Under the Lake

by Stuart Woods

  “Hallooo.”

  Howell put down his razor and listened.

  “Halloooo. Anybody home in there? Halloooo.”

  He got into some jeans and grabbed a towel.

  “Hallooooo!”

  It was nearly a howl, now, echoing around the lake. He came out onto the deck to find a priest standing down by the water. The same priest he had seen in town early in his stay at the lake, a tiny man, very old.

  “Good morning, Father,” he said, wiping soap from his face. “I’m sorry I didn’t hear you sooner.”

  “Ah, now,” the priest called back. “I’ve come at a bad time, have I? Would another time be more convenient?”

  “No, indeed. Please come on up and have some coffee.”

  The priest climbed the stairs, and at the top, offered Howell his hand. “I’m Father Riordan,” he said, “called by most, Father Harry. I’m very pleased to meet you, Mr. Howell.”

  “Call me John, please, Father Harry. Can I get you some coffee?” he asked, leading the way into the cabin.

  “Would you have a bit of tea, now?”

  “I think so, if you don’t mind a teabag.”

  “Ah, that’s fine, fine, lad.”

  Howell made tea for both of them and took the pot out onto the deck. The sun was high; it was nearly noon. Howell poured the tea and made to sit down.

  Father Harry cleared his throat. Howell stopped. “Was there something else I could get you father? Some toast…”

  “Ah, do you think you might have a drop…”

  “Of course, Father, but I don’t have any of Irish.”

  “Whatever will be fine,” the priest said.

  Jesus, he was starting early, Howell thought. He broke the seal on a bottle of brandy, walked back onto the deck and poured a generous slug into the priest’s tea.

  “Ah, that’s lovely,” the man said, sipping it noisily. “Will you join me, now?”

  What the hell, Howell thought, and poured some into his own cup.

  “It’s a grand place you’ve got, here,” the priest said, waving a hand at the view.

  “I’m afraid it’s only borrowed, Father. Belongs to my brother-in-law.

  “Ah, yes, young White. I used to see him about. Not met him.” There seemed to be a note of disapproval of Denham White in his voice.

  “Well, now, Father, what brings you up this way? Just out for a stroll?” The priest seemed to have something on his mind. Howell wanted to make it as easy as possible for him.

  He looked directly, but sympathetically at Howell. “I understood I might be of some service to you, lad.”

  Howell was nonplussed. He started to speak but didn’t know what to say.

  “Oh, I understand now. Forgive me, my boy; I was up to see Lorna Kelly, and she said you might need a word with me. I can see you weren’t expecting me, but Lorna has a way with her… she sometimes knows these things just a bit before the rest of us.”

  “How is Mama Kelly?” Howell asked, to give himself time to think.

  “Not well at all,” the priest replied. “In fact, I don’t know how she holds on. She seems to be waiting for something; I don’t know what.”

  Howell wanted to immediately ask about the O’Coineens but stopped himself. “Well, I don’t feel any special need for spiritual help just at the moment, but I am interested in the history of this area. Have you been here for some time?”

  “Oh, fifty-two years, it is, now, since I’m back. I’m eighty-one, you see.” He looked at Howell as if he wanted to be told he didn’t look it.

  Howell thought he looked ninety if he looked a day. “Well, you certainly don’t look it, Father,” he said.

  The priest accepted the compliment as his due. “Yes, it was nineteen hundred and twenty-three I was ordained at Maynooth, and I left Dublin on a steamer, eventually winding up at Savannah, as my fathers did.”

  “Your fathers?” Howell was puzzled. “I’m sorry…”

  “Oh, I was born right here in the valley.” The priest pointed out over the lake. “A fine view this spot has, then and now.”

  “So you went back to Ireland to enter the seminary, then?”

  “I did. I was chosen to do that.” The priest half reached for the bottle. “May I?”

  “Of course, Father,” Howell replied, reaching for the bottle, but the priest was already pouring for both of them.

  “You were chosen?”

