Under the Lake

30

Bo left the office and drove slowly through the town. He had been relieved when John Howell had come clean about Scotty, but now something felt wrong. He knew from reading Howell’s investigative stuff and his book that he was a clever and tenacious reporter, and Bo felt himself getting off a little too easily where Howell was concerned. His description of Scotty as a green cub rang true, and he now felt little fear of her, but Howell was another matter. Bo was worried.

He had nearly a million in Switzerland, and if he was going to stick it out here, what was the point of taking this risk for another eighty thousand bucks? He was greedy, God knew, but he wasn’t stupid. Alarm bells he didn’t even understand were going off, and he was listening.

He reached the parking lot outside Minnie Wilson’s grocery store a couple of minutes before the hour and sat in the car for a bit. When there was half a minute left, he got out of the car, went to the pay phone in the parking lot, dialed a number, fed the phone some quarters, and waited. The phone was answered before the first ring was complete.

“Okay, I got your message.”

“We’ve got problems; I’m canceling.”

“What problems?”

“There’s a reporter up here sniffing around.” Bo didn’t feel it necessary to mention that the reporter had been working in his office for more than three months. “Apparently, there have been some rumors.”

“Does he know what, where, and when?”

“No, but – ”

“No buts. We’re on.”

Bo began to sweat. “I say whether we’re on or not. It’s off.”

“Scully, let me tell you something. This delivery has been in the works for nearly a year. The stuff has been stockpiling in a jungle for that long. What we’ve been bringing in in light planes the last couple of years is nothing compared to this. A lot of time and a lot of money have been invested, and the people who invested it are expecting a big return. Why do you think your end is eighty?”

“Now, listen – ”

“Ours is the third of three aircraft to be used to keep the feds off the track. We’re on a tight schedule; we have to pick up on time, and we have to deliver on time. My plane left this morning; it picks up tomorrow; it delivers when you were told it would. If you’ve got problems on your end, solve them. You understand me? Listen, because I’m telling you this like a friend. You confirmed a week ago. Everything is in motion, now. If that load doesn’t deliver and distribute when we said it would, you will be the only reason. The people we’re dealing with won’t let you live an hour. You think there’s no backup at your end? They’ll be there. That plane lands, unloads, and takes off on schedule, or you’re a dead man. There, on the spot. Is that plain enough for you?

Sweat was rolling out of Bo’s armpits and down his flesh. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“No guessing. We’re on as confirmed, right?”

“Yeah, okay.”

“Say it. Confirmed.”

“Confirmed.”

“I’ll tell them you said so.” The connection was broken.

Bo hung up and pressed his forehead against the cool glass of the phone booth. He had never thought they’d have anybody on the ground here. Maybe that was a bluff, but probably not. If what his contact had said about the load was true, backup on the ground made a lot of sense. It was the sort of thing he’d do himself, if he were running things. He took a couple of deep breaths and resigned himself to what was coming. He’d just have to make sure it went smoothly.

Bo got back into the car and started the engine. As he started to pull into traffic, he glanced down the road and saw something that interested him. A few hundred yards away, in the little hilltop cemetery, were two men. One was on his hands and knees, doing something to some shrubbery, the other stood over him, watching him work. Bo put on the emergency brake and reached into the glove compartment for his binoculars.

The man tending the Scully family plot was the filling station attendant, Benny Pope. The man reaching into his pocket for money and paying him was the lawyer, Enda McCauliffe.

He watched as McCauliffe walked back to his car and drove toward town. Bo put the car into gear and followed. The lawyer parked in front of his office, put some money into the parking meter, and walked down the street to Bubba’s. Bo parked and followed him in.

“How you doin‘, Mac?” Bo asked as he slid into the booth opposite the lawyer.

“Not bad, Bo.”

Bo ordered coffee and stirred in some sugar. “Mac,” he said, gazing out the window into the middle distance, “I was out at the old cemetery the other day – first time in a real long time – and I couldn’t help but notice that my family’s plot was very nicely taken care of; even had some fresh flowers. I was surprised, because I never did anything to the plot myself, and everybody who’s related to me around here is buried in it.”

Bo stopped for a reaction. There was none. The lawyer sat, looking at the table, drinking his coffee.

Bo continued. “I was surprised especially, because just about all the other plots, your family’s included, were rough and grown over. And yet, just a few minutes ago, I saw you out there, paying Benny Pope to work on my family’s plot. Now, I don’t want you to think I don’t appreciate your thoughtfulness, but I sure am curious as to why you would do something like that for my folks when you wouldn’t do it for yours?”

McCauliffe took a sip of his coffee and put down the cup. “I’m sorry, Bo, but I can’t talk to you about that.”

Bo sat and looked at the lawyer in amazement. “Why not?”

McCauliffe put a half dollar on the table and got up. “Coffee’s on me, Bo, but I can’t talk to you about the cemetery. Please don’t ask me again.” He turned and walked out of Bubba’s.

Bo sank back into the booth and watched the lawyer leave. He sat in the booth, drinking coffee for nearly an hour, letting his mind drift around the problem, and finally, something occurred to him – just a fleeting idea. As he considered it, it began to make sense; all the known circumstances fit, and if there was anything at all to what he thought, he had a new reason to sit tight in Sutherland County, and the hell with Switzerland.

A crunch was coming, he could feel it, and, he reflected, in a crunch Bo Scully had a way of protecting himself. He had learned a long time ago about his instinct for self-preservation – in Korea and afterward – and he had no doubt that, when the time came, he would do whatever was necessary to survive again. It wouldn’t matter who got hurt. It hadn’t mattered before, although he still sometimes dreamed about it, and it wouldn’t matter this time, either. He would do what had to be done.

Enda McCauliffe let himself into his office, hung up his coat, and flopped heavily onto the new sofa. He wondered how he had let himself land in the middle of all this. He got up and opened his new safe, got out the file and read through the document again. He didn’t want to know all this stuff. If he’d had any idea what had happened so many years ago, he might never have gotten mixed up in this, but now he knew nearly everything and suspected more. He stared at the other envelope in his safe, Bo’s signed and witnessed document. With some difficulty, he resisted the urge to rip it open and read the contents.

He knew that Howell was onto something, too. The priest, Father Harry, had told McCauliffe about his visit to the cabin and the questions asked. He hoped the lecture he had given the old man had put a stop to any more idle chatter from him. And to think it was he himself who had first put the flea in Howell’s ear. What a stupid, mischievous thing to do; but he hadn’t known that at the time. He had been out just to annoy Eric Sutherland, to pick at his scabs. If only he’d known more at the beginning, instead of now. If only Sutherland had told him the truth sooner.

The genie wasn’t going back into the bottle, he could feel that. Maybe he could, somehow, limit the damage. He didn’t see what else he could do.