Why did they care about the weather? What in the world did Doug Berry and Wally Knurr have in common, and how did they even happen to know each other? And had Edna’s new friend Gladys been among those capering on the lawn beneath the cloud?
Myrtle couldn’t sleep. Her digital clock’s luminous numbers told her it was 01:34 in the morning, which would be later than she had ever been awake in her life. But the questions were so many, and so insistent, that they just wouldn’t let her go.
What did it all mean? First, a couple of months ago, Edna had seen a man she was sure was Tom Jimson ride by in a car. Then Wally Knurr had made himself known to Myrtle, in a way she now realized must have been planned and deliberate. Then Doug Berry had done the same thing and had made himself suspect to her as well by seeming to have some sort of hidden link to her father. And then Gladys had just happened to strike up an acquaintance with Edna.
Could all four of these be coincidence? Four people, apparently separate and having nothing to do with one another, but then three of them are suddenly together among a weird group dancing on a lawn, pointing at a cloud.
New Age cultists? The dawning of the age of… What comes after Aquarius? Pisces. Fish. A water sign, that’s why they were pointing at the cloud, waiting for rain.
No, her night thoughts were getting outlandish. She’d be seeing those people as aliens from another planet next, scheming against the human race.
Hmmmmm…
No. More realistically, they could all be part of some giant conspiracy. James Bond, or Robert Ludlum? Neither seemed quite right. That big blubbery blue Lincoln in their driveway was no Aston Martin, nor could she imagine anyone in that crowd on the lawn playing baccarat or using a cigarette holder. On the other hand, Doug and Wally both lacked that manic manliness, that completely daft take-charge self-assurance of Ludlum characters. (The ultimate Robert Ludlum character, of course, being Al “I’m in charge here” Haig.)
The old man. The old man who’d come out of the house just before Myrtle and her mother had turned the corner, the old man just barely glimpsed in the rearview mirror… would that have been her father?
This last thought agitated Myrtle right out of bed, but when she found herself standing on the floor in her white cotton knee-length nightgown, she was at a loss what to do next. Floundering, disoriented, she turned and looked out the window at the darkness of Dudson Center.
And saw lights in it. Over there, the next block over, seen past the shoulder of the Fleischbacker’s house, were lit rectangles of light. Upstairs windows, in rooms with lights on. Over on Oak Street. That house?
Quick, the bird-watching binoculars; where were they? It had been years since… moving swiftly, but silent as possible so as not to wake Edna in the next room, Myrtle felt in the dark through dresser drawers until her fingers closed on the remembered blunt weaponlike heaviness of the binoculars.
Now! Hurrying to the window, she put the binoculars to her eyes, adjusted the focus, and there, swimming into view, with its flat light and muted colors and foreshortening like a Hopper painting, astonishingly close, all of a sudden there was Wally!
What was he doing? He sat in that room very intently, bent forward, hands moving at… at a computer terminal. Look at the tension in that pudgy face! Look at the hobnails of perspiration on that broad low forehead!
Conspiracy. Was Wally the mastermind? Or was he even now in contact with the mastermind, either in an experimental laboratory concealed within Mount Shasta (Bond) or in an unknown cavern deep beneath the Pentagon (Ludlum)? Absorbed by Wally’s absorption, feeling that secret pleasure known to peeping Toms everywhere, Myrtle rested the front edge of the binoculars against the window and watched that round, gleaming, wet-eyed, passionate face. Aliens? SPECTRE? A conspiracy at the very highest levels of government?
Or could it, could it somehow be… the Mafia? Good God! Was she going to have to read Jackie Collins?