  “I’m getting a bit ahead of myself, I can see,” the priest chuckled. “I should begin at the beginning.” He resettled himself in the deck chair. “You see, our people first came up here from Savannah in the 1840s to work on the railroads.”

  “I’d heard that, but not much more.”

  “Well, not all at once and all together, but the Irish among the workers had a way of gathering, and some of them took their earnings and bought land here; others joined them from the old country, and by about 1850, there was a thriving farm community in the valley – maybe forty families. And they needed a priest. There were not then, as now, a great many Roman Catholics in this corner of the earth.”

  “So I understand. The Church sent them a priest, then?”

  “No, the community was too small to be sent a priest, so a lad from among the families went back to Ireland to the seminary. It was a long wait, but after a time, the valley had a priest from among its own. The tradition continued, and I was the fourth in the line.”

  “Did the community grow a lot over the years, then?” Howell reckoned that forty Irish families could grow practically into a nation in a century and a quarter.

  “No, I’m afraid it didn’t,” the priest said, sadly. “It seemed that every time things were moving well in that direction, something happened. Nearly all the men in the community fought in the Civil War, and most of them didn’t survive it. It took a great many years before the valley began to recover from that blow. Then, in ‘89,I believe it was, there was a smallpox epidemic that hit us particularly hard.”

  “I see.”

  “Oh, they were a hardy lot and couldn’t be kept down. But there was the Great War, you know, and then a good many of the lads fought in Ireland after 1916. We recovered again, though, and after my return to the valley, things… well, things started to look up.”

  “Then came World War II?”

  The priest nodded and took a large gulp of his tea, now mostly brandy. “Exactly. Most disheartening, it was.”

  “And then what?”

  Father Harry looked at John, then waved his hand. “Then… there were… other problems.”

  “Other problems?”

  “Then came the lake. Eric Sutherland’s lake.” The old man’s voice was bitter and sad as he spoke the words. He poured himself another drink without asking.

  “Tell me about Donal O’Coineen and his family,” Howell said, softly.

  “Ah, Donal,” the priest said, smiling a little. “Donal was the best of us. If we’d all hung on like Donal… ” He let the phrase drop.

  “What was he like?” Howell asked.

  “A handsome lad; strong, industrious. He was always the hardest worker, the most successful. Married the prettiest girl, made the most money, had the most beautiful daughters.”

  “Joyce and Kathleen?”

  “Yes, yes,” the priest smiled, “and there’d have been more if there’d been the time.” The brandy seemed to be getting to him, now. God knew it was getting to Howell. “Joyce lost her sight when only a young thing. She was the artist of the family, the musician. Sweet, kind, virginal girl.”

  Howell leaned forward. This was very important, somehow. “And Kathleen?”

  A streak of pain flashed across the old priest’s face. Howell thought for a moment he was ill, but he continued. “She was the most beautiful creature I ever saw,” Father Harry said, softly. “A tiny thing, but strong, tough, even. There was something in her I could never…” His voice trailed off.

  Howell searched for something to say to keep the old man’s train of
thought going. “I understand Donal pulled her out of school when the pressure about the land got bad.”

  The priest shot him a scornful glance. “Nothing to do with the land, sir. You see… ” He was fading again.

  “Why did he take them out of school, then, if it wasn’t because of the fight over the land?”

  “She was only twelve,” the old priest said. “It was awful. Her father loved her so.” He seemed on the verge of tears. “I thought it would kill him.”

  “What happened to Kathleen? Did she die?”

  “It might have been more merciful if she had,” Father Harry said. He was nodding now, with the brandy.

  Howell struggled with his own load of brandy to keep the conversation going. The priest’s eyes were closing, now, his chin dropping to his chest. “Do you ever hear from them any more? Donal O’Coineen and his family?”

  Father Harry’s eyes half opened for a moment. He looked confused. “Hear from them? Faith, lad, they’re under the lake these many years.“ Then his chin dropped onto his chest again, and he began to snore.

  Howell stood up unsteadily and went into the living room. He could make no sense of all this. He dropped onto the sofa and laid his head back, just for a moment.

