Beneath Still Waters
Page 9
“It was like a Looney Tunes cartoon. One minute I was
there, and the next minute I was flying through space. If I
hadn’t stopped falling, I think I would have died.”
Claire was chewing her lower lip. “God, what did
you do?”
“I hit a branch—about halfway down—and it broke my
fall. Then I was hanging there, like some kind of monkey,
trying to scramble up the branch.” His eyes seemed to
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79
cloud over and she thought, he’s back there too, he’s reliv-
ing it right now.
“Then the attack came. My asthma. Couldn’t have been
a worse time. I couldn’t breathe, my lungs started to clog up,
and I was hanging there gasping. I think I started to cry.”
“And you couldn’t get at you aspirator?”
“Right.” He smiled.
(And now she knew he wasn’t like the others her mom
brought home. He was real, with secrets to be shared.)
“I was ready to let go. I couldn’t hold on anymore.
That’s when my best friend, a kid named Simon, started
screaming at me. ‘Get up, you jerk,’ he yelled. ‘Get your
butt up.’ And all I did was listen to my friend’s voice,
yelling over and over, telling me to climb onto the branch.
I listened, and for one of the few times in my life I did what
I was told.”
“You got up?” She smiled.
“Slowly, barely able to breathe, but I got up. Then,
shaking like I’d seen my own ghost, I reached into my
jeans pocket, popped out my trusty aspirator, and sucked
on it. It was ten minutes before I was breathing normally
again.”
“What a great story!”
“Only,” he said, grinning, “it’s not a story. When I think
of camp, I think of that day and just about nothing else.”
“Claire . . . would you come and help me carry out the
food?”
“I’ll be back,” she said, suddenly afraid that her new
discovery would disappear.
Her mother was at the sink, gently tossing the spaghetti
in the air one more time to get the water off.
“I like him,” Claire said quietly. “He’s a real person.”
Susan Sloan handed her daughter the spaghetti and
pushed a strand of Claire’s hair off her forehead.
“And so do I,” she whispered to her.
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The knock on the door was a slight, tentative thing. Wiley
knew his secretary was gone for the day, no eager beaver
she, and he quickly deduced who it might be.
“Come in,” he said.
Jamie Collins walked in, a playful smile on her face. So
young. So loaded with energy. She closed the door behind
her. “I thought you might like some company.”
“Oh, God, I don’t know. Things are really getting crazy
around here.”
She stepped closer to him, and he picked up the rich,
musky aroma of her perfume, a scent that carried with it
memories of their tryst. The motels and beds might change,
but that smell stayed the same.
She smiled. “Problem with the company?” And she
rested her hand on his shoulder.
“No,” he said, letting his hand travel up her leg, slowly
tracing the exquisite shape of her firm, sleek legs. “There’s
divers coming to look for that boy’s body—at night, no less.
I figure I should be there.”
She slowly knelt down beside him.
(And now he felt himself start to harden. More than
most girls he dallied with, Jamie knew how to tease. She
moved slowly, almost catlike, and it drove him crazy.)
“So you won’t be going home for a while, then,” she
said, licking her lips.
He leaned back, pushing his chair away from his over-
size (and underutilized) desk. He saw her eyes fall to his
crotch.
“Oh,” she said, reaching out to him, letting her hand
gently grasp the now obvious bump in his pants. “Then we
have time to play.”
His answer was a grunt, and he reached down and pressed
a button under his desk that locked his door.
And for a little while, with her dark eyes looking up at
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81
him, enjoying his pleasure, wriggling in his seat, Wiley
forgot all the problems that seemed to have come out of
nowhere.
“I’ll clear,” Claire said, popping up from the table and grab-
bing a few dishes.
She was a serious kid, Dan thought. Not your average
bubble-headed eleven-year-old. He had been on trial the
moment he walked in the door, and somehow letting his
guard down, exposing himself to her, had won her over.
She was also in pain.
From the divorce, perhaps. But also something else,
something else she was hiding, very deep.
“Thanks, sweetheart,” Susan said. She looked at Dan.
“Some coffee? Maybe a bit of ice cream?”
“Sure. If there’s time. I have to go in a bit to meet the lo-
cal historian. I was wondering if we could swap notes before
I leave.”
“Sure, though I didn’t get to run through all the papers
and microfilm. But I can tell you the strangest thing I found
out.”
“What was that?”
“The dam was approved in a matter of weeks and then
built in thirteen months.”
“That’s odd?”
