Under the Lake

31

Howell was as nervous as a cat. It was the morning of the ninth; Bo Scully’s shipment was due to arrive at three-thirty the following morning, and nothing was going right. He wished he had a few more days, another week, maybe, to bring it all together. The goddamned film hadn’t even arrived, and without it, Scotty wasn’t going to get any photographic evidence; in the circumstances, she could hardly use a flash. He had called Atlanta twice and had been assured it was on the way.

But what worried him even more was that he was stuck on the O’Coineen mystery, absolutely stuck. He had thought that, somehow, he could bring that to a head along with Scotty’s evidence against Bo, but it wasn’t happening. He was losing; he could feel it.

There were a couple of things he wanted to know, sure. But he didn’t know how to find them out. He had been to see the priest, Father Harry, but the old man had clammed up tight, after accepting a bottle of good Irish whisky. He suddenly didn’t want to talk about the O’Coineens again. Somebody had been at him, Howell thought.

He walked up to the mailbox and found a special delivery notice. At least the film had arrived; that lazy bastard of a postman might have brought it down to the house. Special delivery, my ass, Howell thought. Still, he didn’t mind going into town; he was too nervous to work. A letter had been forwarded from Atlanta, too: a New York Times envelope, hand addressed, the name “Allen” written in the upper left-hand comer. His old boss. Not like him to send personal notes, Howell thought. He ripped it open. “Dear John,” it said. “Don’t know what you’re doing with yourself these days. Nairobi’s opening up next month. You want it?” No closing; it was signed “Bob.”

Howard crumpled the letter and threw it as far as he could. Nairobi! The place that had been a running joke between them for years as the place in the whole world he would least like to work. You could always go back to the Times once, they said. This was that sadistic bastard Allen’s way of saying if he wanted to go back, he’d have to crawl. The letter wasn’t even worth replying to; Allen could go fuck himself. That sort of aggravation was all he needed today, with everything else on his mind.

The station wagon wouldn’t start. Howell tried repeatedly before he was able to admit to himself that he had let it run out of gas. He pounded silently on the steering wheel a few times, then he called Ed Parker’s filling station; Ed promised to send out some gas right away.

After a few minutes, Benny Pope pulled up in Ed Parker’s pickup truck and unloaded a five-gallon can from the back. “You run right out, did you?” he grinned. “Well, that’s what we’re here for.”

Howell watched the man empty the can into the station wagon’s fuel tank. He got behind the wheel and, after a few tries, the engine came to life again.

“Well, I’ll be getting back,” Benny said, and turned to go to the truck.

“Hang on a minute, Benny,” Howell said.

Benny stopped and came back, his usual grin in place. “Yessir, anything else I can do for you?”

“Benny, you don’t like it around here, do you?”

Benny looked puzzled. “Why sure,” he said. “I’ve never lived anywhere else. I was born and raised right here. I like it fine.”

“No, I mean right here, around this cabin, around this part of the lake.”

Benny’s grin disappeared.

Howell kept his voice friendly and gentle. “I remember a while back, you said you didn’t want to come up here at night, and the day you brought the outboard out here, you wouldn’t get onto the water. Why was that?”

“Well… the cove just makes me nervous, that’s all.”

“Something happen to you here, Benny, in the cove?”

“Yessir,” Benny said with no further hesitation, “you could say I’ve had a couple of experiences around here I wouldn’t want to go through again.”

“Something to do with the O’Coineens?”

Benny looked surprised. “You know about the O’Coineens?”

“Not as much as I’d like to. Tell me about your experiences.”

Benny leaned against the fender of the pickup and pointed out over the lake. “Well, I was out there one night, right out there, fishing, and I seen under the lake.”

“Benny,” Howell said, “I know it’s early, but let me buy you a drink.”

They went into the house and Howell poured them both a generous bourbon. Half an hour later Howell knew that he and Benny Pope had been sharing a vision; only for Benny, it had been the real thing.

“I know you’re sure it was Eric Sutherland’s car, Benny, but are you sure he was driving it?”

Benny screwed his face up tight with the remembering. “Well, now you mention it, I can’t say that I am. It was Mr. Sutherland’s car; I just reckoned it was him driving it.”

Howell leaned forward in his chair. “Now, Benny, what happened after the car drove away? Do you remember that?”

