Beneath Still Waters

by Matthew Costello

  body parts and gangsters in concrete shoes.”

  Dan turned away, looking at the swarm of cops. “I’ve

  got to go down with the divers. It might be my only shot at

  some photos of the sunken town.”

  “I doubt—”

  Dan came close to her. A shower and a clean pair of

  khakis would sure hit the spot. “Don’t you worry about that.

  I’ll get to go with them. But first let’s dig up Massetrino

  before he disappears on us again.”

  “Rogers said he was in his shed, and he looked like he

  had already had his first drink of the day. So we’d best get

  him while he’s still coherent.”

  “Good idea.”

  Dan grabbed her hand and walked past the crowd of

  cops on the left, and some snarling, impatient dogs on the

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  right. He made his way right to Massetrino’s door (with its

  washed-out nameplate: f. massetrino—site engineer).

  “Mr. Massetrino,” Dan called, knocking loudly.

  He looked at Susan. She was, if anything, more beauti-

  ful in daylight. Her jet-black hair glistened (it would look

  great on a pillow), and her classy business suit showed off

  her lean but not uninviting body. He still hadn’t a clue

  whether she had any interest in him.

  “Mr. Massetrino.” Dan knocked again, looking at Susan.

  “Sure is one hell of an elusive—”

  The door creaked open. And for a moment Dan was ac-

  tually shocked by what he saw. The old guy looked like he

  hadn’t showered in a couple of weeks. He was sporting an

  unkempt, grizzly gray beard that made him look like a wild

  man.

  Dan felt almost dapper standing next to him. This guy

  was one step from cleaning windows in the Bowery.

  But it was more than that. His eyes were a road map of

  red lines, covered with a mucous film, sunken into the hol-

  lows of his face.

  Fred Massetrino was either mad or scared shitless.

  “Mr. Massetrino,” Dan went on, quietly now (as if ad-

  dressing a bank president), “Ms. Sloan and I were hoping

  you could give us a tour of the dam, as arranged by the

  County Water Commissioner’s office.”

  Dan dug out his letter of permission and stuck it out in

  the direction of Massetrino.

  The eyes blinked, but there was no acknowledgment.

  Massetrino opened his mouth. Gummy. With strings

  of . . . something holding his two lips together.

  “No. Not today. Someone”—Dan saw his pupils dilate

  a moment—“drowned. A kid. A stupid kid.” Massetrino

  seemed almost to snarl. “I’m always telling them kids to

  get the hell away. Always picking up their garbage, their

  beer cans . . .” He looked at Susan and tried to lick his lips.

  b e n e a t h s t i l l w a t e r s

  51

  “And other stuff. Now this happens. No tours today, mis-

  ter.” Massetrino started to close the door.

  Dan jammed his foot in the door, something he’d seen

  done in a Bogart-Cagney movie. How come they never

  winced in pain when the door dug into their big toes? he

  wondered.

  “You don’t seem to understand,” Dan said calmly. “I’ve

  got to take pictures, see?” He held his camera up. “And

  write a story. It’s my job.”

  “Captain Rogers said it would be okay,” Susan added.

  “Right. The captain said everything is fine, Mr. Mas-

  setrino. So why don’t you open the door, let us in, and we

  can start our tour of this historic structure.”

  Massetrino was erect. The DTs had to be just around

  the corner. Dan felt guilty about bearing down so hard.

  Almost. But not quite.

  Massetrino licked his lips. Not much real moisture

  there.

  ( And I bet I know just what you’re thinking about, pal.

  I’ve been close to that particular hell myself. When Sharon

  left, all I had left was the solace of Miller time and grab-

  bing all the gusto I could. Somehow, though, the brink was

  seen, duly noted, and stepped back from. Just a step. At

  least for a while. )

  “Please, Mr. Massetrino. Mr. Elliot and I have impor-

  tant assignments. It’s a big week for Ellerton.”

  Massetrino looked up at Susan, and slowly Dan saw

  him accept the inevitable. “Yes, a big week,” he repeated

  dully. He let the door open, straightened up—almost to hu-

  man proportions, Dan thought—and cleared his throat.

  “Damned inconvenient. Damned inconvenient. But if

  the upstate guys say it’s okay, who am I to complain? I’m

  no complainer. I do my job. I’m just looking at my retire-

  ment, friends. That’s all Fred Massetrino worries about.”

  He stepped out into the light, like a debauched groundhog

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  checking out his shadow in February. He rubbed his grizzly

  beard.

  “We’re ready when you are, Mr. Massetrino. Right,

  Susan? Just lead on.”

  Susan nodded, and Dan thought she might be a bit un-

  easy about the tour guide.

  “Okay,” Massetrino said dully. “Then you might as well

  start at the top”—he grinned—“and work your way to the

  bottom.” Massetrino walked away.

  Dan watched him thread his way through the police and

  the growing crowd of semiofficial busybodies. He saw beefy

  guys wearing volunteer fireman jackets and ambulance caps.

