Under the Lake

22

Enda McCauliffe stood over Eric Sutherland and pointed. “Sign here, Mr. Sutherland, and then initial every page, please.” Sutherland signed, then McCauliffe and the two men from the bank witnessed the document.

“Stay a minute, Enda,” Sutherland said, waving the other two men out.

McCauliffe took a chair next to the desk. He felt odd being called “Enda”; everyone had called him “Mac” since he was a kid in the valley. Only Sutherland used his Christian name, and that was a recent event, since he had become McCauliffe’s client.

Sutherland looked a bit uncomfortable. “I just wanted to tell you how pleased I am with the way things have been going since you signed on,” he said.

“Well, thank you very much, Mr. Sutherland,” the lawyer said.

“Why don’t you call me ‘Eric,' “ Sutherland said. ”All my friends do.“

McCauliffe was taken aback. “I… well, you have to understand, you’ve always been Mr. Sutherland to me, all my life, and I don’t think I’d feel comfortable this late in the game…”

“All right, all right,” Sutherland said, resignedly. “I understand. In fact, the only person in town who calls me ‘Eric’ is Bo Scully, and I think he does it only because I insist.”

McCauliffe felt sorry for the man, something he had never thought would be possible. He had spent so much of his life feeling nothing but contempt for Sutherland that, even now, when he knew more about the man’s life and felt some real sympathy for him, he still had trouble pushing his old feelings aside.

“Enda,” said Sutherland, “tell me what you think of this John Howell fellow.”

“Well,” McCauliffe replied, “I like him. We’ve had a few lunches down at Bubba Brown’s. I think he’s bright; he certainly was a solid newspaper reporter in his day, although I thought his column wasn’t all that good the last few months he was doing it. To tell you the truth, he strikes me as being sort of unhappy in his personal life.”

“Do you think he bears me any ill will?”

“Why, no sir, I don’t. I think… well, he’s just the sort of person who’s… curious, I guess. He’s spent most of his working life asking a lot of questions, and now, it just comes naturally to him.”

“Enda, you understand that I can’t have him asking questions around here.”

McCauliffe nodded. “I certainly see why that would make you uncomfortable, sir, especially after what you’ve told me, and after this.” He held up the document Sutherland had just signed. “But I don’t think it’s anything to worry about. Howell is not here to write about us. He’s just curious, that’s all.”

Sutherland shook his head. “I just don’t want the whole thing opened up again. It’s been twenty-five years.”

McCauliffe decided that since Sutherland was now his valued client, he should tell him everything he knew. “Mr. Sutherland, I don’t think you should assign too much weight to this, but not long after John Howell arrived here he had some out of town people out to the cabin and they… well, they had a seance.”

Sutherland winced. “Oh… my… God,” he said, quietly. He took a deep breath and let it out. “Tell me about it.”

Bo Scully was admitted to the house by Alfred, and was taken straight to the study; Eric Sutherland was waiting for him.

“Morning, Eric,” Bo said, taking care that he sounded relaxed and confident. He was never either relaxed or confident in Sutherland’s presence.

Sutherland offered no greeting. “Tell me about the credit card,” he said.

He looked angry, Bo thought. He had probably been working up to it for days. “I called Neiman-Marcus in Atlanta immediately. They referred me to the credit manager in Dallas – that’s the main store-and he refused to tell me anything without a written request.”

“So?”

“So I wrote to him, asking for a copy of the credit application.”

“And?”

“And I’m expecting a reply any day, now.” Bo leaned forward in his chair. “Eric, I think this whole business with the credit card is easily explained. Somebody at the party…”

“Dammit, I’ve told you there was nobody named MacDonald at the party!”

“Look, this guy MacDonald could be a friend or relative of somebody who was there. There are all sorts of possible explanations. Have you had any workmen around the place lately?”

“No, not a one, except the gardener, and believe me, he doesn’t have a charge account at Neiman-Marcus. I don’t pay him enough for that.”

“Eric, when we hear from Neiman’s, I promise you it’s going to be the most logical, ordinary thing. Besides, you’re not missing anything from the office, are you?”

“What may be missing from the office is not an object that somebody has walked away with. What may be missing is information that somebody has now that he didn’t have before. Knowledge is a dangerous thing in the wrong hands, and I think you know I mean Howell. I saw him looking in there, and the dog just went berserk that night.”

“I talked with Alfred about that, Eric. He says the dog gets after rabbits down there in the woods. It’s happened before.”

“What about the boat?”

