Under the Lake

by Stuart Woods

  Suddenly the valley was gone, and the lake was back at their feet. They stood, silently, unable to react. Then, as they watched, a soundless explosion of light came from under the lake, rising to a brightness that hurt their eyes, then, pulsating erratically, faded slowly into darkness, until they were left, staring once again at dark and peaceful waters. There was no moon. The crickets began to chirp again.

  A touch of dawn had begun to light the sky. Howell turned to lead Scotty back into the cabin and stumbled over Denham White’s double-barreled shotgun, lying at the lake’s edge.

  “Where did that come from?” Scotty asked.

  Howell picked up the weapon and broke it to inspect the empty chambers. “It’s something I misplaced,” he said.

  39

  “Tell me again how this tape recorder works?” The Georgia State Patrol captain’s voice came down somewhere between skepticism and outright incredulity.

  “It’s voice-activated,” Howell explained again. “Once it’s turned on, it only records when it hears something, and it automatically controls the recording level. Miss MacDonald managed to turn it on when I arrived at the cabin, when Scully was occupied with me.”

  “Okay, I’ll take your word for that,” the captain said. The late afternoon sunlight reflected off his collar insignia. “And you say that right after this shooting on the tape, Sheriff Scully threw down the shotgun, ran out onto the deck, ran down the steps out there, and jumped in the lake.”

  “Jumped in and started swimming away,” Howell said. “I tried to stop him, but he wouldn’t listen to me; he just kept going.”

  “We found his body nearly a mile along the lake,” the captain said, shaking his head. “I expect we’ll get a suicide-by-drowning verdict from the coroner. Wasn’t a mark on him.”

  “He seemed to hear the piano and see something outside on the deck before he started firing,” Howell said. “I think he must have been hallucinating. He’d had a lot of bourbon to drink.”

  “Well, there’s no piano on the tape,” the captain said. “I guess maybe he must have been. I’ll tell you, though, I’d have said that Bo Scully was just about as level-headed a fellow as I ever knew. This sure don’t fit him.”

  “I guess every man has his breaking point,” Howell said. “He’d been under a lot of pressure, I think, what with having killed Sutherland and having the drug delivery aborted.”

  “I wouldn’t say exactly aborted,” the captain came back. “We’re still looking for that furniture van. The GBI have picked up an Air National Guard lieutenant colonel down at Dobbins Air Force Base, though. Maybe they’ll get something out of him.”

  “I’d be willing to bet that his training logs jibe with the schedule from Scully’s files.”

  The captain put his hands on his knees and stood up. “Well, counselor,” he said to Enda McCauliffe, “I can’t see any reason to detain your clients. Everything they’ve told me seems to be backed up by the evidence we have.” He put on his Stetson hat and squared it carefully. “I don’t mind telling you, though, this is the damnedest thing I’ve investigated in nineteen years on the job.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” McCauliffe said, shaking the man’s hand.

  “Just as long as they’re available if we need to know anything else,” the captain said, and took his leave.

  McCauliffe came back to the fireplace and flopped into a chair. “I think we did the best thing,” he said to Howell and Scotty. “If you’d told him what you told me, we’d never hear the end of it, not for the rest of our lives.” Mac still looked skeptical.

  “I think you’re right,” Howell said. “I’d be hard pressed to tell the truth about what happened; I’m still not sure what the truth is.”

  “I don’t have any speculation to offer,” the lawyer said, “but I do have Bo’s will.” He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew, a heavy, blue, legal envelope. “He typed this out himself and brought it to my office to be witnessed a few days ago. Following Bo’s instructions at the time, I opened it and read it when you called me and told me he was dead.”

  “I remember his working on something all one morning at the office and saying he was going over to your place,” Scotty said.

  McCauliffe nodded. “It’s pretty straightforward. He leaves everything to his only living relative, Heather M. MacDonald, also known as Scotty Miller.”

  “Is it legal?” Howell asked.

  “Airtight,” the lawyer replied, then took another, plain envelope from his pocket and handed it to Scotty. “He left this for you.”

  Scotty opened the envelope and read the sheets inside while Howell and McCauliffe waited. Finally, she looked up. “It’s a short version of what he told us last night,” she said, “and the number of the Swiss bank account.”

  “That’s a bunch of money, Scotty,” Howell said.

  “I don’t want it,” she said, unhesitatingly.

  “It’s dirty money. I liked him, in spite of everything, and I’d rather forget that part of him.” She turned to McCauliffe. “Can I give it away?”

  “Well,” the lawyer said, “there’ll have to be some negotiations with the Internal Revenue Service; you can give away what’s left. In any case, you don’t need the money. Bo was Eric Sutherland’s heir, and you’re Bo’s heir. I can’t give you a figure off the top of my head, but you’re a very wealthy young woman.”

  Scotty nodded. “That occurred to me. I don’t know what the hell I’ll do with it.”

  “There’s a fair amount of liquid stuff – stocks and bonds, plus his house – but the main thing is the lake. You’re the majority stockholder in the power company – the banks have a chunk.”

