Under the Lake

10

Bo Scully drove from his office south along the lake shore. He tried breathing deeply to dissolve the knot that grew tighter in him with every mile. It was always this way, he thought, as the knot continued to form; it always would be, he supposed. He turned through the wrought-iron gates, which stood open to receive him.

Their relationship had always been peculiar, he thought, since the very night Eric Sutherland had first spoken to him, as he limped off the field after a particularly bruising game in his junior year of high school. He had just turned seventeen. Sutherland had invited him to lunch the next day, and the event had been awkward for both of them. Sutherland had never married, had no immediate family; Bo was fatherless, so he had reckoned the man was simply extending a kindly hand to a fatherless boy. But there was nothing kindly about Sutherland, even when he was working hard to be hospitable. It had occurred to Bo that Sutherland might be queer, but there had never been any hint of that in their relationship, not since that first day, when they had eaten club sandwiches on the back terrace of the big house and talked stiffly of Bo’s football career.

He saw Sutherland infrequently, though they talked on the phone more often, when Sutherland needed something or wanted something done. The summonses to the house were infrequent, a few times a year, not counting the big annual party, and there was always something specific and of importance to discuss, as there had been when Sutherland had suggested – nearly ordered – that Bo run for the dead sheriffs unexpired term. Bo wondered what it would be today.

His heavy shoe struck the tiles of the front stoop with a hollow sound that somehow reminded Bo of the whole house. It was certainly well furnished, he thought, as the white-jacketed black man showed him into the house and down the hall to the study. But the house seemed unused, uninhabited by any real person. It might have been a photograph in a glossy magazine. Even the study, which he now entered, seemed to belong to some absent spirit rather than its owner, who had built it. Its order was too perfect, almost obsessive. Bo suspected that the leather-bound classics on the shelves had not been read, and he had never known Sutherland to use the expensive shotguns in the polished mahogany case. He thought that many of the things in the study might have belonged to Sutherland’s father, who Bo had never known. Sutherland nodded at a chair, and Bo sat in it. The servant noiselessly closed the door behind him.

“You all right?” Sutherland offered a box of cigars.

“I’m real good, Eric.” The man had insisted on being addressed by his Christian name ever since Bo had come back from Korea. Bo was the only person he knew who called him that, and Bo was not comfortable with it. He accepted the cigar; he thought it must be Cuban, though he had no way of knowing, since he despised cigars.

Sutherland came to the point quickly, as he always did. “I think it’s time Mr. John Howell departed us,” he said.

Bo stopped himself from objecting; first he wanted to know exactly what Sutherland meant by ‘depart.' He put the cigar in the ashtray next to him and left it there.

“I want you to see to it,” Sutherland said.

Bo leaned forward and placed his elbows on his knees. “Eric, I don’t think we should overreact to Howell.” He still didn’t have a firm grasp on Sutherland’s intentions, but he was worried by what the old man might mean.

“He’s up here to spy, isn’t he?”

“I’m not at all sure that he is,” Bo said, as calmly as he could manage. He thought that Howell probably was at the lake to spy, but not quite the sort of spying Sutherland had in mind, and he felt this was no moment to agree wholeheartedly with Sutherland. This felt very dangerous. “My best information was that he left his job some time back to write a book. He hasn’t worked for the paper for a long time, now.”

“He knows them, though, and they know him. He’s just the sort of fellow they’d put up here if they were being sneaky, don’t you see that?”

“Well, since he knocked an editor of the paper halfway across the newsroom when he left, I don’t know that I do think he’d be the sort they’d send.” He was trying to sound reasonable; he’d never seen Sutherland quite so worked up. “His name seems to be mud around that newspaper.”

“Well, maybe he’s doing it on his own, then. Maybe he thinks he can work his way back into their good graces if he comes up with something here.”

“Our information was that the paper was sending one of its reporters. It just doesn’t add up.” Bo thought it just might add up, but he was fighting his way out of a corner, now.

Sutherland slapped his palm on the leather surface of the big desk. “Well just why in hell can’t they leave it alone, for God’s sake? It’s been nearly twenty-five years.”

“Of course it has,” Bo said. “What could he possibly dig up that could be embarrassing after this long?”

“Nearly twenty-five goddamn years,” Sutherland said, then sagged back into his chair.

“Now, Eric, I don’t want you to worry about this,” Bo said, as soothingly as he could manage. “I’m keeping an eye on Howell, and so far there’s been nothing to be alarmed about.” That wasn’t true, but he didn’t want Sutherland alarmed. Sutherland alarmed was dangerous. “You just trust me to handle him; it’ll be all right, I promise you.” He wanted Sutherland calm for his own reasons. Anyway, Howell had probably saved his ass during that holdup, and he liked the man. “Let’s not overreact,” he said again.

“I wish I’d never put that money in the bank,” Sutherland said. “It eats at me to this day.”

“You did the best thing in the circumstances,” Bo replied. “You covered yourself. There might have been serious trouble if you hadn’t done that.”

Sutherland sagged even further. “All right. You keep an eye on him. If there’s the slightest sign that he’s after something, I want to know about it, you hear?”

“Why, sure, Eric, you just leave it to me.”

Bo’s shirt was sticking to him when he left the house a few minutes later. He had to keep Sutherland happy; the man didn’t have an important heir, and Bo knew he was in line for something, maybe everything. God knew, the old man had brought it up often enough. John Howell might be a problem, or he might not be. Bo thought the best thing to do was wait. As a rule, he preferred waiting until he had to move. He still didn’t know what Sutherland’s intentions toward Howell had been. He had been afraid to ask. He didn’t want to know.

Bo glanced at his watch as he left the house. Just four minutes to go. Sutherland had nearly kept him too long. He drove quickly out of the south side of town and pulled up at a telephone booth in the parking lot at Minnie Wilson’s convenience store. The phone was already ringing when he got to it. He snatched the instrument off the hook.

“Yeah?”

“That you?”

“Yeah, I got your teletype.”

“Don’t say that on the phone, for Christ’s sake.”

“Sorry. What’s up?”

“I’ve got a big one for you.”

“When?”

“Soon enough. They’re getting cranked up down south, now. A few weeks, maybe. It takes time to put together a big one.”

“A big one means big at my end, then?”

“Don’t get greedy, friend. You’ve been very well taken care of so far, haven’t you?”

“I’m not complaining.”

“I think I can get you seventy-five, maybe eighty for this one. Trust me to deal for you.”

“You’ve done okay by me so far. I’ll trust you.”

“Okay, I just wanted you to know what’s in the works. We’ll be doing it as a training operation; there’ll be a bigger carrier involved than usual.”

“There’s not all that much room, you know.”

“Our man has been there before. He says he can do it. I believe him.”

“If that’s good enough for you, it’s good enough for me.”

“Good. You’ll get the schedule in the usual way. Postpone if there’s serious trouble, but if you confirm, it’s go all the way. I’m depending on you to see that this goes off without a hitch.”

“I don’t have hitches. I’ll do everything but drive it in and out. That’s your man’s job.”

“Right. I’ll be in touch.”

Bo hung up the telephone and leaned against the booth. Seventy-five or eighty. Funny, it didn’t seem as much as it used to. Still, it wasn’t bad for a few hours’ work. He headed back to his car.