It seemed a good idea to approach the reservoir this time at a different spot, far from the sites of the first two attempts and also far from the dam itself, with its nighttime staff of employees. A minor county road crossed Gulkill Creek over a one-lane bridge not far from the upper end of the reservoir, and Gulkill Creek was one of the four small waterways that had in the old days meandered through the now-drowned valley, the four eventually combining into Cold Brook, which was still the name of the runoff stream below the dam. Where it passed under the narrow bridge on the county road, Gulkill Creek was about six feet wide, perhaps three feet deep, lined with bagel-sized rocks, and icy, all year. About forty yards downstream, having widened a foot or two, the creek passed beneath the fence encircling the reservoir, continued to widen and deepen as it sprinted down a gradual slope through scrub forest, and after another thirty yards entered the reservoir at a point just about opposite the dam, which even on a sunny day was barely visible from way over here. On a cloudy night, forget it.
All the way out from town, sitting in the back of the truck, Kelp and Doug went over the plans for the night, including their signal system. This time, their primary light sources would be underwater miner’s lamps worn on their foreheads, though they’d have regular flashlights hooked to their utility belts as well. The signals they’d use to communicate with each other underwater involved switching the forehead lamp off and on while facing the other guy: One off-and-on meant, “Come help me,” while two off-and-ons meant, “Ascend to the surface.” That was it; there wouldn’t be much by way of small talk at the bottom of the reservoir.
There was no traffic along this road at this hour. Stan stopped the slat-sided truck right on the one-lane bridge, and everything was off-loaded onto the weedy roadside. At this point, their boat was merely a bulky package looking something like extra blankets folded on a shelf in the closet, plus a bottle of compressed air. Guiding themselves by light spill from the truck’s head- and taillights, Doug and Tiny carried these components down beside the creek. Doug untied the boat package, inserted the bottle onto the nipple, and a low windy rushing sound started, soon joined by muffled thaps and boops as the boat uncreased itself, stretching and twisting like an Arabian Nights genie waking up.
Meantime, Stan took the empty truck away. Once it was gone, the overcast night was as dark as the inside jacket pocket of a suit that’s worn only at funerals. Doug put on his headlamp and lit it so they’d be able to see what they were doing.
The whoosh of wind inside the boat grew stronger, the pops and whaps louder, and before their eyes appeared the kind of rubber raft in which people survive miraculously for eighty-three days in the open sea. Or not.
The boat was pushed into the shallow rapid water and held in place by Tom while a number of long pieces of rope, the winch, the scuba tanks, the 10hp motor, and a lot of other stuff were piled inside. Then they headed toward the reservoir, Doug holding the boat by its rope like a large frisky dog on a leash, finding his way through the underbrush at the edge of the stream by aiming his forehead light almost straight down at his feet. The others, following, were a little less lucky in their illumination, and therefore frequently in their footing. Splashes, curses, stumblings, and anonymous thumps and oofs punctuated their way.
At the chain-link fence, Tiny went to work with the wire cutters, announcing, “I’m having déjà vu again.”
It took almost twenty minutes to cut away enough fence so that the boat could go through on the stream and the people could go through more or less on dry land. Once they were all past that obstacle, Dortmunder called softly, “Doug. Hold on a second.”
Doug turned his head, the forehead light flashing around the dark forest. “Yeah?”
“From here on,” Dortmunder told him, “we better go without light. We’re getting too close to the reservoir.”
Tom said, “Al? How do we find the reservoir, if we don’t have any light?”
“The boat knows the way,” Dortmunder explained. “Doug follows the boat, the rest of us follow Doug. We each hold on to the shirt of the guy
in front of us.”
“Sounds good,” Kelp said.
It turned out to sound considerably better than it was. The level of splashing, thumping, cursing, and stumbling to one’s knees increased dramatically behind the boat as it bobbed along, happily in its element, followed by Doug, trying to hold on to the boat’s rope while not getting decapitated by tree branches he couldn’t see, followed by Kelp clutching the back of Doug’s wetsuit, followed by Tiny clutching both of Kelp’s shoulders, followed by Tom with a bony finger hooked into one of Tiny’s belt loops, followed by Dortmunder holding gingerly to the back of Tom’s collar.
Finally, in exasperation, Tiny called out, “Are we going the right way? Doug, where the hell’s the reservoir?”
