The Cypress House

The Cypress House by Michael Koryta Page B

Book: The Cypress House by Michael Koryta Read Free Book Online
Authors: Michael Koryta
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and there's no use burning the lantern fuel. Way that generator
looks, you're going to need it."
        
        
        Nobody
came by to check on the Cypress House until the next morning, and then it was a
man in a white panel van. Arlen was in the bathroom and Paul and Rebecca Cady
were already outside, pulling the boards off the windows. They hadn't reached
the second floor yet, so when Arlen heard the sound of the approaching engine,
he had to go downstairs to see the source. The van had parked and the driver
got out, a short, squat man in a watch cap. He stood with his hands on his
hips, looked around the tavern, and shook his head.
        Arlen
opened the door and stepped out onto the porch, lifting a hand. The man lifted
one in response and walked up to join him. "How'd you folks fare?"
        "Well
enough," Arlen answered, "but it's not my place."
        "Oh,
I know that," the visitor said. He had a heavy drawl, a spray of freckles
across his face, blue eyes that held good humor. "Y'all are the
criminals."
        Arlen
raised his eyebrows, and the man laughed.
        "You
best expect that to be known by now. Think a pesky thing like a hurricane will
keep folks from talking?" He put out a hand. "Thomas Barrett. I
reckon you're Wagner, not Brickhill."
        Arlen
didn't take his hand, and Barrett laughed again. "Relax. I'm nothing but a
delivery driver. You can put away your guns."
        "Sorry,"
Arlen said, finally reaching out to accept the handshake, "but I'm a bit
leery of folks out here. They kill some men, lock others up, and probably steal
from everyone."
        Barrett's
smile went sour as he pulled his hand back. "Ain't everybody around here
that'll do you that way."
        "I'd
hope not. But it's who I've met so far."
        Barrett
nodded. "You met the sheriff, and maybe you met the judge? "
        "That's
right. What do you know about them?"
        "Enough
to stay out of their way. Enough to know that most folks with half a mind are
scared witless of them."
        "They're
elected positions, aren't they?"
        Barrett
threw his head back and gave a bull snort. "Elected, sure. And I ran
against Tolliver for sheriff, so you ever want to hear about Corridor County
politics, I can talk on it. But you probably don't, and I probably
shouldn't."
        "I
got the impression he was from Cleveland."
        Barrett
gave him a surprised glance and a nod. "You had the right
impression."
        "How
in the hell did he become sheriff down here, then?"
        Barrett's
smile was forced this time. "I wouldn't waste your thoughts worrying on a
thing like that. It's Corridor County's problem, not yours."
        "Is
High Town really all there is to the county?"
        "Most
people are scattered. You know, live in the woods or out at places like this.
Was a lumber mill outside of High Town that kept the place alive, but it went
under five years ago, and, all told, a few thousand people probably went with
it. Workers and their families and such. Take away the only real industry in a
place like this, and it empties out powerful fast."
        "So
what do people out here do now?"
        "They
try to get by," Barrett said. "Just like Becky."
        "How'd
she end up alone in this place?"
        "Was
owned by her parents. They came down from Georgia years back to try and build a
sport fishing business. It didn't take. Her mother drowned right out from the
house. Some said it was tides that caught her, others believed she went
willingly enough. Tired of her husband's methods of getting ahead."
        "What
methods were those?"
        Barrett
gave him a long look, then turned away and said, "A few years later,
Rebecca's daddy took his boat out, lost the engines, and then lost himself.
They found the boat but not him. All that was left of her family by then was
her brother, and he's in prison."
        At
that moment Rebecca Cady appeared around the side of the house, wiping

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