  Scotty looked at him and grinned. “Does that mean I can hand out lakefront lots around here?”

  “Yep. You’re the boss, or will be, when the will is probated.”

  “Okay, Johnny,” she said, turning to How-ell, “Take your pick. Find a lot you like, and it’s yours. It’s the very least I can do for you.”

  “Thanks, Scotty, I’ll take you up on it. I think a place on another part of the lake, though. It gets a little hairy around here.”

  “There’s something else, Scotty,” McCauliffe said. “It seems pretty clear that you’re entitled to the money that Sutherland thought he paid Donal O’Coineen, plus the interest that’s been building up for the last twenty-five years. I’ll make a claim with the bank, if you like. Strictly speaking, the transaction never took place, since Kathleen forged Donal’s signature on the transfer deed, but it hardly matters, I think, because you’re O’Coineen’s heir as well as Sutherland’s. They were both your grandfathers. I can straighten out the legal end of it with the bank.”

  Scotty put her hands to her cheeks. “This is getting to be too much for me to handle.”

  “Can I make a suggestion, Scotty?” Howell asked.

  “Sure. I could use a suggestion.”

  “Before you start thinking too much about your inheritance, why don’t you let Mac sort things out for you here? Just go back to Atlanta, write your story, and be a reporter. I think you’d be very unhappy doing anything else for quite a while, speaking as somebody who left the profession before he should have.”

  “That’s good advice,” Scotty replied. “Mac, you want to be my lawyer?”

  McCauliffe grinned. “Sure, I’m already working for the power company, anyway, for my sins.” He closed his briefcase and stood up. “Well, I’ve got things to do. We’ll talk later.” He left Howell and Scotty alone.

  Scotty came and put her arms around Howell.

  He winced. “Ouch,” he said.

  “Sorry, I forgot about the ribs. Listen, why don’t you come back to Atlanta with me? I’ve gotten sort of used to having you around.”

  Howell put his hands on her shoulders. “That’s very tempting, but you and I have different fish to fry for a while. When this story breaks, you’re going to have to spend some time dealing with fame, not to mention fortune. Me, well, I think I’ve got a
shot at recapturing something I thought I had lost. I’m not sure I could do it if anyone were watching.”

  “I guess you’re right,” she replied, and kissed him lightly. “I’ll miss you, though.”

  “That’s nice to hear,” Howell said. “Listen, Scotty, there was something going on between you and Bo last night that I never got a handle on. What was it?”

  Scotty grinned ruefully. “Well, that was something between father and daughter, I guess you’d have to say. Maybe I’ll tell you about it one of these days.” She sighed. “I’m going to have him buried in his family plot, next to his mother. There’s nobody else to do it, and I guess it’s my job.”

  Howell nodded. “You might think about putting Eric Sutherland alongside them. The three of them never found much peace together in life, but somehow, it seems right.”

  “That makes sense. I’ll get Mac to make the arrangements.”

  There was a knock at the cabin door. Howell went to answer it and found Leonie Kelly standing there. He turned to Scotty and McCauliffe. “Will you excuse us for a few minutes?” He walked her out onto the deck.

  “I heard about Bo,” she said. “It’s all over the town; but what happened here?” she asked, picking her way through the broken glass.

  Howell told her about his and Scotty’s experiences of the night before. “You’re the only person I know, apart from your mother, who would believe it,” he said. “I don’t think Mac does, and we gave a laundered version to the state patrol.”

  “Mama died early this morning,” Leonie said. “Just before dawn.”

  “I’m sorry. She was quite a lady.”

  “It was a relief. She took a long time about it. She was waiting for things to be resolved here.” Leonie looked out over the lake.

  “It’s a peculiar thing,” Howell reflected, looking out over the lake. “The symmetry of everything that’s happened here is remarkable. The same things kept happening to the different players – what went on in the valley; the steps two women – Bo’s mother and you – took independently to avoid it; murder – Bo’s mother, the O’Coineen family, Sutherland; and now, within the past forty-eight hours, three of the players in the game – Sutherland, Bo, and your mother have died, two of them leaving written accounts in a last minute attempt to set things straight.”

  “Mama wouldn’t have found that remarkable,” Leonie said. “She would have regarded a lot of what happened as evil, but all of it as natural, as human nature; and she would have regarded the outcome as the most natural thing of all – perfect justice. In fact, she said something like that just before she died.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She looked at us – we were all in her room – and smiled, and said, ”I can go, now, it’s all been put right.“ ”

  “Not quite,” Howell said, “but it will be put right before the day’s out. I’ve already talked with Enda McCauliffe about setting something up for the baby.”

  “I’ve told you… ”

  “By the way, was Denham White once in love with you?”

