Under the Lake

7

Howell opened his eyes slowly and listened. There had been a noise, he thought. He had been sitting on the sofa with a drink, about to doze off, when he heard a car door slam. He couldn’t make himself move until the knock came on the door. When he finally swung his legs off the sofa, it seemed that every muscle in his body cried out. He struggled to his feet and walked stiffly to the door. It was Scotty MacDonald – or, these days, Miller.

“Hello,” she said, cheerfully. “You look like shit.”

“Thanks, come on in.” He switched on a lamp and threw a couple of logs on the embers of the fire. “Drink?”

“Sure, bourbon, if you’ve got it.”

“Oh, yeah, I’ve got it.” He looked at the bottle. He had made a large dent in it already.

“I think you’re still in shock,” she said, taking the drink and peering at him.

“What?”

“Bo’s been telling everybody that this guy had drawn down on him with a hunting rifle when you pumped one off at him through Minnie Wilson’s store window and saved his life.”

“Well, that might be going a little far.”

“Not to hear Bo tell it. You know, that sort of action rattles the system if you’re not used to it. It can make you stiff and sore all over, like you’ve been beat up.”

“That’s an excellent description of my condition right now,” Howell agreed.

“I did a piece on it once. Interviewed some Atlanta cops about what it was like after action. I think what happens is you get this huge rush of adrenalin, then when it’s over, you sort of have a hangover.”

“Well, I had a pretty huge rush, I guess. I was scared out of my tiny mind.”

“That’ll do it. Say, have you had dinner?”

“No.” He looked at his watch; it was nearly nine o’clock.

“Neither have I. Have you got any food in the house? I’ll fix us something.”

“Yeah, there’s a bunch of groceries in there. I didn’t even put them away.”

She walked toward the kitchen. She looked terrific in those tight jeans, Howell thought. She looked pretty good all over, really. She was petite, but beautifully put together. The T-shirt stretched tightly over her ample breasts, and the sweater thrown over her shoulders lent a cocky air to the way she walked. The short hairdo made her look cockier still. Almost butch.

“Jesus,” she called from the kitchen, “all you’ve got in here is chili. Is that what you live on?”

A few minutes later they were eating chili and crackers and drinking beer. “All right, what are you doing working in Bo Scully’s office?” he asked. He had been waiting for her to bring it up, but she hadn’t, and his curiosity had got the better of him.

“Just that,” she replied, scooping up a mouthful of chili. “Best little worker he ever had, he says.”

“Come on, you’re using a false name and references. What’s up.”

“I got a really good tip that Bo’s dirty,” she said.

“So what else is new? What sheriff isn’t these days?”

“No, I mean real dirty. Drugs. And in a big way.”

“I thought that was a coastal phenomenon, or south Georgia.”

“Folks up here like their grass and nose candy, too, I guess.”

“The paper sent you up here – you’ve been here what, a month?”

“About that. They didn’t exactly send me. It was more like they let me come.” She scratched her nose. “Actually, they fired me.”

“What for?”

“I asked them to. I reckoned it would take two or three months to get a story out of this, and they wouldn’t assign me to it, so I asked them if I could do it without pay, sort of a leave of absence. I asked them to fire me just to cover my tracks at the office.” She took a sip of her beer and gazed thoughtfully across the dark lake. “I think Bo knows somebody at the paper.”

“So?”

“Well, he knows there’s a reporter up here, I think.”

“He’s on to you already, then?”

She grinned. “Nope. He’s onto you.”

Howell set his beer down. “Me?”

“Sure. I think he thinks the paper has sent you up here to get something on him and that this book you’re writing is just a flimsy cover.”

“Swell. That’s all I need. I’m lucky I wasn’t the one shot this afternoon.” Suddenly, his mind caught up with that notion. Maybe that was why Scully had wanted him in that store with a shotgun. Then old Minnie had done the shooting first and spoiled everything.

“No, no, I don’t think he’s like that, I really don’t.”

“Listen, getting mixed up in big drugs has a way of making a murder or two seem a reasonable thing. I’d better straighten him out pretty quick on why I’m here.”

“You do that, and you’ll blow me,” she said, gravely.

“So, you’re blown. That’s better than me getting blown away.”

