The Cypress House

by Michael Koryta

  It was just as this thought slid through his mind that Tate’s voice returned, a whisper that came from nowhere but that rang clear in Arlen’s head.

  Move left. He’ll be seeing you soon enough otherwise. See the base of that tree what has the split in the trunk? Walk toward it. Get right down in there by the roots and wait a piece. See what he does.

  Arlen pulled up short, the corpse floating against his belt, Tate’s mouth open and slack, and then turned to look over his shoulder. He found the tree Tate was indicating but couldn’t imagine how it would prevent his being seen. If anything, it might put him in the son’s sight line.

  Get moving, Tate McGrath whispered, and you best do it quick.

  There was urgency to his voice, and Arlen decided he had to listen. This was the bargain he’d made, and the time had come to put it to the test. He walked on toward the base of the tree, and as he walked he turned so he was moving sideways, tugging Tate alongside him. He could no longer see Davey in the reeds, but he could make out the top of the sheriff’s car.

  Go on, Tate said, close in now.

  Each time he spoke the world tightened on Arlen, the edges going gray, the hum coming back to his ears. He didn’t like it much, wished the old bastard would stop trying to communicate. Arlen was headed exactly where he needed to be, only a few steps from the tangled roots of yet another mangrove…

  He was one stride away when one of those roots moved. For an instant he froze, and then he saw another shift, the roots sliding among one another, and he realized that they weren’t roots at all.

  They were snakes.

  Four of them at least, maybe more, a nest of water moccasins coiled at the base of this tree, the tree to which Tate McGrath had urged him. He tried to take a step back, but he was too close, the evil little creatures felt threatened now, and the first snake slid down out of the roots and struck.

  It caught Tate McGrath’s neck. Arlen didn’t know what sort of senses snakes had beyond vision, but it was as if this one had smelled human flesh and assumed it was the enemy, had been unable to tell the dead from the living. Its fangs sunk into the side of McGrath’s neck, just below his dead eyes and just inches above Arlen’s hand.

  The first miss was enough.

  Arlen twisted the dead man in the water so that the body was between him and the snakes and watched as two more moccasins came down out of the roots and struck with stunning speed. One caught the corpse’s shoulder and one the arm as the first of them pulled back and struck a second time in the neck.

  Arlen snatched Tolliver’s pistol from McGrath’s belt, praying that the water hadn’t left it useless, and then he took aim and fired.

  It was mighty close range. He blew off the head of the closest snake, the one on McGrath’s arm, then turned and fired at the one floating just off McGrath’s shoulder as it struck forward again, this time coming at Arlen. The shot caught the fleshy body solid and dropped it into the water no more than a foot from Arlen, but still the jaws snapped, so he fired again, blowing the snake clean in half this time. By the time he turned to the one that had struck first, it was gone. He felt a cold, horrible fear—It’s under the water, it’s coming right at me, I’ll feel those fangs any second—but then he saw the ripple ten feet away, watched as the snake glided into the swamp. The roots were empty now, all others gone as well, and Arlen’s flesh prickled as he pictured them in the water that surrounded him.

  He waded clear of the mangroves so he could see the road. Tate McGrath’s son was standing in the reeds just where his father had died, and he’d turned and lifted the shotgun. When he saw Arlen, he fired. Tate had been telling the truth about one thing: the shotgun didn’t have much range. It blew bark off the trees well ahead of them, but nothing touched Arlen as he lifted the Springfield and took aim.

  Tate’s whisper came again, urgent, clear: No!

  “You had your chance,” Arlen said aloud, and then he put his cheek to the gunstock, sighted, and pulled the trigger.

  The sound was shatteringly loud in the still swamp, and McGrath’s boy let out a cry as he fell. He was able to let out a cry because Arlen had sighted low instead of high and blown out the boy’s legs. He was down now, down in the water and the reeds, but he was alive. He moaned and thrashed, but he did not scream again. As Arlen watched, the boy pulled himself deeper into the reeds, seeking cover. Then he put a hand out and grasped for the shotgun.

