It was like the feeling he got when he walked across a
bridge and looked down into the water, wondering . . .
What would it be like if he jumped in?
Just for a minute.
And feeling that strange tingling sensation, as though your
body could act on its own, leap over the side as if to say—
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117
(You thought of it, baby, so here it is.)
What’s a house like after fifty years under water? Did
they leave anything behind? A fake Persian rug in the liv-
ing room? A red-and-blue ball in the baby’s room?
“Jack says to keep moving south,” Dan announced.
“You should come to another block soon that will—wait a
minute.”
Tom swam hard to catch up with his partner. He heard
Dan talking to Jack, the microphone button left on, but it
wasn’t carrying clearly enough.
“Wait a minute,” Dan said, now speaking into the mi-
crophone. “Jack thinks that he may have . . .”
Another pause, and more talking back and forth.
May have what, dammit? He was abreast of Ed now. Ed
tapped his arm, a sudden gesture that startled Tom.
“Watch the fence,” Ed said, pointing to the remains of a
stockade fence, weaving around crazily, seemingly on the
verge of collapse. “What’s the story, Dan?” he said, letting
his voice rise.
“Jack thinks he’s picked up something, guys, near
where you are.”
Instinctively Tom made his light do a slow 360-degree
turn around him, but there was nothing there but the ever-
present suspended particles of algae and sand.
“Don’t see anything,” Tom said. “How about you, Ed?”
“Nothing.”
“It’s just ahead,” Jack said now, taking the microphone
again. “Not more than twenty, thirty feet—”
“Is it large enough, I mean—” Ed started to ask.
“It could be a body,” Russo said. “Are you sure you
don’t see it?”
“I don’t see any—” Tom started to say, but then he no-
ticed that Ed wasn’t beside him . . . like he just suddenly
vanished into the gloom.
“Hey, Ed, where the hell are you?”
“Over here!”
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Tom barely saw his partner’s light dimly wave back and
forth. “I still don’t see anything.”
Shit. This was too creepy. Too creepy. Whatever it was,
he hoped that Ed—good old rock-solid, brass-balls Ed—
would find it. And soon too.
“You’ve got to see it!” Russo was yelling excitedly, for-
getting as usual about the eardrums. “You’ve got to see . . .
them.”
“Them?” Tom said. “Now, what the hell do you mean,
‘them,’ Russo?”
“He’s got a couple of blips.” It was Dan’s voice. “He’s
trying to get an exact fix. But there’s two, maybe three things
moving around down there.”
“Great.”
And Tom decided then and there that he was going to
swim over to his partner and stay right by him. Hold on to
the bastard, even. Maybe he had enough balls for both of
them.
Maybe.
He followed Ed’s light, moving back and forth, search-
ing for the source of the blips.
“Hey, friend, here I—”
He swam into it.
Big and dark, it thudded into him, and he yelled.
Quickly—oh, real quickly—he kicked back like a fish try-
ing to pull away from a hook. And he brought his light up
to see what he had just swum into.
It was a leg.
Most of one anyway. All torn and jagged at the thigh
(with a good-sized chunk of whitish bone sticking out of
the top). The pant leg and shoe were still on, though, ready
for a nice underwater stroll.
“Jesus,” he said, “I think—” He back pedaled some
more. “I think I found the boy. Part of him, anyway.”
He turned to search for Ed.
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119
And then the matching head was right there at his
shoulder, looking right at him.
He screamed.
On board the boat, Russo quickly hit the squelch but-
ton, preventing the sound from getting back to the shore
party.
Ed swam over to him.
It was just a head, suspended in the water, eyes open, the
mouth puckered as if it were about to speak.
Say, have you seen my leg? I know it’s around here
somewhere. . . .
“You okay?” Ed asked, his gloved hand tapping on his
faceplate.
“Sure. Just wish it had been you that found it, instead
of me.”
Ed was removing a large plastic bag from a small pouch
strapped to his side.
“I’ll put it in, if it’s okay with you.”
“Be my guest,” Tom said.
He watched almost with amazement as Ed matter-of-
factly took the head and guided it into the bag. Then he
grabbed the leg, seemingly strolling in the other direction,
and put that in.
“Let’s call it a night,” Ed said, sealing the bag with an
industrial-strength twist tie.
“No argument here,” Tom said, and he started kicking
his way upward, checking his depth gauge, taking the nec-
essary time to decompress.
And not a second more.
When he finally reached the surface, he thought he
might throw up. He pulled off his face mask and gulped the
cool night air.
Russo brought the boat alongside, and then Ed popped
up, the heavy brown plastic bag in his hand.