“Alfred says it was just adrift. That’s happened before, too.”

“We’re going to have to get rid of Mr. John Howell, Bo, that’s all there is to it.”

Bo leaned back in his chair. “Well, now, I had a little talk with Howell a couple of days ago, and I think he’s off your back.”

Sutherland looked at him in surprise. “What did you say to him?”

“Well, he’d heard the O’Coineen rumors, all right, and I gave him the whole story.”

“Did he believe you?”

“I told him about the letter from Joyce. I think that clinched it. You see, Eric, even if he did get into your office, all he wanted was a look at the maps. What he knows now makes the maps unnecessary, irrelevant. He understands that.” Bo hoped the hell Howell did understand that. “He didn’t come up here about that, Eric. He came to write his book, just like he said. He heard the O’Coineen story after he was already up here, and I guess he was a little bored, and it got him all excited.”

“Damn right he got excited,” Sutherland said. “Did you know he and some people had a goddamned seance up there? Enda McCauliffe told me.”

Bo’s blood ran cold. He didn’t show it. “So what? You don’t believe all that crap that halfwit Benny Pope spreads around, do you? His brain has been pickled for years.”

“Howell’s been to see Lorna Kelly, too.”

Bo felt as if he’d swallowed a block of ice. “For what?”

“McCauliffe says Howell slipped a disc, or something.”

“Did she fix it?”

“Apparently. He certainly seemed agile enough at the party.”

“Well, then…”

Sutherland wiped a hand across his brow. “I wish she’d die, damn her. I’d like to spend my last years in peace, without her around.”

Bo stood and placed a hand on the old man’s shoulder. “Eric, it’s my job to see that you have the peace you deserve. You’re making much more out of all this than is called for, really you are. I’m going to take care of everything. Just trust me.”

Sutherland stood and took Bo’s hand in both of his. “Bo, I’ve always trusted you, and you’ve never let me down. Help me enjoy my last years, and I promise you, when I’m gone, you’ll be remembered.”

“Thank you, Eric,” Bo said, and took his leave.

He drove back into town, afraid to the very bottom of him. Too much new was happening – the business with Scotty, this seance, Howell’s acquaintance with Mama Kelly. Bo felt as though control of things was slipping through his fingers, that there were more holes in the dike than he could plug. He didn’t trust Sutherland, either. He’d heard that promise before, and he’d believe it when the old man was in the ground and the will was being read.

In the meantime, he was making his own provisions, just in case.

As soon as Bo had left the office, Scotty had begun to fidget. She had thought she’d be nervous with him, after the events of yesterday, but he’d been much the same as usual, though she thought she’d caught a trace of sadness about him. But now, she wanted Sally out, and Sally was taking her time about going to lunch.

“Listen, Scotty, why don’t you go first?” Sally said. “I’m not real hungry yet.”

“Oh, I don’t think I’m going to have lunch today, Sally. I’ve still got a couple of pounds to go.”

“Listen, you keep up that fasting stuff, and we’ll be scraping you off the floor again. I think you scared Bo half to death.”

“No, no, I had a big breakfast this morning. You go ahead and eat.”

Sally took what seemed like half an hour to check her makeup and brush off her dress, then finally left the office. Scotty waited until Mike was on the radio, then picked up some papers and went to the copying machine. She placed them on top of the machine and pressed the On button. When Mike was finishing his radio call, she turned her back to him and flipped the papers behind the machine.

“Oh, dammit,” she shouted.

Mike turned. “What’s the matter, Scotty?”

“Oh, I’ve dropped some papers behind the copying machine, and you know what the thing weighs. Give me a hand, will you, Mike?”

“Sure I will.” He came over and helped her wrestle it away from the wall.

“Just a couple of more inches, and I’ll be able to get behind it,” Scotty said. The gap opened; she wedged herself around the machine and recovered both the papers she had deliberately dropped and the lost ledger sheet of Bo’s. She shuffled them together to conceal the green paper among the others. “Got ‘em. Thanks, Mike.” Together, they moved the heavy machine back into place.

“You shouldn’t be doing that sort of shoving, Scotty,” Mike said. “You might not be recovered yet.”

“Oh, I’m fine, thanks. I am a little hungry, though. And I was going to skip lunch.”

“Well, I don’t think you should do that.”

“Tell you what,” she said, brightly. “I’ll split a pizza with you.”

“Hey, you really are hungry.”

“I’ll keep an eye on the radio, if you’ll go get it.”

