, “He wouldn’t have done that. Not to someone in my own family. Solomon respects me. Likes me and respects me. He wouldn’t have—”

  Rebecca turned to Arlen and said, “Go get the shovel, please. I’d like to see the box you buried.”

  He led them to the dead tree along the shore, walked off the paces, and began to dig. It didn’t take long to find the box. Owen spoke once, asking what the hell they were looking for, and Rebecca just told him to be quiet and wait. When Arlen had found the box, she said, “Owen can open it.”

  Owen took the shovel. There was a vague unpleasant smell coming from the box, but it was nothing like that of the body in the creek.

  “This is what Solomon Wade delivered to me,” Rebecca said. “In person. This is the sort of care Solomon Wade showed me while you were away. Now open it.”

  Owen wet his lips and turned back to the box and used the shovel blade to pry the lid off. He gave it a final toss and flipped the lid away entirely, and what he saw made him stumble backward and lift a hand to his mouth. He kept his body turned sideways when he looked again, as if he couldn’t face it directly.

  “Solomon Wade brought that to me,” Rebecca repeated. “Those hands belonged to Walter Sorenson. You remember Walter?”

  Owen nodded, still staring at the box, still with his hand at his mouth.

  “I thought you would. He was a nice man. Kind. Wrong sort of man for this sort of business, just like Daddy was. Just like you are.”

  Arlen took the shovel from Owen’s hand and knocked the box and the lid back into the hole and began to cover it with sand.

  “You’ve known this for so long,” Owen said, looking at Rebecca.

  “What was I supposed to do, write you a letter and say it? Tell you on one of my visits to Raiford, the ones that you ordered me to stop making?”

  “You could have told me.”

  She shook her head. “Not while you were in that place. I couldn’t tell you until you were out. And then you got out, and you wanted to go right back to the life you’d led before, Owen. You rode in here with Solomon Wade, told me what a great man he was. Can you imagine how that made me feel?”

  Owen stared out at the sea. There was a good breeze blowing, and the waves were hitting hard, pounding the beach as if angered by its existence. The sun was a smudge on the western horizon, and shadows lay all around them.

  “I’m going to kill him,” he said. His voice was cold. “I’m going to slit the son of a bitch’s throat.” He tightened his hands into fists and said, “I’m going to make him bleed, Rebecca. I’ll take him slow. I’ll take—”

  “No, you won’t,” she said. “This is exactly why I was waiting to tell you the truth. I can’t allow you to make the situation worse than it already is.”

  “So what’s your idea?” Owen said. “Call the sheriff? Think Tolliver’s going to arrest him?” He gave a disgusted laugh and shook his head.

  This time, Arlen spoke for her.

  “We’re going to kill him,” he said. “But we’re going to do it right. You need to be a part of it, and you need to have your damn head on straight when it’s done. You go off half-cocked, and you’ll end up dead yourself and probably take your sister with you. Don’t shake your head at me; that’s the damn truth of it. You better understand that.”

  Owen stood and glared at him. Arlen finished tamping down the sand and then leaned on the shovel and looked him in the eye.

  “You want him dead? You want to settle up?”

  “Bet your ass I do. I’m going to see that it happens, too.”

  “Good,” Arlen said. “Then let’s you and I climb in that fancy car he gave you and take a ride. We got some things to discuss.”

  Owen looked from his sister back to Arlen and nodded. Rebecca was staring out at the ocean, her face grave. She didn’t like the idea. Didn’t want them to be discussing such things. She’d have to deal with it, though. The only thing in all this mess that Arlen was certain of had been told to him by the hands he’d just buried for the second time.

  You couldn’t run from Solomon Wade. Not successfully.

  39

  PAUL WAS OUT ON the back porch when they returned. He watched them with a frown, and Arlen saw he had a glass of gin in his hand again.

  “Family meeting finished?” he said.

  “Yes,” Rebecca said. “I’m going to make us some food.”

  Arlen set the shovel down beside the porch and then started around the side of the house and toward the car with Owen.

  “Where are you going?” Paul called after them.

  “Taking a ride,” Arlen said. “I want to see this silly buggy move.”

  “I’ll go along.”

  “You’ll stay.”

  “That isn’t your decision to make.”