  That, Arlen thought, again with some measure of admiration, is a damn soldier right there. That’s a warrior.

  And then Arlen fired again, one round into the reeds. He didn’t hit anything, but the hand jerked away and the gun sank, leaving the boy unarmed.

  Behind Arlen, Tate McGrath’s body floated free, the flesh on the side of his neck already puffed with venom. Arlen reached out and grabbed his foot and pulled him closer. The minute he touched him, his brain was racked with the single most terrible sound he’d ever heard—a dead man’s howl.

  It came at him from the unknown just as Tate’s whisper had before, but this was a cry, a shout of anguished pain, and Arlen jerked his hand free as if McGrath’s foot had seared it. For a moment he stood where he was, waist-deep in the water, holding the Springfield and searching the rest of the swamp. When he saw nothing, he reached out again, tentatively this time. When his hand touched McGrath’s calf, he said, “I told you, you bastard. It was up to you. Still is. I can see him now, and I can kill him. You know how easy I can kill him.”

  The boy was trying to push out of sight into the reeds but couldn’t, and Arlen watched him twist and moan and said, “I was told that love lingers. I suppose you didn’t have enough of it.”

  Don’t, McGrath’s ghost said. Don’t kill him. Don’t you kill my boy.

  “You walked me into a nest of snakes. I’ll kill them all now. I’ll kill every son you have left.”

  No. I’ve told you where he is. You can find him. I’ll guide you—

  “You won’t guide me to shit,” Arlen said. He’d ducked low because as McGrath talked his vision faded again, and though the wounded boy couldn’t do him harm, the others well could. He had no time for this.

  I’ll tell you how, McGrath whispered. You got to use Davey. It’s the only chance you have. You’ll never leave this swamp without him. They’ll kill you.

  “Use him?”

  Get to him quick, and keep him alive. His brothers won’t kill you if it means his life. That’s the only—

  Arlen released him and shoved him free, because the world was going too gray and the hum in his ears too loud. McGrath bobbed in the water, twisting and sinking, the side of his neck and face already grotesquely bloated with venom. Arlen watched him drift away, then looked back at the road and realized that in the last moment Tate McGrath had told him the truth.

  Having that wounded boy as a hostage was his best chance.

  Love lingered, all right. Tate McGrath had just needed a bit of convincing.

  54

  THE BOY MCGRATH had called Davey was not making a sound as he lay in the reeds. Arlen was certain he wasn’t dead; Arlen had probably cost him the use of a leg, maybe the leg itself if this water was as filthy as it looked, but he hadn’t shot to kill. Anybody else, he’d have thought perhaps the silence was due to a blackout from pain, but with this young man he imagined otherwise. He was faking death, probably, holding silent and willing the pain aside as he hid there like an animal caught in a trap and tried to think of a way out. His way out was in his brothers. He knew that, and so did Arlen. The only difference was the boy knew where they were, too. Arlen had not the faintest damn idea, and because of that he knew he had to move fast.

  He splashed through the mangroves, heedless of the noise because it was long past the time when noise mattered. With every step he thought he saw snakes. If there were any, though, they didn’t strike. He was twenty feet from the reeds when the first shot came.

  A rifle, and not a large one. Maybe a .22, some old varmint gun. It had a dry, sharp crack, not a powe
rful sound like the Springfield. The bullet it fired, though, was plenty hot and plenty painful when it found Arlen’s shoulder.

  It burned a furrow between his left shoulder and his neck, and the pain sent him stumbling face-first into the water, and that was probably all that saved him from the next shot. He’d been looking left as he ran, up toward the houses, and had seen no one. Whoever had taken that shot was mighty fine with a rifle. Fine and cocky—they’d been looking to take a headshot and had damn near succeeded. Matter of inches.

  When he hit the water, he kept moving his legs, driving forward through the mud and into the nearest cluster of mangrove roots. Two more shots came in quick succession, but they caught only the roots.