“Very. Most of the big WPA projects took a year or more
for all the state, local, and federal paperwork to be filed. But
this project just breezed through, and the rate of construc-
tion was incredible. Similar reservoirs in other parts of the
state took up to five years to build.”
“So what’s it all mean?” Dan glanced out at the kitchen.
Claire was digging out great spoonfuls of green ice cream
and dumping them into bowls.
“Someone wanted the project done quickly, and they
had enough clout or money to make it happen.”
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“Was there any clue to who that might be?”
“None. At least not in the papers. What did you find out
in the library?”
He smiled, remembering the thin file on Kenicut. “Not
much, I’m afraid.” Claire arrived with the ice cream. “Mint
chocolate chip?” he asked.
“Absolutely,” Claire said. “It’s Mom’s and my favorite.”
She went out to the kitchen for her own bowl.
“Anyway, the town records give the date when the proj-
ect was first proposed, when construction began, and not
much else. There’s only one thing that seemed peculiar.”
“And that was?”
“It was only after the project was approved—actually
approved—that I found a published reason for its construc-
tion. It’s like it was some kind of Mafia kickback deal,
where they set the whole thing up and then think of a rea-
son. But I can’t imagine how so many people, at the state
level and all, could have gone a
long with it.”
“Well, I have another year’s worth of papers to go through
tomorrow.”
“And maybe kindly Reverend Winston will be able to
help me out.”
“Hey, everybody, your ice cream’s melting,” Claire
shouted, scooping up a great greenish gob of the desert.
“Say no more, sprout, I’m digging in,” Dan said, obey-
ing. And he looked at Susan, letting a dangerous thought
linger for a moment before giving himself over to his mint
chocolate chip ice cream.
Damn, he had to leave.
The divers would be coming soon, along with a whole
crowd of busybodies, cops, firemen, anyone and everyone
who wanted to watch the dive into the reservoir.
He could tell them what was wrong. Sure. But nobody
asked him. The damn bottle was empty, and he had been so
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83
good about trying to save it, to ration it, taking small slugs.
No, sips! Trying to make it last. Now, dammit, it was all
gone. There was no way around it. He’d have to go get the
other bottle.
The other bottle, he thought. The one that’s tucked away
inside the dam itself.
Sure, he could try to get to his car instead and get away,
just drive away to the White Horse and meet all his old
pals . . . Johnny Walker, Jim Beam, and the old fart him-
self, Old Granddad.
But the voices wouldn’t allow that, now would they? He
knew too much. He had figured out too much. They wanted
him to stay right here, nice and close, where he could hear
them, talking to him from under the water.
( Gone, he thought. I’m completely gone. Crazy. This is what it’s like. To be nuts. To hear things that aren’t there. To imagine strange, bad things, things that just aren’t real.
Couldn’t be real. But somehow—he laughed to himself—
are real. He laughed out loud. As real as this dumb-ass office and the dam itself. As real as sin. )
But he had to leave now. In a while there’d be too many
people around, walking and nosing about, for him to go
into the dam. The dam was supposed to be locked up tight,
and he had a key. Oh, yes, he still was, after all, the site
supervisor.
He stood up.
He unbolted the door and opened it. He smelled the
fresh air.
Just have to be quick, that’s all. Get over to the dam,
climb down, get the bottle—
(It’s still in there, isn’t it?)
And then back, safe and sound. Snug as a bug in a rug.
He looked around for the cop left on guard duty. For a
moment he couldn’t see him. Then he noticed a blue shirt
ducking in and out of the trees over at the north end of the
lake. Perfect. He was well away from Fred’s little jaunt.
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Then he saw his own beat-up car, and again he won-
dered whether he should try to get to it. It was just a walk
of fifty feet or so. And then, hopping in (quickly!) and
driving away. Maybe he could do it . . .
But maybe, just maybe, they wouldn’t let him.
No, they wanted him here now. He knew that. He ac-
cepted that.
He let his office door swing shut and then started to walk
over to the stone stairs leading up to the wall, then across
the walkway. (Making double sure not to look at the water.
No, sir.) And he was amazed at how steady on his feet he
was. What had he downed—about a fifth of bourbon—and
look at him! One foot in front of the other, just like a regu-
lar person. He grinned, pleased with himself.
This is nothing, he thought. A piece of cake.
The roadway curved to the left, leaving the dam, and he
came to the matching stone staircase at the eastern end
leading to the metal door. (To which I’ve got the key, yes,
indeed.)
He stepped down—a little wobbly here on the steps.