  “It’s mine,” Owen said. “We’ll just be gone a bit.” His voice was soft and weary. Everything about him spoke of a sudden fatigue. He kicked along through the sand with his shoulders slumped and his hands jammed in his pockets, and he never even bothered to look at Paul. Paul didn’t argue, but when he sat back down his face was dark with anger.

  “First thing you need to understand,” Arlen said when he’d slid into the passenger seat beside Owen, “is that we’re going to keep that boy out of this. Completely. You got that?”

  Owen nodded. He’d put the car in gear, and now he looked at Arlen and said, “Where am I going?”

  “Just take it down the road,” Arlen said. “You drive, and you talk. Tell me about Wade’s work. Tell me the things your sister doesn’t know. Tell me how you think he should be killed. Could be killed. And one more thing: tell me how we can lighten his pockets before we kill him.”

  Owen stared at him, surprised.

  “Make no mistake,” Arlen said, “people will likely give chase. We’ll need money to run. On that score, Walter Sorenson was right.”

  Owen pulled out of the yard and onto the rutted road, the headlights capturing ghostly shadows from the Spanish moss that dangled just above the car.

  “It’s going to be hard,” he said. “He’ll have a lot of men around for this next deal. Men like Tate McGrath.”

  “I figured on that,” Arlen said. “Now let’s hear the whole scenario.”

  It would be the sort of transaction that took place often at the Cypress House, but never while Wade was present. He kept his distance from the actual cargoes. The McGraths and the Cadys handled that task. Owen had started his work for Solomon Wade as a driver, taking truckloads of orange crates out of Corridor County and on to Memphis, New Orleans, and Kansas City. The crates contained heroin smuggled in from Cuba.

  The money would come from Wade and be given to Owen a day before a group from Cuba was to arrive. They’d bring a boat up to the waters off the beach from the Cypress House and wait for a light signal that showed them it was safe to put in. Then they’d come all the way into the inlet, and the unloading would commence immediately. Tate McGrath and his sons would handle the unloading. The cargo would be crates and crates of oranges. Some of the crates would be marked with a single hole drilled in a side slat. Inside those marked crates were thin false bottoms, the grains of heroin packaged beneath. Owen didn’t know how much of the drug would come in, but it had to be plenty—the orange crates, once unloaded, were taken in trucks. Owen was expected to drive one truck, and he’d told Wade that Paul would be riding with him. It was supposed to be a sort of test for both of them, giving Wade an opportunity to determine that nothing about the prison stay had tainted Owen’s loyalty, giving him an opportunity to assess Paul’s loyalty for the first time.

  Arlen asked for more details about the money. Owen said he knew that Wade paid thirty dollars for an ounce, and the next person in line probably paid sixty or seventy per ounce at least.

  “How much money
will he give you, though?” Arlen asked. “What are you going to pay these guys who bring it in?”

  Owen said he couldn’t be certain because he had no way of knowing the exact size of the load, but if it held the pattern he’d seen before he was jailed, then they’d be bringing in at least three hundred ounces.

  “Then he’ll be giving you nine thousand dollars,” Arlen said. The sum overwhelmed him. They were going to carry that much money down to a bunch of Cubans in a boat and hand it off in exchange for orange crates?

  “That’s probably close to it,” Owen said. They were out on the paved road now, screaming along at close to seventy miles an hour, and with the wind whipping in the car it was hard to hear. Arlen didn’t want to tell him to slow down, though. He figured the kid needed to be in motion right now, needed to have his foot heavy on the gas.

  “He just hands you that much money? He trusts you with that?”

  “Well, everybody’s awful careful about their counting,” Owen said. “Come up a few dollars short, and it’s bad news, buddy.”

  They were going to come up many dollars short this time around, if Arlen had any say in it. Tough for a dead man to miss the cash, though.

  “You’re in charge of the cash? Not McGrath?”

  Owen nodded. “Tate and his boys stay back in the inlet. They handle the unloading, but they never go out to meet the Cubans. I take our boat out and meet them before they bring it in. I give them half the money then, while they’re still on open water. They get the second half after everything’s been unloaded. Tate will have all his boys down there, with three or four trucks, and they go through the crates pretty quick. Time it gets finished, I hand over the rest of the money, and everybody heads in a different direction.”