  When he awoke, the sun was low in the sky, and the old priest was gone.

  25

  Bo Scully picked up the phone on his desk, consulted his notes, and dialed the eleven digits. The switchboard answered on the first ring.

  “Neiman-Marcus, good morning.”

  “May I speak with Mr. Murray in Credit, please?”

  “One moment.” There was a click and ringing started.

  It had been nearly two weeks since Bo had written to Murray, and he had heard nothing. Sutherland was giving him a very hard time.

  “Credit.”

  “Mr. Murray, please.”

  “Who’s calling, please?”

  “Sheriff Scully, Sutherland County, Georgia.”

  “One moment.”

  “Hello?”

  “Mr. Murray, this is Sheriff Bo Scully. I talked with you a couple of weeks ago.”

  “Yes, Sheriff. Did you get my letter?”

  “No, sir, I didn’t; that’s why I’m calling.”

  “Well, I sent you a copy of the credit application you asked for; it went out the day I got your letter, I believe.”

  “Well, sir, I haven’t received it yet.”

  “That’s the mails for you.”

  “Yessir. I wonder if I could trouble you to just give me the information on the phone? You do have my written request.”

  There was a deep sigh on the other end of the line. “Oh, all right. What was the name and account number again?”

  “H. M. MacDonald.” Bo read him the number.

  There was a shuffling of papers and some muttering, then, “Here we are, Sheriff. H. M. MacDonald, Address, 291 Cantey Place, NW, Atlanta 30327, phone (404) 999-7100, Employed by the Atlanta Constitution, Marietta Street, Atlanta…”

  Bo missed the rest. He felt as if he had received an electric shock. He thanked the man and hung up. What the hell was going on, here? He’d been told a reporter was being sent to Sutherland, but he had seen no one except Howell, and he knew Howell was who he said he was, because his picture had been in the paper so often. There had been no strangers at Sutherland’s party; he’d known every soul there. What the hell was going on?

  It made no sense to him whatever that a reporter would come to town and break into Eric Sutherland’s office without asking at least a few questions around town. He dialed information and got the number.

  “Good morning, Atlanta Journal and Constitution. ”

  “Mr. H. M. MacDonald, please.” He would hang up as soon as the man answered.

  There was a pause and the noise of pages being turned. “I’m sorry, we have no one by that name. Are you calling the Constitution?”

  “Yes. Are you sure there’s no H. M. MacDonald?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Any other MacDonald?”

  “No, none at all.”

  He thanked her, hung up, and dialed another Atlanta number.

  “You know who this is?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is there a guy on the paper named H. M. MacDonald?

  There was a moment’s silence. “No.”

  “You sure? I have reason to think this may be the man you warned me about.”

  “Positive. What makes you think so?”

  “Just some recent information. I know he works there.”

  “Could be in classified or some other department of the paper. But there’s no H. M. MacDonald on the editorial staff.”

  “Thanks.” Bo hung up. He should have been relieved, but he wasn’t. A credit card turning up at Sutherland’s belonging to somebody who worked at the newspaper was just too much of a coincidence. He looked at the card. What could the initials stand for. Harold? Henry? What other names began with H?

  He started to dial the Neiman’s number again but felt embarrassed. Murray was already impatient with him. He felt a wave of annoyance with himself, and, on an impulse, dialed MacDonald’s home number in Atlanta. The phone rang four times, and Bo was about to hang up, when there was a click on the line, followed by static. A voice distorted by bad sound quality, but somehow familiar, spoke to him.

  “Hello, this is Heather MacDonald. I’m not around right now, and it might be awhile before I get my messages, but if you’ll leave your name and number at the tone, I’ll get back to you sooner or later, I promise.” There was an electronic beep, then silence. Bo sat, disbelieving, with the phone in his hand.

  There was a shriek from outside his office, followed by Mike’s laughter and Scotty’s shout. “Jesus Christ, Mike, will you stop that! You scared the shit out of me! C’mon, grow up, will you?”