“Uh,” Doug said, and splashed around a bit. “I think I’m in it.”
He was. For a minute or two, they all were, but then they got themselves sorted out once more and refound the land.
The shore here, where stream met reservoir, was very wet and soft and mucky. They had to range a ways off to the left before they found solid enough ground for Tiny to set up the winch and other equipment. The boat was emptied there, the motor attached at the stern, and at last the three seafarers—Doug, Kelp, and Dortmunder—prepared to set off. It was necessary for somebody to be in the boat while the other two were on their dive, and Dortmunder was the only one available for that job, unfortunately. Also, with Kelp volunteering to join Doug in the descent, there hadn’t been much Dortmunder could do to complain.
They got into the boat, which rocked and wriggled as though they were tickling it. But the thing was completely dry inside, to Dortmunder’s astonishment. The bottom was rubberized canvas that moved sluggishly with you, like a waterbed, but the bulbous sides, taut with air, gave a sense of real solidity.
Dortmunder sat on the bottom in the middle, feeling the water’s coldness seep upward, while Kelp sat in the front and Doug knelt beside the steering rod of the motor in back. Tiny gave them a little push away from shore, instantly disappearing back there, and Doug started the motor, which went pock-thrummmmm. Very quiet sound, really, after that explosive onset. You wouldn’t be able to hear it very far at all.
“Everybody set?” Doug asked.
It was so dark you couldn’t tell the difference between water and land. Dortmunder said, “I hope you can see where we’re going.”
“As a matter of fact,” Doug said, “I can’t see a damn thing.” And he accelerated the little thrumming motor, steering them somewhere.
Look at him, Myrtle thought, watching Wally Knurr through the binoculars. The little man’s eyes gleamed with green highlights as he stared at the computer screen.
Myrtle’s own eyes were getting heavier and heavier. She knew she’d have to go to sleep soon. But, watching him, even though his stance and manner and expression never changed, was still repellently fascinating.
Look at him, she thought. What nefarious scheme is he planning over there?
But I’ve already met the princess.
Disguised as a commoner.
Well, not really.
You did not meet her in your true guise.
Wally sat back to digest that thought. Was it accurate? When he’d met Myrtle Jimson he’d told her his true name, and he’d told her the truth about his interest in computers and about where he lived and all of that. He had not, of course, volunteered the information that he knew her father, nor that he was involved with her father in a major…
Robbery? Well, no, actually, this wasn’t a robbery, the robbery had taken place almost twenty-five years ago. There were still illegal elements in the affair, to be sure, such as breaking and entering the reservoir and the fact that the money did still technically belong to some bank or some armored car outfit or some insurance company or somebody other than Tom Jimson, but these seemed to Wally technical crimes at the level that caused toaster companies to pay fines in Federal court but no executives to go to prison.
His fingers padded once more over the keys.
I still don’t see why I can’t just go over to the library and just happen to see her again and just say hello.
The princess does not at this time require rescue.
Not to rescue her. Just to say hello. I only saw her once. I want to see her again.
If the princess meets the hero in his true guise before it is time for the rescue, she will reject him, misunderstanding his role.
I don’t think this princess is going to need to be rescued from anything. She works in the library, she lives with her mother, she’s in a small town where everybody knows her and likes her. What is there to rescue her from?
The hero awaits his moment.
But I want to see Myrtle Jimson again.
She must not see you at this time.
(A block away, sleepy eyes closed behind drooping binoculars. Weary feet moved toward bed.)
Why mustn’t she see me?
She will misunderstand, and the story will end in the hero’s defeat.
I’ll risk it.
Remember the specific rule of the game of Real Life.
Of course I remember it. I entered it into you myself.
Nevertheless. It is:
The tape of Real Life plays only once.
There are no corrections or adjustments.
Defeat is irreversible.
I know. I know. I know.
Why any hero would wish to play such a game is incomprehensible.
“It sure is,” Wally muttered aloud, and looked sadly out the window at the sleeping village.
Thrummmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm mmmmm…
There were dim lights visible way down at the dam. Those were the only landmarks at all worth mentioning. Once the three men in a boat were out a ways from shore, it became roughly possible to distinguish between the grayer flatter surface of the reservoir and the darker and more tangled landscape all around them, but that was it for orientation.
Their first goal was the scene of the second disaster, over by the railroad tracks, which turned out to be extremely difficult to find when no moonlight gleamed off them. “I think it’s here,” Kelp or Dortmunder said, four or five times each, before one of them happened to be right.
When they’d definitely found the railroad line, Doug steered them in close to shore, then reduced the motor to idle while he went smoothly and gracefully over the side, standing in knee-deep water as he felt around with his feet for one of the tracks. Finding it, he stooped to tie to it one end of a long reel of monofilament, a high test fishing line, thin and colorless and strong.
Then they reversed positions, Doug getting into the front of the boat, Kelp moving back to the middle, and Dortmunder going all the way back to the motor, since Doug wanted him to get some practice driving and steering before he was left alone with the boat.
“I’m not sure about this,” Dortmunder said, touching the motor’s handle with gingerly doubt.
“It’s easy,” Doug assured him, and repeated the simple operating instructions one more time, at the end saying, “You just want to be sure to keep it slow, that’s all. So Andy can unreel the monofilament, and so you don’t run into a root or a drifting log or the other shore.”
“I won’t speed,” Dortmunder promised.
Thrummmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm mmmm…
Dortmunder kept the dam’s lights to his left, moving them forward very slowly indeed, while Kelp dangled his arms out over the water and let the monofilament unreel.
Finding the railroad line on the other side was even harder, since they’d never been over there before and so were operating with neither memory nor light, but after several useless passes back and forth Doug said, “That looks like a cleared spot. Let’s try it.” And he was right.
According to the old maps, the railroad had run along pretty straight through the valley, and so, once Doug had tied the other end of the monofilament to the rail on this side, they had a thin surface line that more or less paralleled the tracks crossing down be
low.
Now Dortmunder thrummed them even more slowly than earlier back out from shore, Doug guiding them with one hand on the monofilament. “Here, I think,” he said at last, when they were well out in the middle of the reservoir and presumably directly above Putkin’s Corners.
“Right,” Dortmunder said, and turned the handle to idle. He was beginning to feel pretty good about his relationship with this motor, in fact. It was small, it was quiet, and it did what he asked it to do. What could be bad?
Doug used a short piece of white rope to tie them to the monofilament, then reached out to drop over the side a small iron weight with a ring in it through which one end of a long thin nylon cord had been tied. He kept feeding out the cord until it was no longer being pulled, meaning the weight had hit bottom. Inspecting the amount of cord that was left as he tied it to the rope lashed around the upper edge of the boat, he said, “Hmmm. Closer to sixty feet, I think. You ready, Andy?”
“I don’t think I’ve ever been that deep,” Kelp said. It was hard to see what he looked like in the dark, but he sure sounded nervous.
“Nothing to it,” Doug assured him, lifting himself up to sit on the rounded doughnut of the boat’s side, facing inward, feet on the bottom of the boat. “Now, Andy, you remember the best way to leave the boat, right?”
“Backward.” Yep; nervous, all right.
“That’s right,” Doug told him, lowered his goggles, put his mouthpiece in place, and toppled backward out of the boat. Plash. Gone, without a trace.
Dortmunder and Kelp looked at each other, as best they could in the dark. “You can do it, Andy,” Dortmunder said.
“Oh, sure,” Kelp said. “No problem.” Scrambling a bit, hampered by the scuba tank on his back, he pulled himself up to a seated position on the boat’s round rim. “See you, John,” he said, and, forgetting to put the goggles and mouthpiece in place, backward he went over the side.
All the fellas were so nice to Bob now. “Great to have you back, Bob,” they said, grinning at him (a trifle uneasily) and patting him on the back.
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