“Come on, now, John, you used to do this sort of thing, you know. I’ve read your stuff; I’ve read your book. There’s something going on up here, and I want it. You’d want it, too, in my place, you know you would.”

“Listen, don’t pull that old newspaperman’s camaraderie bullshit on me,” he said, banging his beer on the table. “Why should I have to spend all my time up here looking over my shoulder so you can work on something so flimsy that the paper wouldn’t even assign you? I don’t think you’ve had enough experience with these country sheriffs to know how territorial they are, how dangerous they can be. Bo Scully is a very powerful man right here on his own turf, and I don’t need him on my back.”

“Oh, come on, he’s not going to mess with you. Your brother-in-law is Denham White; you’re married to the daughter of a man who was one of Eric Sutherland’s closest friends. Bo isn’t going to do anything to annoy Sutherland.”

“I’m not so sure Sutherland would be all that annoyed if something happened to me. I’ve only met him once and…” He thought of that meeting. “Jesus, I’ll bet he must think I’m investigating him. He behaved that way, anyway.”

“Why would Sutherland worry about being investigated?” Scotty asked.

“I wonder,” Howell said. “I guess you know why I’m up here.”

She grinned. “You mean that cock-and-bull story about writing a book?”

“Now listen…”

“Oh, we hear all the local news in the sheriffs office. Bo likes to know what’s going on.”

“Well, he got my story this afternoon. I thought we were just having a man-to-man chat, but he was pumping me, because he thought I was you.”

“Just what is your story, anyway? Last I heard, you were quitting to write the great American novel.”

“Well, publishers have less taste than I thought. It didn’t exactly get snapped up. And what’s your story? Last I knew, you were writing bad house and home stuff and shaking your ass around the newsroom.”

“I finally got a shot at something gritty, and it worked out.”

"The highway bid-rigging thing?“

"Right, and I didn’t get the assignment by shaking my ass.” She grinned. “If I’d done that, I’d be city editor by now.”

He laughed. “Well, at least you know your strengths.”

“Listen, buster, my strength is investigative reporting, and I’m going to find out what’s going on up here, I promise you.”

“If I take the heat from Scully for you.”

“I have to believe you’re gentleman enough to help me,” she said, arranging her features into a semblance of vulnerability.

“Don’t pull that horseshit with me. You’ve been coming on like Walter Winchell all evening, and now you’re making like Scarlett O’Hara?”

She banged her glass on the heavy table. “Oh, godammit, can’t you see what a terrific story this could make? A country-fried drug operation that nobody knows about? You’ve got your Pulitzer, now give me a shot at mine.”

“Even if I have to give Bo Scully a shot at me?”

“You saved his life this afternoon. It would violate his dumb macho code to hurt you now.”

“What’s so dumb about that?”

“Oh, you know what I mean. He’s seen too many Clint Eastwood movies.”

“Don’t you think for a minute that Scully isn’t bright. He’s in the catbird seat up here, and he didn’t get there by being stupid. You sniff around him too much, and you’ll get a nose full of hot buckshot.”

“Jesus, I know he’s not stupid. Neither am I. Look, just go along with me for a while on this. Let’s see what happens.” She stared at him worriedly across the table.

Howell shoved a cracker into his mouth and chewed it silently.

“Besides,” she said smugly, “now you’re just as curious as I am. Once a reporter…”

He washed down the cracker with cold beer. “Now that’s the first smart thing you’ve said. Why didn’t you try that tactic first instead of all that other crap?”

She laughed. “Because I didn’t know it was true. I thought you really had become the novelist, but under that cruddy sport shirt beats the heart of an old newspaperman.”

“What do you mean, cruddy? It’s a damn fine sport shirt. And what do you mean, old?”

“How old are you?”

“None of your business.”

“I’d say, forty, ah…”

“I was thirty-nine last month, and I look thirty-five, tops. And you? You’re just a snot-nosed cub reporter on your first undercover…”

“I’m twenty-four, and I’ve got three years on a major metropolitan daily, and who told you you look thirty-five? Jesus, you look older than my father, and he’s forty-six! Oh, if we cleaned you up a bit, got you a shave and combed your hair over the bald spot…”

“I’m only balding if you’re taller than I am and stand behind me. You wouldn’t come up to my belt buckle if you stood on tiptoe… you could walk under tables… what’re you, four-ten, four-eleven?”

