The Cypress House (9 page)

    The
sheriff wasn't with Paul Brickhill for long—twenty minutes, maybe — and when he
came back he wasn't alone. There was a tall, broad-shouldered man in a suit and
a white Panama hat at his side. He wore glasses that glittered under the
overhead lights and turned his eyes into harsh white squares. Tolliver glanced
at the man twice as they approached, and the look held a quality of deference.
Tolliver was no longer in charge of the show.

    The
sheriff unlocked the cell and held the door so the new man could enter first.
Then he stepped in behind him and banged the door shut.

    "Arlen
Wagner," the sheriff said, pronouncing it with the
V
again.
"This here is Solomon Wade. He's the judge in Corridor County."

    "You
going to charge us?" Arlen said.

    Solomon
Wade blinked at Arlen from behind the glasses. They didn't seem to suit his
face; he looked too harsh for them. He was young for a judge, but the youth
didn't suggest a lack of assurance. Rather, every step and glance bespoke a man
who was used to having command.

    "What
brings you to Florida?" he said as if Arlen hadn't spoken. His voice was
thick with southern flavor, and soft, but still had a timbre that would hold
men's attention, and hold it fast.

    "I
expect the sheriff has told you," Arlen said. "I came for work. We
were bound for the Keys."

    "This
isn't the way to get there from Alabama."

    "We
had a detour."

    "Bad
time to head to the Keys," Wade said. "Bad time."

    "Yeah?"

    "Storm
coming. It's all they're talking about on the radio. They're going to have a
hurricane down south, down Miami way."

    "A
damned hurricane," Tolliver said under his breath, and a frown creased his
broad face. He seemed genuinely distressed.

    "All
due respect," Arlen said, "but if we're going to talk about the
weather, I'd like to be on the other side of these bars."

    The
sheriff looked at Solomon Wade and gave a rueful shake of his head, a
What
did I tell you?
gesture.

    "I'd
likely imagine you would," Wade drawled. "But that's going to take
some cooperation on your part."

    "I've
been cooperating."

    "Al
here disagrees," Wade said. "He suspects you of dishonesty."

    "Al
is wrong."

    "Al
is not often wrong. In my experience he's been a fine judge of character. And
you, sir, will address him as Sheriff. I believe in a culture of respect in my
jail. You don't show much of it."

    "Everybody
has an off day now and again," Arlen said.

    Solomon
Wade looked at Tolliver but didn't say anything. Tolliver ran a hand through
his thinning gray hair. His shoulders were relaxed, his demeanor casual, as if
they were all strangers on a train, pleasant but unfamiliar. He didn't appear
to do so much as tense a muscle before he swung one of those meaty hands and
caught Arlen flush on the side of the head. It was more slap than punch, but it
rang Arlen's bell, knocked him sideways and put a flash of color in his eyes.
He caught himself sliding off the cot, stood, and allowed a smile.

    "Aw,
hell," Tolliver said, "you're one of those kind. Enjoy being
hit."

    "No,
Sheriff, I'm not."

    "Just
a cheerful son of a bitch, then ?"

    "Yes,
sir."

    He
expected another blow, and Tolliver seemed prepared to administer one, but then
Solomon Wade raised a hand.

    "The
boy sticks to his tale," he said. "And he's too damn green to be a
good liar. I've got an expectation that the part about you all coming down from
Alabama will check out well enough. What will not check out is the notion that
Walt Sorenson drove you for a full day out of the goodness of his black heart.
I'd be willing to believe, maybe, that he gave you a ride a mile up the
highway. But the story the boy tells ? Of you riding with him all day and
making stops along the way at establishments that are well known to me? That
don't carry water."

    "It'll
have to," Arlen said, wondering why in the hell the county judge seemed to
be heading up the investigation.

    Solomon
Wade said, "Al," and at the one soft word, the sheriff put his right
fist into Arlen's belly. A snake of cold-to-warm pain rippled through Arlen,
and his knees tried to buckle, but Tolliver kept him upright and smiled in his
face.

    "So
we begin," he said.

    It
went that way for an hour at least. Wade asked questions, and Arlen answered
them, and when he couldn't, Tolliver swung. He was ox strong and knew all the
soft spots, and it wasn't long before breathing was difficult and Arlen's
kidneys were coiled flames.

    Mostly
Wade wanted to know where they'd gone and what had been said. He showed no
interest at all in the explosion that had taken Sorenson's life. No mention was
made of the Cypress House or of Rebecca Cady. No, just questions of what
Sorenson had said and where he'd stopped and whether he'd had any money on his
person. Arlen answered what he could, and he didn't resist the blows. Tolliver
had a gun on one side of his belt and a hickory billy club on the other and a
deputy waiting outside. Giving him even a taste of the fight he wanted was
going to work out poorly in the end, and so even as Arlen marked the weaknesses
in the larger man's approach, saw the openings and envisioned the bloody
shattering of that broad nose, he kept his hands down and took what was
offered.

    Tolliver
was a strong man but not a fit one. Before long the exertion of knocking
Arlen's ass around the hot, clammy room had taken its toll, and he was breathing
damn near as hard as Arlen and mopping sweat from his face and neck.

    Wade
reached up and adjusted his glasses. "Doesn't seem to have been very
productive."