“Well, sir, you understand I was a little bit worse for the wear that night. I’d been at some shine for quite a little while. I used to come up here to the picnic place and have a few some nights.”

“Do you remember anything at all after the car drove away?”

“Just a noise. It was like a loud noise from a long way off. I guess I dozed off after that; I didn’t wake up until after daylight.”

“Did you look at the O’Coineen house again when you woke up?”

“Yessir, I did. Least ways I looked where it used to be. It was under the lake.”

Howell picked up the film at the post office and signed for the package. Then he began to drive south through the town. There were only two people who could tell him what he wanted to know about that night in 1952. One of them had already lied to him about it, he thought; now it was time to go and see the other one.

It would have only caused trouble to approach Eric Sutherland before, but now the Lurton Pitts autobiography was nearly finished; even if Sutherland got mad it couldn’t matter much. It occurred to Howell that if Sutherland had got rid of the O’Coineens, he might feel no compunction about getting rid of a nosy reporter. He felt it might be prudent to tell Sutherland that he had shared his suspicions with people in Atlanta. That would give him some sort of insurance. Confronting Sutherland might be an incautious thing to do, but Howell had the very strong feeling that it was now or never, that he was running out of time.

He pulled into the circular drive of the big house and parked at the front door. The atmosphere was peaceful; the sun shone, and flowers bloomed. Howell wondered whether it would be so peaceful after he had bearded the lion in his den.

He got out of the car and walked to the front door, which was ajar. He pressed the doorbell and heard the chimes clearly from inside. No one came to the door. Where was old Alfred? Off doing the grocery shopping? Wasn’t there a cook, too?

Howell pushed the door open a foot and stuck his head in. “Hello!” he called out. “Anybody home?” He found himself hoping there wouldn’t be. He was still a little afraid of Sutherland. And he would dearly love a few minutes alone in his house.

“Mr. Sutherland?” He pushed the door open further and stepped into the entrance hall. There was a small echo as his heel met the gleaming, mahogany floor. “Hello? Anybody home?” He walked boldly down the hall, straight through to the door opening onto the broad, rear veranda, with its commanding view of the lake. There was no one out back, either. He walked down the back lawn to the little office building he had once broken into. No one there: the door was tightly locked, and he didn’t have a Neiman’s credit card, this time.

He walked quickly back to the house and called out again a couple of times. He was, apparently, alone at the house, for however short a time, and it was tempting. He had already had a thorough look out in Sutherland’s office; he wondered, now, what might be in the study. Making no effort to be quiet, just in case someone was in the house, he walked toward the study door. As he approached it, he could see his own reflection in one glass door of the shotgun case. The other door was open. The next thing he saw was a bare foot.

He stopped in his tracks and regarded it for a moment. It was a large foot, long and narrow, very white. The toes seemed particularly long. The foot of a tall man. It protruded from behind the chesterfield sofa. Howell took another step. The other foot was there, too, resting at an odd angle to its companion. Those, Howell said to himself, are the feet of a tall, white, dead man.

Howell took two more steps into the room and made himself look at the rest. The body, clad in silk pajamas and dressing gown, lay as if it had slipped off the sofa, propped halfway up against the arm. The wall behind the sofa held a smashed hunting print, hanging at a crazy angle, and a substantial portion of Eric Sutherland’s brains. Howell looked back at the body. All that remained of the head was the lower jaw, attached to a partly scooped-out shell that had been the back of the skull. It still had ears.

Howell stood still and tried to breathe normally. He had seen his share of corpses, but never one quite like this. And he had never been the first on the scene. He looked slowly and carefully around the room. A beautifully engraved shotgun lay near the body; alongside it was a yellow pencil. The desk seemed undisturbed. A small safe next to it was closed. Nothing else seemed out of place. Howell stepped to the desk, being careful not to trip over anything or step in anything. He took a ballpoint pen from his pocket, stuck it through the handle of the middle drawer and opened it. He poked around with the pen. Nothing unusual; paper clips, rubber bands, a checkbook. He opened the other drawers: a bundle of bank statements, some stationery, stamps. The sort of stuff he’d expect to find in anybody’s desk.