“I’m nearly five-two, and I’m probably stronger than you are. Want to arm wrestle?”

“Let’s see who can piss farthest – that’s what this is all about isn’t it?”

“Don’t be so sure you’d win, buster. You going to blow my cover on this one, or you going to do the right thing?”

“Oh, hell, all right, but I hate to do this to Scully; I sort of like him.”

“So do I; he’s a very attractive man.”

“He thinks you’re cute, too, but you’re too close to home for him. He suggested I give you a call.”

She started for the kitchen with the dirty dishes. “Why don’t you?”

“Taylor’s Fish Camp tomorrow night?”

“You’re on.” She grabbed her jacket.“ ”You’d better soak in a hot tub and get to bed.“

“Join me?”

She laughed. “I don’t think you’re up to it.” She skipped down the stairs and headed for her car.

He watched her drive away. It had been a long time since he had made a dinner date with a girl. He felt foolishly happy about it. He thought about Elizabeth, but she seemed terribly far away. While he was married, he hadn’t done a lot of fooling around, but he didn’t feel married anymore, somehow.

Scotty drove slowly back to the room she had taken at the home of an elderly widow, Mrs. McMahon. She could not believe how well this was working out. When John Howell had walked into the office that afternoon, she had nearly peed in her pants, but now it was going to be okay. It was going to be better than okay, because now Bo had a visible reporter to worry about.

She had gone way out on a limb with the paper on this one. They had always thought she was reckless, and maybe she was, a bit, but that got results. Still, she had problems; when she wanted the police beat, she got the society page; when she wanted to do investigative work, she got the second-string job at the state capitol. It annoyed her greatly that they hadn’t kept her on staff for this job, that she had to do it on her own time and money. If she pulled it off, she’d be a hero in the newsroom, but if she didn’t go back with the goods on Bo Scully, she couldn’t go back at all. She’d be writing about womens’ club meetings on some county weekly.

Quite apart from Howell’s taking the heat off her, she was glad to have him in town. In Atlanta, she had avoided tying herself to one man, but she was accustomed to an active sex life, even if she had to hit the singles bars to keep it up. In Sutherland, however, the only attractive man around had been Bo Scully, and he was for her, as she was for him, too close to home. Still, Howell had turned up just in time. Another week, she knew, and she’d have been in bed with Bo. Another day, now, and she’d be in bed with John Howell. She could always tell.

In her room, she dialed an Atlanta number.

“Hello.”

“Hi, Daddy.”

“Hiya, kid, how’re you doing?”

“Okay, just fine.” Her father was a widowed orthopedic surgeon who practiced at Emory University Hospital, in Atlanta. Her mother had been dead for less than a year, and she made it a point to see him often. Since she had been in Sutherland, she had telephoned him two or three times a week.

“You’re really okay, now? You’re not doing anything dangerous.”

“Honest, Daddy, it’s just like I told you. All I do is work in the office. It’s less dangerous than writing society stuff for the Constitution.”

“Well, I know you’re a tough little nut, anyway. After all, dynamite comes in small packages.”

“You know it.” It had been his joke for as long as she could remember. “How’s the practice of medicine? Left any tools in patients this week?”

“Well, there’s a crowbar missing around the office, but it’ll turn up. When you coming home? I miss you.”

“I know, Daddy, I miss you, too, but I’ve got to stick it out up here for as long as it takes.”

“How long is that going to be?”

“Well, who knows, but if I can’t dig up something in three months, I probably never will.”

“Three months, huh? Is that a promise?” “Well… almost. Listen, I’d better run. Big day in law enforcement tomorrow.”

“Take care of yourself, now. Let me know if you need anything.”

“Okay, Daddy. I love you. Goodbye.” Scotty hung up and made one other call, to the answering machine in her Atlanta apartment. A couple of calls from guys. No point in returning them; it would just make her hornier. As she brushed her teeth before going to bed, Scotty reminded herself to take her pill the next morning. She was glad she hadn’t gone off it. She had always known something would turn up, and now, something had.