  Nearly every car had a police light on the roof, whether it

  was an official car or not.

  “Where is he taking us?” Susan asked.

  Dan shrugged. “I don’t know. But I’d hazard a guess

  there’s an entrance to the inside of the dam somewhere

  here. There’s bound to be a ladder down.”

  Massetrino climbed up stone steps that led to a walkway

  that ran parallel to the road on top of the dam. Cars whizzed

  past him as Massetrino hurried ahead.

  He took the steps two at a time. “C’mon, Susan, old

  Fred seems ready to give us a quick tour.”

  He waited for Susan, and together they hurried to catch

  up with him.

  Then Dan noticed it.

  Massetrino wasn’t looking at the water. Not a glance.

  There were cops out there in boats, and dogs circling the

  shore of the man-made lake, and lots of interesting activ-

  ity. But old Fred just plowed on—spitting now and then,

  hawking great gobs of who knows what onto the ground—

  but he didn’t look once at the water.

  Just like—

  Just like he was scared to look

  (Scared? What could he be scared of?)

  Massetrino reached the end of the roadway and quickly

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  53

  went down another cracked and curved staircase to the left.

  He vanished.

  Dan paused and looked at the lake, heard it lapping at

  the side of the dam not more than five feet from him.

  One way or the other, he knew, he was going to see the

  town under that lake.

  And more, he promised
himself. I’m going to find out

  why the hell it was buried under a square mile of water.

  “Are you coming?” Massetrino barked.

  Dan smiled at Susan, then hurried along.

  F O U R

  Even here!

  Even here he heard the voices. Much fainter, of course,

  because of the thick stone. But still, as Fred made his way

  down the spiral metal stairs, he could hear the voices chat-

  tering just beyond the walls, laughing, calling—

  Fred . . . come with us. Out here. In the water.

  He held the railway even tighter, to keep his balance.

  (To keep his sanity.)

  Curving around the metal staircase, trying to remember

  ( Please let me remember) where the bottle was hidden. Was it behind the maze of pipes just below, lodged safe and sound in

  a moldy corner? Or was it farther down, hidden in one of the

  countless other dark nooks and crannies inside the dam?

  He licked his lips.

  Fred . . .

  He thought he heard another laugh then, lower, deeper.

  A new sound almost like the sleepy growl of an animal.

  The damned reporters following him were talking too.

  (Laughing. Sure, they didn’t know. They weren’t here every

  day to hear the voices.)

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  55

  Oh, God, now he wanted to just go away. Everything

  would be fine if he could just leave, back to the White

  Horse, and back to people who spoke out loud.

  (Instead of just in his mind.)

  “Ca-careful of the steps,” he repeated dully, from the

  years of leading the state engineers on inspection tours, with

  their nice clean suits and clipboards. “Watch your—”

  He felt the tremor. Doubting it for just a moment.

  The air seemed to go funny, dead, and the dark walls of

  the shaft started to go blurry from the vibrations.

  He moaned.

  Stumbling, he reached out against the nearest wall for

  support, and it vibrated—for just a second—under his fin-

  gertips.

  The woman was screaming, and it scared him.

  “This way to the dungeon,” Dan said, holding the heavy

  metal door open for Susan. Following her, he smelled the

  interior of the dam—the incredibly rich, almost loamy

  smell of damp stone and metal. It looked pitch-black inside.

  For a moment he saw nothing, blinded by the sudden

  darkness. Then his eyes adjusted, and he saw the curving

  spiral staircase, leading down into an uninviting gloom.

  It was like some twisting nightmare castle painted by

  Escher, no top or bottom, leading absolutely nowhere.

  Ugly, naked light bulbs barely lit the dark entranceway. Be-

  low, he saw a chaotic maze of pipes, surrounded by the

  brooding stone blocks of the dam’s walls.

  This place was loaded with charm.

  “Are you okay?” he asked Susan.

  She turned toward him and gave him a plucky smile.

  “It’s not my dream vacation, but I’ve been in worse places.”

  So have I, he thought. And just what was the worst place he’d ever been? Elephant Island maybe, that godforsaken

  place in the Antarctic that seemed designed to illustrate the

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  word desolate? Or maybe the Northern California forest he walked through after fire had turned it into a black, stink-ing mess. (And his nostrils flared, picking up the smell of

  something else, the smell of burnt fur and bone.)

  “Ca-careful of the step,” Massetrino barked back at them.

  “He used to work at the Statue of Liberty,” Dan whis-

  pered to Susan.

  “Yes. And before that, Dracula’s Castle.” She laughed.

  “This place is like a tomb.”

  Massetrino had arrived at some kind of ladder. (Dan

  could hear him clumping away, the metal flooring rattling

  under his plodding feet.)

  “Watch your—” Massetrino started to call out.

  The stairs moved, vibrating, even as Dan was in mid-step.