Damn things must be a bit tilted. He had the key out and
ready . . . best not to waste a moment, not a second, in his
task.
The key didn’t fit at first, until he turned the thing around
and he heard the heavy bolt slide away. He pulled open the
metal door and went in.
Tomorrow the state engineers would snoop in there,
bright and early, to see the crack. That’s when I lose my
job, he thought. That’s when they find out that I haven’t been staying on top of things.
No, I’ve been a bit preoccupied.
He went down the staircase, the rattle echoing in the
narrow cavern. Across the walkway, past some pipes, to an-
other stairway. Then down again—halfway—to where he
knew the bottle was hidden. He stopped and felt in the
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85
wedge-shaped pocket made by the pipe in the wall. He felt
nothing.
“Shit. Now where the hell,” he said, spluttering, his
hand flopping around in the wedge, trying to feel for the
bottle. Then he began to panic, because if it wasn’t there,
he’d have to try to leave.
He heard something.
A voice.
(But not in his head. No, this was a regular voice. An
out-loud voice. Coming from just above him.)
“Who the—” he shouted. “Who the hell—”
Again he heard it. Like someone whispering, talking
about him.
He looked at the walkway above him. A big rat was star-
ing down at him, big oval eyes, its pointy canines just pro-
truding from its thin rubbery lips. The ugly sucker
squeaked. Watching him.
“You goddamn—” he yelled, and he reached up and
banged at the metal flooring, sending the chattering rat
darting away.
He saw the bottle. Somehow, maybe in the earthquake,
it had slipped a few feet. Now it was barely balanced on the
pipe where it curved away from the wall. The engineers
would have been sure to spot it the next day.
He reached over and grabbed it. (Thinking What the
hell as he unscrewed the top and took a healthy hit from the
bottle. Then another. Just enough to help him back to his
shack, back to safety.)
He stuck the bottle under his belt, close to his belly, and
after checking that it was secure, he stood up, hustling now,
rushing. He reached the door and shut it gently. (Didn’t
want the cop to turn and see him now.) He got his key out
and locked the bolt. Then back across the roadway, ignor-
ing the late commuters coming from the Ellerton station
driving past him. Again pleased with how well he was
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moving. He was damn proud of himself. Just as long as he
didn’t look at the water. Just as long—
But somehow, just out of the very corner of his eye—he
wasn’t looking, not really—he noticed something floating
near the surface. Something whitish and big.
And he looked.
His pace slowed as he started trying to make out what
the damn thing could be. Yeah, it was some
thing white, just
below the surface.
“What the hell?”
There were no voices. The voices were somehow gone.
There was no sound in his ears at all. Nothing except the
occasional hum of a passing car.
It felt safe.
He went to the stone guardrail and looked down at the
thing. It was floating, bobbing up and down, getting closer
to him.
Soon he’d be able to see it.
He kept staring down at the thing, trying to see what the
hell it was, just under the water. It came closer, almost to
the edge where the reservoir’s water slapped against the
dam’s wall.
It bobbed up.
It was a face. Under the water. Its eyes wide open. (Not
regular eyes. Eyes like he’d never seen before.) And the
mouth was open too. (Like when he went crabbing with his
kids and they’d pick up the fish head with notches cutting
into it that was tied to the string. And for a while nobody
could say anything, then they’d see the head, all chewed
up, one eye left, then a crab just about to scuttle off, if he
was lucky.)
Then the voices came back, like a surprise party erupt-
ing from a closet. He started to back away.
But it was too late. The face was coming up out of the
water, leaping up at him, while its hands (so cleverly hidden
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87
before) reached out and grabbed Fred’s sweat-stained shirt
and pulled him in.
He thought he screamed. He thought he yelled loud
enough that the cop heard him. He had to have heard him.
But he just didn’t realize that his scream, his full-
throated, whiskey-coated yell, just didn’t carry too well un-
der the dark, cool water of the Kenicut Dam.
S E V E N
She took the airplane demo seat belt—now worn almost
threadbare by years of lifeless safety demonstrations—and
replaced it in its small compartment.
The man in front of her was watching her mannequin
routine with unusual attention, even for a horny business-
man. She was more than used to being scrutinized by plane-
loads of men, all of whom fantasized that they actually had a
chance to score with her, a real live stewardess. Of course,
none of them had a shot at it, and any imagined extra-
friendliness that they perceived was just standard company
policy.
But, thought Karen McCammon, there were always ex-
ceptions. And this fellow—with his jet-black hair, blue eyes,