The Cypress House

by Michael Koryta

  “Hello, Sarah,” Rebecca said. “We’re going to need the phone.”

  Before the girl could answer, a door behind the counter opened and Thomas Barrett stepped into the room, his face flushed and damp with sweat. Behind him Arlen could see a litter of tools and the panel delivery van.

  “The whole gang,” Barrett said, grinning at them. “Y’all need that many cigarettes?”

  “We need to call the sheriff,” Rebecca said.

  Barrett’s smile faded. “Everything all right?”

  “There’s a body in the inlet. A dead woman.”

  Barrett looked at Arlen and then back at Rebecca, and he moved toward the girl at the counter, slipped his arm around her waist. It was a protective gesture. As if the three from the Cypress House carried danger.

  “First that guy blowing up in his car,” he said, “and now this? What in the hell’s going on out there?”

  Nobody had an answer.

  Tolliver and the redheaded deputy brought a truck with an open bed out along with the sheriff’s car, and they carried a wide canvas tarpaulin down to the creek with them. The deputy said something under his breath and covered his mouth and nose with his hand, but Tolliver stood on the bank with his hands hooked in his belt and looked down at the rotting remains as if he were staring at a flat tire or some such minor nuisance.

  “I’ve seen prettier women,” he said.

  Arlen looked at him and found himself recalling the fields of France, the Springfield rifle bucking in his arms, plumes of blood bursting from strange men. He longed for it now, hungered for killing in a way he had not in the war.

  The body’s decomposition was advanced by now. Nothing accelerated that process like heat, and the water in the inlet had to be damn near eighty degrees. Rebecca and Paul remained forty feet away, covering their faces. The day’s rising sun and the fact that Arlen had pulled the body most of the way out of the water had conspired to worsen an already hideous smell. Arlen could tolerate it, after the war. You grew an extra layer around yourself during something like the Belleau Wood. Or maybe growth wasn’t the right way to think of it. No, it was more shrinking than growing. A part of you that was there at the start got a little smaller. The part that viewed human life as something strong and difficult to remove from this world. Yeah, that part could get mighty small over time.

  Tolliver spit into the water near the dead woman’s head and said, “Well, shit, we best get to it.”

  He and the deputy pulled on thick work gloves and wrapped scarves over their faces before attempting to retrieve the body. They’d hardly cleared it from the water before Tolliver shouted at Rebecca to bring a bottle of whiskey down. When she returned, Tolliver added a liberal splash to his scarf and the deputy’s. Before he wrapped the scarf around his face again, he took a long belt of the whiskey, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

  They wrestled the body into the tarpaulin and wrapped it as if they were folding a sail. Halfway through, the deputy straightened up as if someone had slipped a bayonet into his side, lifted a hand to his mouth, and then lurched sideways. He fell on his knees at the edge of the creek, splashing, and tore the scarf free just before he vomited.

  Tolliver gave a sigh and leaned back and waited. The deputy purged and then stayed on his hands and knees above the creek, breathing in unsteady gasps.

  “Come on,” Tolliver snapped, holding the scarf down from his mouth with one mud-streaked finger. “Let’s get it out of here before sundown.”

  They finished wrapping the woman’s corpse and then carried it back through the woods and dropped it into the bed of the truck. Wet stains were showing through the canvas by the time they got it there.

  “Enjoy your afternoon,” Tolliver said, wiping his hands on his trousers as he walked for the car, leaving the deputy to drive the truck. “You’ll see me again soon enough.”

  He got into the car and drove away, and the three of them stood together in the yard and watched the truck with the corpse follow the sheriff through the dust and into the woods.

  “Wasn’t what I expected from him,” Paul said. “I thought he’d have plenty of questions, like he did with Mr. Sorenson. Didn’t seem to have any at all with this one, though.”

  “No,” Arlen said. “No, he didn’t.”

  28

  THEY DIDN’T HEAR ABOUT the body again until the next afternoon, when they had their first visitor from the water.