  He came up spitting water and gasping with pain. He could feel hot blood on his neck and chest but didn’t look at the wound, turned quickly and fired the Springfield twice in the direction of the shots. It was blind shooting, useless shooting, painful shooting, and he stopped himself before pulling the trigger a third time, finally realizing that it was the last cartridge he had in this Springfield. The second, the one he’d used to kill Tolliver, was up in the weeds with three rounds left in it, but he had to get there first.

  The tree sheltering him was one of the closest to the road. He pushed deep into the roots, and the absence of gunfire told him that the tree screened him for now, and whoever was taking those shots knew better than to waste bullets.

  He looked into the reeds and found Davey McGrath, hunkered in the ditch with his right leg bent sideways, a painfully bright and clean bone showing amid all the red. The Springfield had been built to do damage, and built well. It was a gory wound, to be sure, but there was no smoke in his eyes—just rage.

  This was the oldest of the remaining sons. Probably twenty years old. Arlen remembered him from the night they’d come to the Cypress House. He lay on his side now with his cheek in the mud and took fast, shallow breaths and kept his eyes on Arlen. He never looked at the wounded leg.

  Arlen turned and pointed the rifle at him and said, “Call out to your brothers, boy. Call out and tell them to cease fire.”

  He didn’t answer. The shotgun was gone, down in the water that separated them. Arlen saw for the first time that he had a knife in his right hand. He was trying to hide it in the reeds.

  “That knife might kill me if I get over there,” Arlen said, “but this rifle will kill you without the trip. And you know what? It’s not going to stop with you.”

  Still no answer. Just that rapid breathing and the flat eyes. Arlen glanced down and saw the blood coursing over his own chest, then shook his head.

  “It bleeds bad,” he said, “but not fast enough. You ain’t going to outlast me. And all I want, all I’ve come for, is that boy you all have chained up under the dock. It’s a simple thing.”

  He gave him another moment even though by now he knew there would be no answer, and then he let out a holler. The pain made his voice even louder than intended. It echoed through the swamp woods.

  “Listen here—your brother, this boy Davey, he is alive. I’m facing him right now with a Springfield rifle in my hands and a finger on the trigger. I don’t want to kill him. But if you don’t start down that road, I surely will.”

  There was no answer but a crackle of thunder. The wound on the top of Arlen’s shoulder was throbbing now, and the rifle felt heavy in his hands. This thing needed to end, and soon.

  “Y’all have thirty seconds,” he bellowed. “And if you don’t think he’s alive, I’m plenty ready to make him scream to prove it.”

  The wind picked up and put a tremble over the surface of the water.

  “Twenty seconds,” Arlen called. His dilemma was made worse by the fact that this damned boy wouldn’t speak, wouldn’t cry out to his brothers. They had no proof that he was alive. Arlen expected they’d need such proof to lay down their weapons, if indeed they did.

  “Son,” he said, looking the wounded boy in the eye and speaking low, “your father’s last wish was that I let you live. I told him I’d keep it if I could. You’re going to hinder that? You want your brothers to die, too?”

  Davey McGrath lifted his head and spat at Arlen.

  Arlen nodded. “Fair enough,” he said, and then he drew Tolliver’s pistol from his belt, aimed, and fired.

  He’d wanted to put the bullet in the boy’s thigh, same leg but higher, but it worked out even better than he’d planned. He missed by a touch, and the bullet scorched over the edge of the leg. Didn’t do much damage, but it did some hurting, enough that even this tough little bastard couldn’t bite down on the scream that rose. He cried out and then tried to twist as if to cover the wound with his palm. When he did it, his mangled lower leg shifted and caused even greater pain, and this time the scream was louder.

  The shots came then, two guns involved this time. Arlen expected they would. Even if they didn’t have an angle on him, the sound of their brother’s scream would make them waste some bullets. He pushed as far down into the roots as he could and listened as bullets cracked into the tree behind him and drilled into the water in front of him, some coming far closer than he’d thought possible. They were awfully good shots.

  They didn’t push it long, though. Knew that they couldn’t hit him, and knew a lot of useless fire wasn’t going to help their brother. If anything, he stood a greater chance of being hit by a wild shot than Arlen.