  He knew immediately what it was. As if somehow his

  brain carried a primeval imprint of one of the big surprises

  nature can deliver when you least expect it. Automatically

  his hands went out to the sides, as his sense of balance

  evaporated like last night’s dream. First a tingling, then a

  rumbling made his feet quiver (and he stepped back, trying

  to keep his footing).

  Susan screamed.

  She fell forward when the first tremor hit, tumbling near

  Massetrino and falling to her knees on the metal walkway.

  (And Dan heard another sound. He thought for a moment

  it was the walls themselves groaning. He saw Massetrino,

  his eyes barely catching the light, wild-eyed, terrified.)

  In a matter of seconds the earthquake was over.

  “Jesus,” he said, helping Susan to her feet. “Are you all

  right?”

  “I . . . I didn’t know what it was.” She laughed. “Sorry

  for yelling. I thought it . . . I didn’t know . . . I thought it was something else.”

  Yeah, he thought. Like maybe the end of the world. Some

  nuclear nightmare catching us right in the gozongas. Sure.

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  57

  And wouldn’t this be a wonderful place to watch the

  Earth’s last moments?

  “This happen often?” he said, turning to Massetrino.

  The site engineer just stood there, licking his gummy

  lips some more. “No,” Massetrino answered dully. “Every

  few years there’s a quake. Something small.”

  “That wasn’t all that small, friend.”

  “There’s a fault line just about five miles from here,”

  Susan said. “Right near the nuclear power plant on the

  Hudson, if you can believe that.”

  “Of course. That’s where I’d build a nuclear plant,

  wouldn’t you? Why not put it on a beautiful river just out-

  side one of the world’s largest population centers? Makes

  perfect sense to me.”

  Susan continued. “It’s called the Ramapo Fault, and it

  runs right through Bear Mountain Park. Apparently three

  separate mountain ranges meet there.”

  Massetrino started to shuffle away. “Our guide is moving

  on. We’d best catch up to him before he leaves us trapped in

  this mausoleum.”

  It was just a joke, but when Massetrino seemed to dis-

  appear into a corner, the image seemed a bit too real.

  It would be a nasty place to spend the night.

  Then old Fred was back, the familiar aroma of a fresh

  belt emanating from his mouth.

  Needed a constitutional, eh, old boy? Something to put

  the starch back into your shirt. A song on your lips and a

  smile on your face. Only Fred looked to be about as un-

  happy and confused as ever.

  “Yeah, it was a strong quake,” Massetrino said. “Never

  felt one like that, not here.” He looked up and around at the

  pipes. “These pipes here . . . could be real bad if they

  broke. They carry water from the top of the wall. Some of

  them,” he said, reaching up and running a hand along one

  large, sweaty pipe, “go directly to nearby towns for their
/>
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  water supply. Some used to go right to the Croton Aque-

  duct . . . for New York City’s water.”

  He looked at Susan. “But not anymore.”

  “Why not?” she asked.

  “There’s no need. The Ashokan system upstate has

  more than enough dam water. Now, this reservoir is noth-

  ing more than a local convenience.”

  “But it was needed when it was built, right?” she asked.

  Dan was listening, but he was also taking pictures, of

  the stairs, looking up to the open metal door and down to

  the even larger maze of pipes and the jumble of machinery.

  Massetrino hesitated.

  “Well,” Dan asked, turning to him, “it was needed, then,

  wasn’t it?”

  Massetrino looked around, almost as if he were check-

  ing to see if someone was eavesdropping on him “I . . .

  don’t know. I mean, there must have been some reason

  to build this thing, had to be.” He stepped closer, looking

  in Susan’s direction (who gave Dan her best don’t-leave-

  me-alone-with-this-guy look). “I just don’t know if they

  ever really needed this reservoir.” He looked at Dan.

  “Ever.”

  Massetrino coughed, a phlegmy sound that echoed

  oddly in the dark passageway. He spit over the side of the

  railing. “I’ll show you the pumps now. More stairs, though,”

  he said. “Careful. They get damp lately somehow.”

  He shuffled along the metal walkway.

  Dan wanted to put his arm around Susan. It seemed like

  a natural thing to do, to pull her close and keep her warm.

  But there still hadn’t been anything from her except a pro-

  fessional interest. At this point in his life he couldn’t han-

  dle anything resembling rejection.

  Massetrino was climbing down again, the steady slide and

  plop of his feet a rhythmic spore to be followed. It got colder,

  and the air was thick and damp stuff, difficult to breathe.

  “How big is this thing, anyway?” Dan called ahead.

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  59

  Massetrino again cleared his throat. “What you can see,

  outside, is only about one third of the dam. There’s twice

  as much buried underground. Most of the pumps are at

  ground level. You’ll be able to see them . . . then leave from

  the bottom.”

  “Get the feeling he wants to get rid of us?” Susan whis-

  pered.

  (And she came real close to him that time, she did. Real