Tom wasted no time scrambling onto the boat. He saw
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Russo pull the bag on board, filled with the two body parts
and water. Ed clambered in after it.
“I just have to get rid of some of the water,” Russo an-
nounced to everyone as he undid the tie and started tipping
the bag.
They all watched Russo tilt the water out, taking care to
keep the two body parts in the bag.
“Just a bit more. The morgue doesn’t want a bagful of—”
The boat rocked.
A wave—a damn wave!—from somewhere hit the small
boat. Ed was standing and nearly tumbled forward onto the
bag. Dan grabbed the side of the boat to get his balance.
Tom slid against the side of the boat.
But Russo let the bag slip out of his hand. The open end
was tilted down, facing the trough of the queer, tilted wave
that had just rocked the boat.
The head rolled out. Three, four turns, around and around
until it came to stop right at Tom’s feet, looking up now at
the night sky. That’s when he saw it.
This wasn’t a kid. It was a man, some grizzled old man
with a beat-up face and thin, grayish hair.
“Who the hell is this?” Tom said. “It’s not that boy,
dammit. Who the fuckin’ hell is this?”
The boat was still. Dan stood up and walked over to
Tom. He looked down.
“Fred Massetrino,” Dan said flatly. His nostrils flared,
picking up a strange smell. “He’s site supervisor at the dam.”
“And the boy?” Ed asked.
Dan looked at him, then at Tom.
“Still down there, I guess. Still down there . . .”
They sat there for a full minute before Ed went over and
replaced what was left of Fred Massetrino into the bag.
Russo started the engine and slowly took the boat to-
ward shore.
PART TWO
T E N
They were walking slowly, Susan noticed. Though dead
tired and lusting for the rumpled sheets of her queen-size
bed (alone), she wanted Dan to stay . . . at least for a few
more minutes.
A few minutes to talk some more, about the boat, the
dam, and Fred’s body. Hoping all the time that talking
about it would make it seem somehow less strange, less
bizarre.
I spoke to him that morning, she kept telling herself, remembering their tour with Fred Massetrino. That very day.
And how many hours later would he find his way to the
bottom of the reservoir, down to the remnants of Gouldens
Falls?
It was a picture she just couldn’t chase from her mind.
And she would like to reach out, take Dan’s hand, and
just hold it—like a schoolgirl. Something warm and living
to keep Fred’s grizzled face out of her mind.
But he might misinterpret it, walking her to her door,
holding her hand. . . . She was too tired for a long explana-
tion of why, tonight, she didn’t want anyone coming inside.
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(And always the same excuses to put men off: “Claire
might wake up . . . I’ve got an early day tomorrow”—
anything but an honest “No, buster, I don’t want to screw
you.”)
Not that she found Dan unattractive. Just the opposite,
actually. He was a far cry from the usual single (and mar-
ried) businessmen who hit on her. He was exciting, unpre-
dictable, and maybe even a bit dangerous.
Before anything would happen, though, she would have
to know him better. She’d been burned too many damned
times, humiliated by good-looking hunks with all the sen-
sitivity of rattlesnakes.
Still, she wouldn’t discourage him.
“So,” she said, turning around on her small front porch,
“what are you doing tomorrow?”
“Kindly Reverend Winston, dear fellow, gave me Billy
Leeper’s address, if you can believe it. He lives out on
Montauk, sort of retired, and I thought I’d go talk with
him.”
She laughed. “Montauk? Not exactly around the
corner—what is it, three, four hours away? Why don’t you
call?”
Dan smiled (and Susan was glad to see that he didn’t
take offense at her rude chuckling). “Turns out he has no
phone. He’s been invited to the celebrations countless
times, but he’s ignored all their letters.”
“Maybe he’s dead.”
Dan leaned against the door. “Winston didn’t think so.
He heard from him a few years ago, when he was first re-
searching Gouldens Falls. He said Leeper described him-
self as pretty much of a hermit since his wife died.”
“So you’re going to drive there, just hoping he’ll talk to
you?”
“Hell, Billy Leeper was in the town on its last day. Actu-
ally in the town. And he was with that other boy, Jackie . . .”
“Weeks.”
b e n e a t h s t i l l w a t e r s
125
“Right. The boy who didn’t get out. I’d like to talk with
him about the town . . . and that day.”
She nodded, dug around in her bag for her keys. “More
power to you. It will use up a whole day, though.”
“I can’t dive tomorrow, anyhow. They’ll still be looking
for the other body—”
“And meanwhile trying to figure out what happened to
Fred.”
Dan came closer, and she stiffened, expecting the first
step in his bid for a shot at her.
But he spoke slowly, deliberately.
(Scaring her.)
