The Cypress House by Michael Koryta Read Free Book Online Page B

of the front windows.
        "Hey,
Sorenson," he called, voice soft.
        Nobody
answered. The place was empty.
        "Damn
it," he muttered, and then went around the bar and rapped his knuckles on
the swinging door. "Sorenson!"
        "Hang
on, Wagner."
        There
was something in the man's voice Arlen hadn't heard before, and it gave him pause.
For a few seconds he stood there on the other side of the swinging door, and
then he said the hell with it and pushed through and stepped into the tiny
kitchen. There was a grill and a stove on one side and a rack of shelves on the
other and nobody in sight. Another door stood opposite, closed. He crossed to
it and knocked again.
        "Damn
it, I said give us a min —"
        "I
think somebody's looking your car over," he said. "Or maybe Miss
Cady's used to guests who park at the top of the hill and don't come
inside."
        There
was a long silence, and then the door swung open and Sorenson stood before him
with the black case wrapped under his arm. All the good humor and genteel
demeanor had left his face.
        "Where?"
he said.
        "Just
where I said — top of the hill, above where you parked."
        Sorenson
shoved past him and walked through the swinging door. He kept the case wrapped
under his left arm, pressed against his side, but let his right hand drift
under his jacket. Arlen paused just long enough to look back into the room, a
cramped little office where Rebecca Cady stood with her hands folded in front
of her and a blank look on her face, and then he followed. When he got out to
the barroom, Sorenson was standing with the front door open, looking out.
        "There's
nobody there."
        "Was
a minute ago. Black Plymouth."
        Sorenson
reflected on that for a moment, then manufactured an uneasy grin and said,
"Good thing I had you bring your bags in, see? This area is fraught with lazy
crackers who'll steal anything they can lift."
         Lazy
crackers don't drive new Plymouths, Arlen thought .
        "Where's
the kid?" Sorenson asked.
        "Down
on the beach."
        He
nodded as if that pleased him, then said, "Why don't you bring him in? I'm
going to drive the car down a little closer in case our visitor returns, and
then we'll have another drink and head south."
        "I
don't need another drink. Let's just head."
        "Not
quite yet," Sorenson said, and then he stepped outside and let the thick
wooden door bang shut behind him.
        Arlen
swore under his breath, wiped sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand,
and then went onto the porch and hollered for Paul. The kid was nearly out of
sight now, well down the beach, but he turned and lifted a hand and started
back. Arlen picked his beer up off the rail and drank the rest of it while the
boy returned and pulled on his socks and shoes. He jogged up to the porch.
        "We
leaving already?"
        "Soon
as we can," Arlen said. "Sorenson wants to linger, but I'm in favor
of pushing on and —"
        On
the other side of the building, something exploded. A bang and a roar that came
so fast they were just a heartbeat from simultaneous, and for a moment the
beach disappeared in front of Arlen's eyes and he saw instead the dark forests
of Belleau Wood, snarls of barbwire guarding the bases of the trees, corpses
draped over them, grenades hurtling through the air. Then he blinked and found
himself staring at Paul Brickhill, whose mouth hung agape.
        "What
was —"
        Arlen
ignored him, turned and ran back through the bar to the front door, opened it
and then took a half step back and whispered, "Son of a bitch,
Sorenson."
        The
Auburn was on fire. All of the glass had been blown out, and twisted, burning pieces
of the seats lay on the hood. As Arlen watched, there was another explosion,
flames shooting out of the engine compartment and filling the air with black
smoke, and the thought of running back to the bar for a