  Paul and Arlen were on the dock, had fresh planking laid twenty feet out now. Paul was chest-deep in the water, hammering braces back into place, when they heard an engine. Arlen looked up toward the house automatically, thinking it was a car, but then he realized the sound was coming across the water, and when he turned around he could see the boat.

  It was a motor sailer with one forward mast, sails furled, and a raised cabin making up the back third of the boat. Maybe thirty-five or forty feet long, and wide across the beam. A good-size craft, and one that had seen some weather—its white hull was pocked with nicks and gashes and streaks. Ran steady, though, the engine hitting smoothly as it came out of the Gulf and entered the inlet.

  “Who’s this, I wonder?” Paul said, still in the water.

  “Don’t know.”

  The boat came up the center of the inlet with the confidence of a pilot who knew the waters—it wasn’t a wide stretch of water but evidently was plenty deep—and then the engine cut and the man at the wheel stepped back to the stern and let a windlass out, anchor chain hissing into the water. It was Tate McGrath.

  Once the anchor was out, he straightened and stood at the stern and stared at them for a moment, then set to work lowering the small launch mounted on the stern. Coming ashore.

  He got the launch into the water and then climbed down and rowed in. When he had the boat pulled up to shore, he walked past them without a word and headed up the trail to the inn.

  Paul stood with the hammer in his hand and his eyes on the trail.

  “One of us ought to be up there. She shouldn’t be alone with him.”

  “She was alone with him for a long time before we got here,” Arlen said. “She can be alone with him now.”

  He didn’t like it either, though. He had a memory of her standing in his room with one side lit by moonlight, a memory of her beneath him with her mouth close to his chest and her breath warm on his skin…

  He missed the nail head and bent it sideways instead of driving it straight. It had been years since he’d done that. Many years.

  Paul had started working again, but his eyes kept going to the house even though he couldn’t see a damn thing from here but the top of the roof. Arlen let him glance up there a half dozen times before he finally said, “You want to keep your head down while you work?”

  They hammered away for a while, and McGrath didn’t return and no sound came from the Cypress House. Too damn quiet. There should be voices.

  It was just while he was thinking this that another engine came into hearing range, a car this time. Arlen finally sighed and said, “Okay, I’ll go see who it is,” when he saw Paul staring into the trees with that same dark frown.

  “I’ll come with you.”

  “Like hell you will. Stay down here and keep working.”

  The kid didn’t like that at all, but Arlen ignored the grumblings and went on up the trail. When he got back within view of the inn, he saw it was the sheriff’s car. Tolliver stood on the porch with Solomon Wade, Rebecca, and Tate McGrath. Arlen came out of the trees and walked up to the porch with his head down, as if he had no interest in the gathering. When he reached the porch steps he said, “Pardon,” and stepped past McGrath, who didn’t move to clear out of his way, and entered the inn without so much as breaking stride. He walked back behind the bar and into the kitchen and retrieved a beer from the icebox and cracked it open. Drank about a third of it down, standing there in the shadows, and then he took the bottle and went back out onto the porch.

  He was ready to do the same routine, walk past them without a b
link and return to the dock, when Wade spoke.

  “Mr. Wagner?”

  He pronounced it Vagner, like the composer, as Tolliver had in the jail. Arlen kept walking, said, “That’s not my name,” without a look back.

  “My mistake,” Wade drawled. “Hold up. Don’t hurry off.”

  Arlen turned to face them.

  “Where is it you’re from?” Wade said. He and Tolliver were standing close to Rebecca, and Tate was leaning on the porch rail.

  “No place near here.”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  Arlen took a drink of his beer. “West Virginia.”

  “Really? What town?”

  “It’s not someplace you’ve heard of.”

  “I’ve heard of some Wagners from West Virginia,” Wade said. His face was damp with sweat, accentuating the glare from his glasses. “Only they pronounced it properly. Vagner. The ones I’ve heard of were from Fayette County, I believe. What was your father’s name?”

  Arlen felt the back of his neck go colder than the beer in his hand.