“Sure.” Mike put on his hat and left.

“Anything but anchovies,” she called after him. Scotty ran for her purse, got the filing cabinet key, threw herself at the thing, and got it open. She pulled out the miscellaneous file, removed the other five green ledger sheets, made sure they were in the proper order, added the sixth sheet, and started to replace them in the file. They stuck halfway in. She ran her fingers between the pages to push aside the obstruction, and they met something small and thick. A notebook, she thought. John said there’d be a notebook. The front door to the office slammed. She spun around, the forbidden file in her hand. A man she did not know was standing at the counter.

“I’d like to pay a parking ticket,” he said.

“Oh, sure,” she said, relieved. She hesitated for a moment, then put the file on top of the cabinet, and went to help the man.

She took the ticket. “That’s five dollars.”

He opened his wallet and thumbed through some bills. “You got change for a twenty?”

“Haven’t you got anything smaller?” she asked, looking toward the door nervously. Mike might be back at any moment; or worse, Bo.

“Sorry, that’s all I’ve got.”

Scotty took the twenty, went to her desk, opened a drawer, took out the cash box, unlocked it, put the twenty in and took out a five and a ten, conscious all the time of the unlocked cabinet and the deadly file, lying there, waiting to be discovered.

“There you are,” she said, stamping the ticket and tearing off the stub. “And here’s your receipt.”

The man left, and Scotty raced for the file. She reached in for the notebook and came out with a small, green booklet with a gold American eagle stamped on it. A passport. Quickly, she thumbed through the pages. Bo’s face stared at her from the photograph, but he was wearing glasses. Bo didn’t wear glasses. The passport was issued to a Peter Patrick O’Hara. The address was Bo’s.

Scotty wanted a copy of this, badly, but she looked up and saw Mike standing across the street with a pizza box in his hand, talking to somebody. She went quickly through the passport; there were a lot of stamps, but only for two countries – Switzerland and the United States. She repeated the passport number to herself three times, aloud, returned it to the file, and the file to the cabinet. She was sitting at her desk again, making a note of the passport number, when Mike came in with the pizza.

At ten minutes to twelve, Howell parked the station wagon where he could see the front door of the courthouse and waited. Bo’s story had been gnawing at him for days. It was plausible enough, but the reporter in him wanted it confirmed. At the stroke of noon, the girl who worked in the records office left the courthouse and turned a corner, out of sight. Howell went and did some grocery shopping and returned just before one o’clock, in time to see the girl go back in. Shortly, Mrs. O’Neal, the battleax of county records, left the courthouse. He had an hour.

The girl looked surprised to see him. “I thought we’d run you off,” she said, laughing.

“I lost the battle, but not the war, I hope.”

“You want me to look for the map for you?”

“Actually, there’s something else I’d rather see. Can you find me an old deed of transfer? Maybe from twenty-four, twenty-five years ago?”

“Sure. We’ve got all those. I don’t need to ask Mrs. O’Hara.”

“Good.” Howell read her the lot numbers he’d copied from the maps.

“Right this way.”

He followed her across the room and down a long row of filing cabinets. She consulted the lot numbers and the labels on the drawers. “Here we are,” she said. She opened the drawer, flipped through some files, and extracted a deed.

Howell skimmed through it, and it seemed straightforward enough. The property had transferred from Donal O’Coineen to Eric Sutherland, and O’Coineen had signed it. Or had he? Howell thought for a moment. “Would you have a record of old business licenses?” he asked. In addition to being a farmer, O’Coineen had been a well digger, Enda McCauliffe had said.

“Sure. In what name?”

“Donal O’Coineen. Try 1951.” He followed her to another row of filing cabinets.

“Here you are,” she said, extracting a sheet of paper. “Here’s the renewal application for 1951.”

Howell took the application and the deed to a window for better light and compared Donal O’Coineen’s signature on the application with the one on the deed. They were identical, or near enough. O’Coineen had signed over his land to Eric Sutherland, and almost immediately after that had taken his family and left the farm. Shortly afterwards, the roadbed had given way, and the farm had been obliterated. It all added up. Howell felt disappointed. The story had excited him, and now it was over. At least he could get back to work on Lurton Pitts’s book, now, with this O’Coineen thing settled in his mind.

He took the deed and the application back to the girl. “Thanks,” he said. “I really appreciate it.” He was about to hand her the papers, when his eye caught something, and he took them back. Under O’Coineen’s signature on the deed was another signature.

The document had been witnessed by one Christopher F. Scully.