  “You heard him!” Arlen bellowed as more thunder rolled and a few drops of rain began to fall. “He’s still alive, and I’m still shooting. The next one I fire will be the last in his direction! Now put your weapons down and come up the center of the road. If you want Davey here alive, you do it now!”

  This time they came. Didn’t seem like they spent much time conferring on it either. When they stepped into view they had their hands lifted, no weapons in them. Arlen rose up out of the roots of the mangrove, dripping with water and mud and blood, and pointed the Springfield at them.

  “Stop walking,” he called. They stopped. From here they looked so much alike it was as if he had double vision. Same height, same frame, same stance. It was a bloodthirsty family, Arlen thought, but a close-knit one all the same. They’d do what was needed for their brother.

  “I’m here for one reason,” Arlen said. “Paul Brickhill, the boy you’ve got chained under the dock.”

  If they wondered how he knew Paul’s location, they didn’t show it. Neither of them spoke or moved, just waited.

  “Here’s what’s going to happen,” Arlen said. “One of you is going down to get him and bring him to me. The other is going to stand right where he is. I’ll wait five minutes before I set to killing.”

  There was a hesitation as they looked at each other, holding some silent conference.

  “Something you’d better keep in mind,” Arlen said. “Paul Brickhill doesn’t mean a damn thing to either of you. I expect the three of you mean plenty to each other. So ask yourself if any of this is worth dying over.”

  Neither answered, but the one on the left broke off and went back down the road. These were the younger brothers, Arlen knew—they’d looked no more than fifteen when they’d come up to the Cypress House. Looked like the many boys he’d worked with at Flagg Mountain, in fact.

  It took the boy a long time. Too long. The wound in Arlen’s shoulder was becoming more painful with every passing moment, and he was having trouble keeping the Springfield up. How in the world could eight pounds possibly feel so heavy? He shifted his gaze from the boy in the road to the one in the reeds, but neither moved. The wounded one had closed his eyes, his face drained of color. Suffering. Arlen thought about their father, floating dead back there in the swamp, and felt a sudden, savage hate. Who raised boys like this? Put guns in their hands and knives on their belts and sent them out into the world as killers? He was glad he’d dispatched with Tate. Had probably been far too late to save his sons from the life he’d set them on, but he was glad all the same.

  When the boy finally reappear
ed, with Paul Brickhill walking at his side, Arlen almost dropped the rifle. He’d been struggling with it anyhow, but the sight of Paul took strength from him that the bullet had not. He felt his breath slide out of his lungs, and the Springfield almost went with it.

  “Bring him here,” Arlen said, and then he waded through the water and fought his way past the reeds, staying well clear of Davey McGrath and the knife in his hand, and up to the road.

  Paul Brickhill was pale and covered with dirt. His nose had been broken and there was dried blood on his face, and he was taking halting steps, as if his legs and maybe his ribs were hurting him, but he was alive. He was alive.

  Arlen said, “Paul, come here and take these handcuffs.”

  He shuffled past, looking at Arlen with a face caught between amazement and horror. Arlen had a sense that anyone who saw him would be horrified. Covered in mud and water and with blood flowing freely along his neck and down his chest, a rifle in his hands and a pistol tucked into his belt. Arlen kept the rifle pointed at the McGrath boys as Paul took the handcuffs. The McGraths watched with sullen hatred.

  “You’ll want to tend to your brother,” Arlen said. “But I don’t mean to leave one of you to do that and the other to follow us. Paul, you fasten that one’s right hand to the other’s left. That’ll leave them moving well enough, but it won’t make things easy on them.”

  He held the Springfield on them as Paul did as instructed.

  “Get in the sheriff’s car now,” he told Paul.

  Paul said, “All right,” the first words he’d spoken, and then he was out of sight and it was just Arlen on the road facing the McGraths.

  “Davey isn’t going to die,” Arlen said. “But he’s bad hurt. Do what you can for him. There will be men headed this way soon. The law. They’ll see to your brother, but I expect they’ll have some reckoning to do with you as well.”

  Neither of them answered. They looked every bit as mean as the water moccasins that had sunk fangs into their father’s corpse.