The Cypress House

by Michael Koryta

  Arlen knelt and held her in silence, thinking, Paul, where is Paul? as the body swung back and forth and Owen Cady’s blood dried in his hair, an occasional drip still plinking off the floorboards, where a pool of it had gathered.

  “Get inside,” he said, looking away from the corpse and out to the open beach and realizing for the first time how exposed they were. “Come on.”

  She was unresponsive but didn’t fight him. He tugged her inside and let her go again, and she slumped back to the floor. He let her drop, looking around the room and seeing now what he hadn’t at first, when the body occupied all of his focus—a single chair turned over, a broken glass, two gashes in the front wall surely left by bullets.

  The gun was still in the truck. He said, “Wait here, Rebecca, please wait,” and then ran across the room and through the door and out to the truck. When he had the gun in his hand, he closed the door and straightened slowly, took a long, panning gaze around him. It was a different sort of look than he’d given in many years, a battlefield survey, everything significant now and everything potentially threatening. All around the Cypress House, it was quiet but for the wind and the gulls and the creaking of the sign.

  He shouted, “Paul!”

  Silence.

  “Paul!”

  Silence.

  “Damn them,” he said, and his voice shook a little now. “Damn them.”

  He went back through the yard and inside the house. Rebecca was still on the floor, but now she’d lifted her hands to cover her face. When she spoke, her voice was muffled.

  “What?” Arlen said.

  “Get him down,” she said, and this time he heard it through the sobs. “Please get him down.”

  He laid his hand on her back. “Rebecca, we’ve got to get out of—”

  “Get him down!”

  He straightened. “All right.” Logic screamed at him to get her the hell away from here immediately, back to Barrett before the bastards who’d done this showed up again, but instinct told him they were gone now and wouldn’t be coming back. Where was Paul, though?

  “We can’t leave him like that,” Rebecca said, not looking up, her voice heavy with tears. “We can’t.”

  “I’m going for him,” Arlen said.

  He stepped out onto the porch and gave the beach another one of those slow, panning stares, saw nothing but sand and shells and water. Just as it always had been. There were no indentations in the beach where a boat had been put in. Anyone coming from the water would have used the inlet.

  He stepped over to the dangling corpse, taking care to avoid the blood, and dragged a porch chair behind him. Then he climbed onto it and took hold of Owen’s legs, making sure to keep his eyes on the shoes and not look down into the poor dead kid’s face.

  I didn’t see it in you, he thought. I’m sorry. It wasn’t there this morning. Something changed after we left. I couldn’t have warned you. I wish I could have, but I couldn’t. I’m sorry.

  He was thinking this as he took a firm hold of Owen’s legs and drew his pocketknife out. At the touch of the dead body, he thought of Paul Brickhill and said, in a whisper, “I’m coming for you, Paul. I don’t know if there’s time left, but I’m coming for you.”

  He lifted the knife to the rope as he said the words, and when the response came he nearly sawed through his own finger.

  There’s time.

  Two words, spoken right in his ear, right inside his damned head. He stumbled and fell from the chair, upending it. The gun was on the porch rail, and he snatched it up.

  Nothing but silence now. Those two words only a memory. He turned and pointed the gun in first one direction and then the other, still backing away from the body, and saw nothing, heard nothing.

  It had been Owen’s voice.

  “No,” Arlen said softly. “No, it wasn’t.”

  But it was.

  For a moment he was frozen there, but then the sound of Rebecca’s sobbing from inside shook him loose, and he stepped up to the body again. This time he didn’t touch Owen’s legs but reached higher on the rope. He grasped the lower portion of the cord with his left hand and sawed away above it with his right, and eventually the rope parted and the body was deadweight tugging his arm down. He let him go as gently as he could, laid him on the porch in his own blood. Then he picked up the gun again and went back inside.

  “He’s down,” he said gently, kneeling beside Rebecca and lifting her face so he could see her eyes. He regretted it as soon as he got a glimpse of the terrible pain trapped in them. “He’s resting easy now, okay? But I’ve got to go have a look around. I’ve got to see…”

  “Paul,” she said.

