No.
He wasn’t sure he heard the word. A whisper in his brain but so faint, so weak, that at first it seemed like a figment. Then he heard it again, and this time it was clearer and seemed pained, as if the delivery of the word came at a terrible strain. No!
Arlen pulled his head away from the stock of the Springfield and looked back at Tate McGrath’s body. The legs were banging against Arlen, the only form of contact he had with the corpse, and the eyelids had slipped nearly closed. But he was calling to Arlen. He was calling out for a second chance.
Arlen reached out and laid a hand on McGrath’s chest, close to the knife wounds, and whispered, “Come around, did you?”
Don’t take that shot. Don’t.
Arlen slid soundlessly back around the tree, so that he was hidden completely, and, with his hand pressed firmly on the corpse, watched the edges of the world shudder and go gray again.
“I told you I’ll kill them all,” he whispered, his face close to the dead man’s. “I wasn’t lying. You don’t want me to take that shot, you best be prepared to guide me to Paul. It’s the only thing that saves them.”
I will.
“How many are there?”
Three. Only my boys. That’s all. They’re my sons. They’re my-
“Owen Cady was a son,” Arlen whispered.
You’ve settled that. Was me that killed him, and you’ve settled that.
“Do you have Paul? Is he here?”
Yes. Yes, he is here.
“Where? That cabin?”
No.
“Where?” He was talking in the softest whisper he could, but even that was a risk. The trance was intensifying, pulling him in deeper and pushing the real world farther away, and he couldn’t afford to let it go on for long. A few more seconds, at most. If Tate wouldn’t help him in that time, or couldn’t, he’d let him go and kill the first of the sons. He’d have to.
Not the cabin. Other side. The creek. Under the dock.
“Under?” Arlen echoed, his voice barely audible. “He’s dead? You killed him, too, you-”
Alive. In chains. We was waiting on Solomon. He’ll be here soon enough.
Just as Tolliver had promised. He’d also promised that Arlen wouldn’t make it back across that bridge, and the smoke in Arlen’s eyes hadn’t shown him to be a liar. But Paul was alive. That was all he needed to know.
The thought of Rebecca entered his mind then. For a long time it had been held at bay by the action of battle, but now he thought of her driving north, alone, the image of her dead brother lingering in her eyes, and he felt a sense of loss more acute than any he’d felt in his life. It unsteadied him for a moment, but then he squeezed his eyes shut and made himself say, Paul. Had to stay focused. Had to stay at this task. It was the only one left for him, and he’d better do it well.
“You guide me,” Arlen whispered to Tate McGrath. “I know that you can do it; was a dead man who guided me here. You get me to him, and those boys won’t die today.”
Yes. I can guide you.
“Well,” Arlen said, “let’s get to it.”
He released the body then. Leaned back into the trunk of the mangrove and took a few deep breaths as the gray mists that had built around the edges of his eyes drifted free and the world took on clarity again. When he cautiously swung his head out around the trunk and looked for McGrath’s son, he found him now almost to the place where Arlen had killed Tate. He was moving much slower now, taking inventory of the signs ahead of him and shooting occasional glances up at the car. He’d be seeing the blood by now, certainly, the blood and the bullet holes in the windshield, and trying to determine what had happened.
If Tate led Arlen in the way that Owen Cady had, Arlen wouldn’t hear a voice, would operate more through an instinct that wasn’t his at all, moving with confidence but without reasoning. Without known reasoning at least.
He didn’t trust such a technique here. There was a whisper in the back of his mind that said a man like Tate McGrath was not to be trusted dead or alive, and that while he surely wanted to see his sons survive, he’d rather achieve that by watching Arlen perish.
So he reached back to Tate, laid his palm flat on the still-bleeding chest wound, and said, “Where?”
Walk backward. Have to put more distance between Davey and you. He knows these woods better than you, better than anyone. He’ll hear you soon enough, but that shotgun in his hand don’t have much range. If you don’t make much of a sound you’ll be able to circle down and come up behind the cabin. Need to get into the creek on the other side to get to the boy. That’ll take time.
Deeper into the swamp. Some of what the dead man had said made sense, but when Arlen looked up and surveyed the brackish water extending through the trees and into the marsh beyond, he wasn’t sure he liked this plan.
Could just shoot him, then. Say the hell with trying to negotiate with a dead man and kill his son right now, kill this one he’d called Davey and then keep moving and try to take the rest of them. So far he was doing just fine-two for two with Tate and Tolliver.
What Tate had said was true enough, though-his sons knew these woods, and eventually Arlen was bound to run into trouble because of it.
He hesitated only briefly and then began to backpedal, walking deeper into the marsh, moving slowly enough so that his passage was nearly soundless, even with the corpse that floated behind him. He moved in a straight line, so that the large mangrove would continue to shield him from view.
It was foolish, maybe; the awkward extra weight made every maneuver more difficult, but he also had the notion that as soon as the sons located their father’s body, they’d have but one thing on their minds: killing. So long as Tate was missing, they might take a different tack. The idea that there were still two of them out there, unseen, was bothersome. After watching the first of McGrath’s sons move through the water silent as an eel, he felt no degree of confidence in his ability to detect the others before they were upon him.
He was cautious with each step, the Springfield grasped in his right hand and Tate McGrath’s belt in his left as he moved backward. Every now and then he turned to glance over his shoulder at what lay ahead. There was an empty stretch of water, maybe thirty feet across, and then more trees. Looked like the water grew shallow over there, which was tempting because he’d love to be out of it, but that would also make his movements noisier and his ability to tow McGrath’s body nearly impossible. Again he wondered if he was making a fool’s play by trusting Tate’s guidance.
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.