“Susan, I don’t know what happened to Fred. Maybe
they’ll find out, maybe they won’t. Until they do, I’d like you
to be careful . . . maybe even stay away from the reservoir.”
She stuck her key in (perhaps a bit disappointed that
Dan’s expected move didn’t come). “Well, tomorrow I’m
busy writing up festive ideas for the big weekend. Cool
summer recipes and all that. So I won’t go near there—not
that I’m worried.”
“Good girl. Hey,” he said, looking down at his watch,
“I’ve got to go. I plan on being on the road at six at the lat-
est. That’s mighty early for me.”
She took a step inside her door.
“Need a free dinner tomorrow?”
“Sure. If I’m lucky, I’ll be back by four—five, maybe.
And there’s a bonus. You’ll get the true story of Billy
Leeper, assuming I get to see him.”
“See you then,” she said, and stepped inside the front
door. She slowly shut it behind her, letting it click into
place, then turning the bolt.
Then she heard Claire.
Whimpering softly, almost inaudibly.
“Claire, honey!” she called, even as she hurried toward
her daughter’s room, knowing—
It’s another one of those nightmares.
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“Claire.” She saw her all curled up on her bed, her light
on, her blanket wrapped tightly around her.
She went to the bed, sat, and pulled her close.
“Claire . . . you’ve been dreaming again. It’s okay, honey,
I’m home now.”
Her daughter heaved against her, sobbing now, arms
wrapped around her tightly.
“Oh, Mommy, Mommy, I hate that dream. Why does it
keep on happening?” Claire cried, sounding so young and
defenseless.
Susan ran her hand through her daughter’s hair. It rolled
in waves, just like her father’s, catching every bit of light.
Not a day went by when she didn’t look at Claire and have
to think of her father.
“I don’t know, baby, but it’s all over. Try to go back to
sleep now. Shut the light out and—”
Claire reached and closed a hand around her mother’s.
“Stay with me . . . for a few minutes.”
Susan smiled (not letting herself worry, really worry,
about her daughter . . . not now). “Sure, honey. I’ll stay
here awhile.”
And she sat in the semidarkness, with just the glow of
the hall light.
Please, God, she prayed. Please.
Make the nightmare stop.
Please.
“I’m comin’, dammit. Hold your damn horses.”
What the hell hour was it, anyway? John Feely won-
dered, his head all fuzzy and banging from the five beers
he’d downed before turning in.
He and his wife took turns coming out to the
motel of-
fice after midnight, and he hated it . . . padding across the
cold linoleum floor, wondering whether it would be some
punk with a handgun looking for crack money.
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127
“I’m comin’. Jesus!”
The buzzer kept ringing. Louder as he came to the front
desk (with its plastic card displaying all the credit cards
“gladly accepted”).
And it was not the typical graveyard-shift customer.
No, In fact, Feely felt almost embarrassed by cursing
out this . . . this . . . gentleman.
A nice suit; a nice, real respectable-looking attaché
case; and every hair in place.
Feely thought he must look like the biggest piece of shit
in the universe.
“Sorry, mister”—Feely smiled—“I get a bit grouchy
being waked up and all, after going to sleep. You know—”
“Perfectly. I understand. You do have a room?”
“Oh, sure . . . sure. By the weekend we’ll be filled. The
celebration and all.”
“Yes,” the man said. “I know all about that.”
No, sir, Feely thought, not the usual post-midnight sort at
all. They usually ran to hyped-up truckers looking to catch
an hour of sleep or a break from white-line fever. Or a young
couple stumbling around, no luggage and out for a quickie.
This guy looked like some kind of bank president.
“What card will you use?”
The man smiled. “Is cash acceptable?”
Feely rubbed his chin. “Sure. How long you planning on
staying?”
“Just till Saturday.”
Feely passed the man a registration card and an official
Ellerton Motor Inn pen (“Reasonable Rates, Clean
Rooms”). He watched the man fill it out.
“Fine, Mr. . . . Parks.” Then he checked out the rest of
the card. “There’s no . . . address here or—”
Parks put two hundred dollars on the counter. “No,” he
said. “There isn’t.” He smiled right at Feely.
(And damn if Feely didn’t know he’d better think twice
about mentioning the registration card again.)
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“Sure . . . thanks, Mr. Parks.” He grabbed a key from
off the back wall. “Here . . . it’s number eleven, nice and
quiet, around the back.” He saw the man’s eyes narrow.
“Unless, that is, if you’d rather—”
Parks’s hand closed around the key. “No, that’ll be fine.
Just tell the maid not to come and clean up. I prefer . . . not
being disturbed.”
“Sure, just—”
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