  “Yeah.” He got to his feet again and flicked open the cylinder on the gun, checked the load, then spun it shut and walked to the stairs. It was very dark inside now, lights off and the clouds thickening, and he went up the steps in the gloom with the gun held out in front of him. Five rooms upstairs, five checks, five views of undisturbed furniture.

  Back downstairs, he saw Rebecca crawling out onto the porch. He frowned, not wanting her to see that sight again. It was her brother, though, and if she was going to insist on seeing him, he wouldn’t stop her. He followed her onto the porch and pressed the gun into her hand and said, “Here. Use it if anyone comes. I’m going down to check the boathouse for Paul. Then we have to leave.”

  She didn’t answer. He dropped her hand and she held on to the gun and stared out at the ocean. He watched for a few seconds and then told himself that there was nothing to be done for her right now, left the porch and jogged down to the boathouse.

  It was incomplete, no roof on it yet, the smell of sawdust mingling with the brine of the sea and decaying fish. He checked the boathouse and walked the length of the dock and stared into the water and saw nothing. The boat was where it had been. He looked at it for a minute, hesitating. He didn’t want to take the time to go out to it, but he remembered that it was where Rebecca’s father had been left six months earlier, and maybe the act had been repeated with Paul.

  He dragged the rowboat into the water, splashing out in a hurry, thinking that they’d been here for far too long already, and then he rowed out to the fishing boat and climbed aboard. Empty. Before he left he took the two rifles from the gun rack and tossed them down into the boat. They were loaded, but he didn’t see any additional shells and couldn’t take the time for a thorough search. When he reached the beach again, he carried a rifle in each hand as he jogged up the path to the Cypress House. Even the gulls were gone now; nothing could be heard but the waves. Any trace of that clear sky had vanished.

  When he got back to the porch, he saw she was standing and was glad of that until she turned to him and said, “Why didn’t you know?”

  “What?”

  “You’re supposed to know!” she shouted, her face streaked with tears but her blue eyes alight with anger. “You’re supposed to see it coming! To be able to warn, to be able to stop it, why couldn’t you stop it!”

  She’d rushed toward him with her hands raised as if she were going to strike him but fell into him instead and began to sob.

  “Why couldn’t you stop it?”

  “I didn’t see anything,” he said. “I’m so sorry, Rebecca. There was nothing there this morning. Something changed. Whatever happened… whoever came for him… they weren’t coming when we left this morning. Death wasn’t close to him then.”

  The truth of that caught him, and he realized what it meant.

  Someone had told Wade recently. Had they been coming to kill this morning, he should have been able to look into Owen’s eyes and see the promise of death there. But he hadn’t, and he thought now of the long delay Barrett’s federal contact had put them through, all of them sitting around the garage waiting for an arrival that never came, and understood the source of the leak. It wasn’t Barrett; it was someone in Tampa or Miami. The man who’d sent them back. What was his name? Cooper.

  Rebecca was still crying against his che
st and he wanted to hold her, but he had a rifle in each hand.

  “Find out who did it,” she said.

  For a moment he didn’t respond, just stood there numbly. Then he dropped the rifles and wrapped his arms around her and said, “I will. I promise. But right now we need to—”

  “No,” she said, her lips moving against his neck, which was now wet with her tears, “find out now. Talk to him.”

  “Rebecca… what are you—”

  “You can speak to him,” she cried, pushing away from Arlen to look into his eyes. “You know you can, you can do it just like your father did.”

  He shook his head, reaching for her again, but she stepped away.

  “That’s not real,” he said. “I’m sorry, but that isn’t real, it can’t be done.”

  “Yes, it can!” she shouted.

  He wanted to argue, but those two words—There’s time—were trapped in his brain and with them the certainty that it was true, always had been true, his father’s gift was real and it was also his own.

  “Owen’s dead,” he said in an unsteady voice. “He’s gone.”

  “I know that. But you can hear him.”