  “Aw, come on, Scotty, a little goose is good for you now and then,” Mike called back.

  Bo hung up the phone. Heather MacDonald. Scottish. Heather M. MacDonald. Heather Miller MacDonald. Scotty. Scotty Miller. Scotty. The voice was hers, static or no static.

  Bo felt ill. He got up, went into the bathroom, closed the door and leaned on it. He ran some cold water and splashed it on his face. He sat down on the John seat and tried to think. He still felt sick; and angry, and stupid; and afraid. They weren’t after Sutherland. They were after Sheriff Bo Scully.

  Bo rested his hot face in his cool hands and tried to think. How long had she been in the office? What had she seen? What could she know? Nothing, he tried to tell himself. Impossible for her to know anything. He had been too careful.

  But he was still afraid. It had been a very long time since he had been this afraid.

  Howell was pounding away on the word processor. He had, somehow, gotten inside the skin of Lurton Pitts, understood the man – or, at least, understood what he would want to read about himself. He had been cranking out a good twenty pages of autobiography a day since the first chapter had magically appeared on the monitor screen, and he was in full cry when the telephone rang.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s Leonie.”

  “Well, hi, I’d been wondering what had happened to you. I wanted to call, but you asked me not to.”

  “Yes, well, that would be awkward. It’s better if I call you.”

  Howell glanced at his watch. “Why don’t you come over this afternoon? We could… have a swim.”

  “No, I can’t. That’s not why I called.”

  “Oh?”

  “Mama wants to see you.”

  “Oh. Is she better?”

  “No, but she’s conscious, which she hasn’t been much, lately, and she’s been asking for you. Can you come over?”

  “When?”

  “Right now. I think this is important.”

  “Of course. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  “Make it five. I don’t know how long she’ll be awake.”

  “Okay.” Howell hung up and reached for his car keys.r />
  He covered the short distance in less than five minutes. He drove into the Kellys’ yard and got out of the car. Dermot was sitting in the porch swing, picking tentatively at a mandolin.

  “Hey, John.”

  “Hey, Dermot, how are you?”

  “Real good.” Riley, the blind dog, bounded down the front porch steps with abandon and pranced around Howell, apparently happy to see him. “See” seemed to fit. Howell had a hard time thinking of the dog as blind.

  Howell scratched the dog behind the ears. “Hello, Riley, how you doin‘?”

  Leonie came out onto the porch. “Please come straight in, John. I don’t think we should waste any time.”

  Howell followed her into the house, across the living room to Mama Kelly’s bedroom. It was much as before. The room was neatly kept, and the old woman waited, a beautiful quilt thrown over her bed. Her white hair was freshly combed, and she was wearing a finely made bed jacket over her nightgown. She held out her hand for Howell’s. She seemed terribly tired.

  “Oh, John, I’m so glad you could come. I need to talk to you.” Her voice was weak.

  Howell took her hand. “I’m glad to come, Mrs. Kelly. I want to thank you for helping me with my back. Ever since Leonie worked on it, it’s been really perfect.”

  “I’m glad we could help you, John. Now, I want to say some things to you.”

  He strained to hear her. “Yes ma’am?”

  She took as deep a breath as she could manage. “You were brought here for a reason,” she said. “I’ve been expecting you for a long time.”

  She had said this before. Howell nodded.

  “You’ve come here to right a great wrong. I can’t help you much, but I’ll do what I can. You must be careful to keep your wits about you.”

  Howell looked at Leonie. She put a finger to her lips.

  “Events are coming to a head, now, and you must be ready. Please don’t drink so much.”

  Howell said nothing.

  Mama Kelly took several deep breaths and seemed to be gathering herself for more. “You have seen some strange things, and they have a meaning. But all is not what it seems to be. You must be very careful.“

  “Do you mean the dream about the valley?”

  “It may seem to be a dream, but it’s not – not exactly a dream. Little Kathleen is in danger, and you must help her. If you don’t help her, she may die. Do you understand?”