    "He's
a stubborn son of a bitch, I'll give you that," Tolliver said.

    "Could
be he's telling the truth."

    "You
think?"

    Wade
shook his head.

    "That's
where I landed, too," Tolliver said. "Shall I keep at it?"

    "No."
Wade came off the bars and looked down at Arlen as if he were studying a
carcass. "We'll let him sleep, let him get used to the way that cot feels
and stare at those bars and begin asking himself if it's worth it. We'll let
him remember that if we're so inclined, it can be arranged for him to stay here
a powerful long time."

    He
tilted his head at the cell door, and Tolliver opened it and Wade stepped out,
then turned and looked back at Arlen with cold eyes.

    "On
behalf of the good people of Corridor County, we'd like to thank you for being
such a helpful witness, Mr. Wagner."

    Arlen
dragged in some of the dusty air and didn't answer. Tolliver locked the cell
and followed Wade out the door. For a long time after they were gone, Arlen
stayed down on the floor, sweat dripping into his eyes and salting the corners
of his mouth. Outside, the wind gusted hard against the stone wall and found it
solid. Still it pushed, though, undeterred, driving on as night settled and the
slanted light in the empty jail edged toward gray dusk.

    They
brought Paul Brickhill in before it was full night.

    By
then Arlen was back on the cot and breathing normally, and the deputy locked
Paul in the cell next to him and brought them each a plate of buttered bread
and a mug of water. When he was gone, Arlen said, "How rough did they go
on you?"

    "He
did some shouting."

    "That's
all?"

    "Yes.
Why? They didn't try anything more than that on you, did they?"

    "No,"
Arlen said. "No. Was the judge there?"

    "Yeah.
He didn't say much. He just listened. But I don't know why he was even there. I
mean, you don't think . . . Arlen, there's no way they'll keep us here, is
there? We weren't anything but bystanders, we'd —"

    "Settle
down," Arlen said. "They'll kick us loose soon enough."

    Paul
said, "We should've taken our chances on that train."

    Neither
of them spoke much after that.

    Night
passed and dawn rose and with it the heat, and no one set foot in the jail.
Paul couldn't sit still — he paced the narrow cell most of the night and then
in the morning began to do push-ups on the floor, grunting out the count as he
went. Poor as this predicament was, Arlen still couldn't help grinning. The kid
was acting like a con from some prison flicker. Before long he'd probably start
laying escape plans, set to work sawing on his cell bars with his fingernails.

    "Aren't
they going to feed us any breakfast?" Paul said when he tired of
exercising. "That's a legal requirement, Arlen! They can't deny a man
food."

    "They'll
feed us."

    "We
should have a lawyer. Not one we have to pay for either, but one they provide.
You know, to protect our rights."

    "Uh-huh."

    At
noon the sheriff and deputy brought them their meals: buttered bread and a
strip of beef so tough it ate like jerky and tasted like boot leather. They
remained in the room while the inmates ate. The redheaded deputy stood with his
arms folded and glared into the cells, and Tolliver sat on a stool in the
corner of the room and read a newspaper. At one point he gave a grunt of
disgust and shook his head.

    "If
they had two boys who threw like Mel Harder, my Indians would win the pennant
going away, Burt," he told the deputy. "Win it by ten games."

    Arlen,
chewing his stale bread, heard that and thought,
Cleveland.
That's where
Tolliver was from. He surely wasn't local — both his voice and his sunburned
skin spoke of a life spent far north of this place. How did a man from
Cleveland find himself as sheriff of a backwater Florida county, though ?

    When
they were finished eating, the deputy gathered their plates and Tolliver
crumpled the newspaper and asked without interest whether they'd like to offer any
changes to their stories. They did not. Paul inquired — a great deal more
tentatively than he had with Arlen — why they were still in the jail if they
hadn't been charged with anything.

    "Have
to ask the judge about that."

    "When
will he be back? I don't believe it's legal to keep us —"

    "You
know who decides what's legal?" Tolliver said. "Solomon Wade."

    That
was the end of it. Arlen never said a word. When the sheriff was gone, Paul
said, "Arlen, this isn't right."

    Arlen
said, "Kid, you been around long enough to know ain't much about this
world that's right. Leastwise not lately."

    "They
could keep us locked up in here for weeks. Shoot, for months."

    "It
won't be months," Arlen said, "and it won't be weeks."

    "How
in the hell are you so sure?" the kid snapped with an unnatural harshness.
"You see that in your head, too, like the dead men on that train?"

    "No,"
Arlen said. "This one's more of a guess."

    It
was quiet, and then Paul said, "Arlen, I'm sorry. It's just that —"

    "I
know," Arlen said. "For what it's worth, kid, I'm sorry, too. But
you'll see a lot more of this in your time. Foul deeds done by men who have
themselves some power. They'll beat on you in some way or another just 'cause
they can, and most times they won't answer for it."

    "When
we get out of here," Paul said, "I just want to get back to one of
the camps. Doesn't even have to be the Keys. I just want to get back to a CCC
camp."

    That
brought some comfort to Arlen. He said, "We're going back to Flagg
Mountain. It isn't wise to stay in Florida after this.

    We'll
have trouble even if we don't deserve it. Word gets around."

    "When
do you think we'll be back?"