Howell inserted the tip of the pen under the desk blotter and lifted it. Nothing. Eric Sutherland didn’t appear to have left a note. Not at the scene, anyway. Howell squatted and looked at the safe next to the desk. He knew nothing about cracking safes, but he knew something about human nature. On his knees, he opened the desk drawers again with his pen and looked underneath each. Nothing. He stood up and pulled out the stenographer’s shelf on the right. There was a piece of paper taped to the shelf containing a list of phone numbers Sutherland called frequently; the sheriffs office, the bank, a couple of banks in Atlanta, Enda McCauliffe. He pushed the shelf back in and pulled out its mate on the left side. The face of the shelf was clean, but Howell spotted a piece of cellophane tape on the edge of the shelf, protruding slightly. He pulled the shelf out to its limit. The combination to the safe was taped to its inner edge.

Howell looked at his watch. He reckoned he had been at the house for less than five minutes, in the study for half that time. He ran to the door and had a look around the front of the house. Still deserted. He ran back to the study and slipped out of his shoes and socks. Quickly, he pulled the socks onto his hands, knelt and started to dial the combination of the safe. It didn’t work. He tried again more carefully, and this time, the handle moved and the door swung open.

The safe was crammed with all sorts of papers. Evidently, Eric Sutherland had been the sort of man who preferred to keep important things locked away, instead of in unlocked desk drawers where people like Howell might find them. Howell flipped quickly through the contents. He was breathing fast, now, terrified that someone would walk in on him. There were a lot of deeds in the safe – the farm land under the lake, Howell suspected; there was a bundle of cash, twenties, fifties, and hundreds; there were some ledgers; no time for any of that stuff. A heavy, bright blue envelope caught his eye. It looked new. He fumbled with the string closure with his stocking fingers and finally got it open.

LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT

was its title. Howell flipped quickly through it, passing up small bequests to the butler, cook, and gardener. There were some small charitable bequests, not many. When he got to the bequest of the residue of Sutherland’s estate, he was brought up short. He reread the first paragraph twice, to be sure he absolutely understood its meaning, then he pressed on for two more pages, reading as fast as he could and still retain what they said. The will was witnessed by Enda McCauliffe and two other people whose names he did not recognize. But it was what came after the will that riveted him to the spot. He read on. He was totally rapt now; a platoon of police storming into the room would not have disturbed him.

He finished and looked about him. Eric Sutherland had a copying machine, but it wasn’t here. Where had he seen it? Of course, in the office building out back. He looked at his watch. He had been in the house for a good eight minutes, maybe longer. He tried to think how long it might take him to get out there, jimmy the door, wait for the machine to warm up, and copy the will. Five or six minutes, and he couldn’t afford to make a mess of the door. There had been no keys in Sutherland’s desk. Since the body was wearing pajamas, they were probably upstairs in his bedroom with the normal contents of the man’s pockets.

No. Too much time, too much risk. He couldn’t afford to end up in jail, not today. He put the will back into the envelope, got the string wound around the closure and replaced it in the safe. He closed it, worked the handle and spun the lock.

He pulled the socks off his hands, then picked up the phone and dialed the sheriffs office. Scotty answered.

“Is Bo there?”

“Yes,” she said in a hushed voice. “Why? What’s up?”

“Let me speak to him.”

“Why? What’s going on, John?”

“Let me speak to him right now, Scotty.” He heard her call out to Bo.

“Hey, John, how’s it going?”

Howell glanced at his watch. “I make it four minutes to eleven, Bo. What time have you got?”

“Four and a half to. You want to compare watches? I’ll show you mine if you’ll show me yours.”

“Please make a note of the time, Bo. I’m at Eric Sutherland’s house. Sutherland’s dead. Looks like suicide. You want to get out here very fast, please?”

There was a strange noise behind Howell. He spun around to find Alfred, the butler standing there in his hat and coat, holding a small suitcase. Alfred was staring at Eric Sutherland’s body. He made the noise again, then crumpled and fell sideways, bounced off a chair, and landed heavily on the floor.

“John? What’s going on?”

“Hang on.” Howell bent over the butler and peeled back an eyelid; the pupil contracted immediately. He felt for a pulse; strong and rapid. He took a pillow off a chair and placed it under the man’s feet, then picked up the phone again.

“Looks like Alfred just got home from somewhere. He’s fainted, but I think he’s okay.”

“You wait there with Alfred and don’t touch anything, you hear me?”

“Sure.”

“I’ll be there in two minutes.”

Howell sat down on a chair and put on his socks and shoes. He hoped to God Alfred hadn’t noticed he was barefoot.