  She began to cry again then, and he held her for a while. He did not let her go on long, though. There wasn’t time. He pushed her back from him and said, “Come on.”

  “What about Owen?”

  “There’s nothing to be done.”

  “We can’t just leave him here. We can’t—”

  “I’ll see to him,” he said. “But you’re leaving.”

  She shook her head, and he said, “Yes. You’re leaving. You have to.”

  He took her unresponsive fingers and tugged her down off the porch and into the inn, retrieved the bag of money from where it lay on the floor, and then led her all the way up to the truck. She wore a face he’d seen often during the war after the shells had stopped, and he knew that her mind was not entirely her own anymore. That would pass, and when it did the real agony would sink its teeth into her. For now, though, it was better that she be this way.

  He opened the door to the truck and helped her inside. She didn’t say a word, just followed his guidance, and then, when she was behind the wheel, turned and looked at him with questioning eyes, as if she didn’t understand.

  “I’ve got to go for him,” Arlen said. “For Paul. I can’t leave him behind.”

  “Don’t make me go on alone,” she said, and for a moment his resolve nearly evaporated. He looked back at the house and the dark clouds blowing in off the sea and thought of Paul Brickhill and shook his head.

  “I can’t leave him.”

  “I’ll stay with you.”

  “No.” He leaned into the truck and put the bag in her lap. Then he took her face gently in his hands and forced her to meet his eyes. “You’ve got five thousand dollars. You can get to Maine easy. But drive fast and drive steady. You need to get far from here.”

  “What? I can’t—”

  “What’s left here?” he said. “They’ve killed him, Rebecca. Your brother is gone. They’ll come for you next.”

  She was silent, her lips parted, eyes hazy.

  “Was there a town in Maine?” he said.

  “What?”

  “Where you wanted to go. Was there a specific town?”

  She blinked at him, as if she no longer recognized his face, and then said, “Camden. I wanted to go to Camden.”

  “Then go,” he said. “Find your way there. Drive careful and keep the pistol at hand. If anyone tries to stop you, use it.”

  “I can’t. Don’t send me on my own. I can’t go alone.”

  “It’s not done yet,” he said. “When it is, I’ll join you. But I’m not running out on that boy, Rebecca. He’s with them. With the same men who murdered Owen.”

  At the sound of her brother’s name, she winced.

  “I’ll go to Barrett,” she said.

  “It was going to Barrett,” Arlen said, “that led to this. Maybe it wasn’t him directly, but it was damn sure the men he’s working with. You can’t go to him. You need to leave, and you need to leave now.”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Drive north,” Arlen said, and then he stepped back from her. “I’ll find you. I’ll catch up soon enough.”

  “Arlen, no.”

  But he’d closed the door, and now he held it shut and looked through the window and into her eyes and said, “Rebecca, you have to go.”

  She was silent, staring at him through the glass. He said, “I’ll settle up for him. Believe that. I’ll put an end to it. To them. Then I will find you.”

  She started the engine. He let go of the door and stepped back and lifted his hand in a parting wave. Then he turned and walked down to the house and her brother’s body to make good on his promise.

  49

  BY THE TIME the sound of the truck’s engine was gone, he stood above the corpse as a freshening sea breeze pushed the salt smell toward him and rustled the portions of Owen’s blond hair that were not held down by dried blood.

  “All right,” Arlen said in a whisper, his throat thick with tension. “Let’s give it a try.”

  He’d merely had to touch Owen’s legs the first time. He could try that much again.

  He knelt on the porch beside the body and reached out and laid his right hand against Owen Cady’s calf. He felt no warmth through the pant leg. Just stiff, unresponsive flesh.

  Let me hear you again, he thought. Speak again. Let’s see if I can hear it.

  He heard nothing, felt nothing.

  All right, speak aloud, then. He wet his lips and said, very softly, “Owen?”

  Nothing. This was the height of insanity, so damned foolish it was—

  You’re going to need to try harder.