  “You haven’t heard of any of my people. We aren’t a famous bunch, and it’s a mighty small town.”

  “Maybe so,” Wade said, “but you’d be surprised at all that I hear.”

  A tremor worked into Arlen’s hand, the sort of muscle shake that white-hot anger touched off just before you swung on a man, but he willed it down.

  “I’d be surprised, indeed, if you’ve heard anything of my people,” he said. “Like I said, it’s a mighty small town.”

  “Why’d you leave it behind?”

  “The war. Never went back. Went a lot of places, but never home.”

  “And what did you do in the war?”

  “Killed Germans,” Arlen said, wondering what in the hell this was all about.

  “Well, good for you.” Wade seemed to amplify his southern accent when he desired. Right now he was laying it on heavy.

  “What about you, Judge?” Arlen said.

  “Pardon?”

  “Where are you from?”

  Wade’s eyes flickered. “Florida, sir. Florida.”

  “You like the area, then. Trust the locals.”

  “I do. They are fine people.”

  “How is it you ended up with a sheriff from Cleveland, then?” Arlen said. He was doing now exactly what he’d promised himself he would not do—poking at Wade and Tolliver with a stick, riling them. He couldn’t help it, though. Not after that bullshit about the Wagners of Fayette County.

  Tolliver’s eyes narrowed and then went to Rebecca Cady.

  “Don’t look at her,” Arlen said. “She didn’t tell me. You want people to be unaware of your roots, you ought not go on about the Cleveland Indians in front of them, Sheriff. Nobody from another city would follow such a shitty ball club.”

  Tolliver did not smile. He turned his gaze to Arlen and let it rest, cold and hard. Arlen winked and lifted his beer to his lips.

  “That all you fellows need? Or do you want me to write a family tree?”

  Tolliver turned to Wade. “It’s amazing he’s grown as old as he has, talking like that to men he doesn’t know. Someday it’ll be the wrong words to the wrong man, don’t you think?”

  “I surely do,” Wade said.

  “I believe it,” Arlen said. “It’s the reason I don’t do much talking to strangers. You might remember that you stopped me for this chat.”

  “Speaking of being a stranger,” Wade said, “you seem to have made yourself right at home. Interesting, with the way people keep dying out here.”

  “It’s one of the many things I don’t like about the place,” Arlen said. “I’ll be moving on soon enough.”

  He waited for more questions, waited for some sort of threat relating to the dead woman they’d found in the creek, a promise of jail time, but nothing came. Wade stared at him for a few seconds, but then his eyes shifted, and when Arlen turned he saw Paul coming up the trail and felt a surge of annoyance. Why hadn’t the kid listened and stayed at the dock?

  Paul walked to Arlen’s side, looking at the men on the porch warily.

  “Afternoon, son,” Tolliver said. “Find any corpses today?”

  “No.”

  Tolliver smiled.

  “What are you doing here?” Paul said.

  Tolliver turned and gave Wade wide eyes. “Nosy little bastard, ain’t he? Why, we’ve come to provide a Corridor County resident with transportation. Mr. McGrath here was needing of a lift, and we take care of our citizens in this part of the world.”

  Solomon Wade looked bored with the dialogue. He stepped down off the porch and walked toward the sheriff’s car. He paused when he reached Arlen and looked into his eyes.

  “I’ll see what I can remember about those Wagners in West Virginia,” he said. “Be interesting to see what all I can recollect.”

  Arlen reached out and extended a hand. Wade stopped and looked down at it as if he’d never seen the gesture.

  “Always a pleasure, Judge,” Arlen said.

  Wade gave a small cold smile and took his hand. Pressed hard against it and kept his eyes on Arlen’s.

  “Paul,” Arlen said, “show some respect: shake the judge’s hand.”

  Everyone looked confused at this.

  “Do it, son,” Arlen said.

  Paul glowered, but he reached out and offered his hand. Wade watched Arlen as if he were trying to understand the game, but he took the boy’s hand.

  When he did it, Paul’s eyes went to smoke.