  She nodded. “His family wouldn’t let us marry. I don’t blame them, really. I don’t blame Denham, either. I suppose I was trying to use him to find a way out of here. That was before I realized that this is where I belong. I still have a family to take care of. But I don’t need your…”

  “No, listen to me. You were right last night; I’ve always found it too easy to move on and let other people sort out my responsibilities. It’s time I stopped that. In a few days I’m coming into a bunch of money for a job I’m doing, and it’s going to Mac’s office to help the child later on. Mac knows it’s my baby, too, and I’ve told him I don’t care who else knows. I may not be able to be a perfect father to him, but I can give him my name and find ways to help him get through his life.” He took her shoulders and turned her to him. “I want to do that, do you understand?” Howell didn’t want Lurton Pitts’s money any more, and doing this for Leonie made him feel less ashamed of the way he had earned it.

  She nodded and put her arms around his waist.

  He yelped in pain. “Watch it, I think I’ve cracked something in there.”

  She put a hand on his ribs, at the center of the pain. “Yes, you have,” she said. She put her arms around him again and held him gently to her body.

  Howell felt once again the amazing warmth he had felt when she had healed his back. A moment later, she stood back and looked at him.

  “I think you can take off the bandage now,” she smiled. She kissed him on the cheek.

  Howell took a tentative breath, then another, deeper one. “I think you’re right,” he said, but she was already walking down the stairs and turning toward the truck. He watched her drive away, then went back into the cabin.

  “I’ve been on the phone to the paper,” Scotty said triumphantly. “Would you believe they’re sending a chopper up here for me and the film? We’ve only got the first two rolls I shot, but that’s got just about everything on it.”

  “Good for you,” Howell laughed, and hugged her.

  “I’d better get into town and get my stuff together,” she said. “They’ll be at the airport in a hour.”

  Howell kissed her. “Get going, then.”

  “Listen, we’ll see each other in Atlanta, won’t we?”

  “From time to time, no doubt.”

  “That’s not often enough,” she said, punching him playfully in the ribs. “Jesus, I’m sorry, I forgot.”

  Howell pulled out his shirttail. “Undo this, will you?”

  Scotty undipped the bandage and unwound it from his ribcage. “Shouldn’t you leave this on?”

  Howell pounded on his chest and took several deep breaths. “Don’t need it,” he crowed.

  “There isn’t even any bruising!” she said. “There sure was when I wrapped you up this morning. I thought you’d be weeks… ” Then she stopped. “Oh, I see; Mama Kelly.”

  “Well, sort of, by long distance I guess. She died this morning, just about the time Bo did, I suspect.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Scotty said. “I never even met her, but I could sure feel her in that house yesterday.” She cocked her head to one side. “Listen, what was going on between you and Leonie? There was something going on there, I know it.”

  “I’ll tell you about it some time,” he grinned. “And you ought to get to know her better, when you’re back up here. She’s your cousin, you know.”

  “I guess she is, at that.”

  “So are Dermot and Brian and Mary,” he said, more soberly. “When you get used to the idea of being a wealthy woman, you ought to think about doing something for them. After all, if it hadn’t been for their mother, you wouldn’t be the filthy capitalist you are, now.”

  “I’ll do that,” she said. “Listen, I don’t want to get all maudlin, now, but I’m awfully grateful to you for getting me through this alive. I’ll call you for lunch next week and thank you properly, okay?”

  “I’d better call you,” Howell said. “I’m not sure just where I’ll be.”

  “I think I know,” she said, “but let me hear from you.” Then she grabbed her two precious rolls of film and fled.

  A couple of days later, Howell threw the last of his gear into the back of the station wagon and shut the tailgate. He went back into the cabin, picked up the phone, and dialed a number.

  “Bob Allen, please.” There was a click and some ringing.

  “Allen.”

  “Hello, Bob, it’s John Howell.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned. A voice from the past. You got my note, huh?”

  “Sounded more like a death threat to me.”

  “You want it?”

  “Maybe. We can talk about it. We’ll have to get some things straight, like what happens after Nairobi.”

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “London.”

  “I expect we might find a slot there in about three years.”

  “I won’t stay in Africa a minute mor
e than eighteen months.”

  “Two years, and I’ll see what I can do about London. When can you get up here?”

  “I’ve got a few things to sort out in Atlanta. A week from Monday?”

  “Okay, you’re on. Uh, listen, you’ll have to learn Swahili, you know.”

  Howell could hear him grinning. “You bastard,” he said. “That’s going to cost you an extremely expensive lunch.” He hung up.

  Howell picked up the completed manuscript of Lurton Pitt’s autobiography from the desk, and looked around the cabin. It was strangely dark, with its boarded-up windows. It seemed dead; just a lot of lumber and furniture.

  He still wasn’t entirely sure of what had happened to him here, and he wasn’t sure if he ever would be. But he felt ready to go back and work at his life, instead of just wandering through it; to go back to what he did best and try to do it better.

  He walked over to the battered player piano; it was missing chunks of veneer and spattered with buckshot, but still, somehow, whole. He flipped the switch. A flood of music poured out.

  George Gershwin was playing “I’ve Got Rhythm”. Howell waited until It was finished, then he flipped off the switch. He laughed all the way to the car.

  ***

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