  It was Owen’s voice again, reaching Arlen like a piece of ice laid gently on the back of his neck. He sat there on the porch with his hand on the boy’s leg and didn’t move, didn’t speak.

  “What do you mean, try harder?” he said finally. His voice was a whisper.

  I’m farther from you now.

  Arlen took his hand away and sat back on his heels and wiped his hand over his forehead. It came back slick with cold sweat. He had an idea. Or a memory, really. He moved forward, laid a hand on each of Owen’s shoulders, and looked down into his face. The gray, blood-streaked flesh showed nothing. He hesitated for a moment and then reached out and, very gently, used his thumbs to lift Owen’s eyelids. They rose just a touch, a trace of blue showing, and at the sight Arlen’s chest tightened, making the simple act of breathing difficult. He forced himself to look into the eyes, his hands still on Owen’s shoulders, and then he spoke again. A little louder this time, a little more forceful. As if he believed.

  “All right,” he said. “I’m trying. Come back to me, damn it. Come back.”

  I’m here.

  It was beyond eerie, that voice. Beyond anything Arlen had ever heard or even imagined. It floated up from within his own brain, but it was so clear, the voice so recognizable. His mouth was dry and his words croaked. He cleared his throat and tried again.

  “Tell me,” he said, and the familiar old phrase sent an electric shiver over his skin. “Tell me what happened.”

  They knew.

  “Knew what?” he said. “That we were setting them up?”

  Yes.

  The wind gusted hard and with a strange touch of cool to it as a loud wave broke on the beach, and Arlen wanted nothing more than to remove his hands and get the hell off this porch, join Rebecca and drive and drive until they were far from this terrible place. He took a moment to will the urge down, and then he asked his next question.

  “Who did it? Who came for you?”

  He didn’t get a response this time. It felt as if a whisper slid through his brain, but it came too quick and too soft, and then he saw that Owen’s eyelids had fallen shut again, and he reached out and opened them. Peeled them back farther this time, saw more of the blue, felt something col
d and sickly melt through his stomach at the sight.

  “Who came for you?” he asked again.

  McGraths. Tate and one of his sons. They came up the inlet by boat, and Tolliver came in by car. I went out to talk to Tolliver. While I was doing that, the McGraths snuck around from the inlet. I heard Paul shout.

  The voice stopped then, and Arlen squeezed the boy’s shoulders and said, “Tell me. Keep telling me.”

  I pulled the gun and ran back. Tolliver drew his, but he didn’t shoot, he just chased me, and I came back inside and they had Paul and I fired twice. I didn’t hit anything. I had a bead on Tate, I was ready to kill him, but Tolliver got to me first. Tackled me. Then Tate was on me. I think Tolliver intended to take me alive, but I’d fired at Tate, and so when he came, he came with the knife.

  The voice was fading, like a radio signal going steadily weaker, and Arlen leaned closer to the dead boy’s face and squeezed his shoulders.

  “What happened to Paul?” he said. “Please tell me.”

  They took him.

  “Is he dead?” Arlen’s voice was louder now, but he couldn’t help it. The moment had taken on the feel of a fever dream. A sudden, terrible headache had sprung to life in his skull, and his face was bathed in cold sweat. The world was unsteady around him. It was hard, holding the line open. It was damn hard.

  Not yet.

  “Where is he?”

  With the McGraths.

  “Why haven’t they killed him?”

  They need to find out who he talked to. Who’s involved. They’ll wait for Wade. He’ll want to be there for the questioning.

  “Who told them?” Arlen said. “Was it Barrett?”

  Don’t know.

  The voice was so damn faint, so hard to hear. He squeezed Owen’s shoulders and realized he was now hanging directly over the body. A drop of sweat fell from his chin and onto the dead boy’s face.

  “Tell me what to do,” he said. “Can he be saved?”

  I don’t know. You have to get my sister away. They’ll come for her next. For you, and for her. They’ll come for you all. He won’t let anyone stand now. Not after this.

  “She’s gone. I’ve sent her away. She’s driving north.”