  “Mention the man’s family,” Solomon Wade said, “and of a sudden he is most polite. I find that curious.”

  He released Paul’s hand, and the smoke disappeared instantly.

  “Take care now,” Arlen said.

  Wade walked on to the car, with Tolliver and McGrath at his heels. The sheriff took the wheel and they went clattering away. Dust hung in the air long after they were gone.

  Paul spoke to Arlen in a low voice.

  “You see it again?”

  Arlen nodded.

  Paul seemed to blanch, but he nodded as if it were expected and said, “I’ll just have to stay out of his way, then. That’s all. Isn’t hard to do.”

  Arlen didn’t answer.

  “What are you talking about?” Rebecca said.

  “Paul,” Arlen said, “go on back to the dock and get to work.”

  He didn’t argue this time. Just walked off toward the water, moving with a quick stride that seemed uneasy.

  “They say anything about the woman?” Arlen said when he was gone.

  “No.”

  “Then why the hell did they come out here?”

  “Solomon wanted to bring the boat back.” Rebecca had come down off the porch and was standing close to him.

  “Why?”

  “To frighten me.”

  “You’re frightened of a boat?”

  She gave him cool, expressionless eyes, and after a few seconds he got it.

  “That’s the one? Your father went out in that boat?”

  She nodded.

  He took another drink and stared up the road where they’d gone.

  “What’s he use it for?”

  “Smuggling. Mostly Tate runs it.” She lowered her voice and said, “What were you talking about just then? Why’d you have Paul shake his hand?”

  He turned to face her again. “Wade’s going to kill him.”

  “What?”

  “I can see it when he touches him.”

  She stared. “You’re not joking.”

  “No.”

  “How do you… what do you see?”

  “The boy’s eyes turn to smoke every time Wade touches him.”

  She was looking at him with her mouth parted, eyes wide with wonder.

  “I’ve got to get him out of here,” Arlen said. “But it won’t be easy.”

  “He believes you, though. He told me that. So he’ll know that it’s true.”

  “He still won’t be willing to go.
”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he’s in love with you,” Arlen said.

  29

  IT WASN’T AS SIMPLE AS staying out of Solomon Wade’s way. Arlen was sure of that. And even if it was… Paul wouldn’t be able to stay out of his way. No, he’d remain with Rebecca, remain at her side, and Rebecca Cady was planted firmly in Solomon Wade’s path.

  Arlen had trouble working that afternoon. Made the sorts of mistakes he never made, had to tear loose boards he’d just laid and remeasure and cut them correctly and lay them again. If Paul noticed, he didn’t comment. He was quiet himself, somber, but he didn’t miss a nail or a measurement. He never seemed to.

  The uneasiness followed them back to the inn that evening. There, though, Paul endeavored to change the tone. His idea was a boat ride. As soon as he found out it belonged to Rebecca, he wanted to take it out.

  “I’ve never been on a boat,” he said. “Not a real one. And that’s a dandy.”

  “We aren’t down here to play on a boat,” Arlen said, seeing the pain in her eyes. “Quiet down about it.”

  “There’s no reason we couldn’t take it out,” he said, undeterred.

  “We don’t know how to run it.”

  “Oh, there’s not that much to it. I’m not saying we’ll sail to China, Arlen, I’m just saying I want to go out a little ways and—”

  “Damn it, Paul,” Arlen began, riled now, but Rebecca cut him off.

  “It’s fine,” she said. “Take it out.”

  He cast her a surprised look. She met his eyes and nodded.

  “It’s fine,” she repeated.

  “See?” Paul said. “We’ll all go.”

  Rebecca shook her head. “No. I won’t.”

  “Oh, come on. I want all of us to—”

  “Paul!” Arlen barked, and the anger in his voice made the kid pull back and stare at him in confusion.

  “She doesn’t want to go,” Arlen said, fighting to control his tone. “Stop pestering. Far as I’m concerned, none of us should go on the damn thing.”

  “I’d like you to,” Rebecca said. “Really, I would. I just can’t.”