by Stuart Woods
“Well, I really had something on a little larger scale in mind, something with a lot of detail.”
“How about a mile to the inch?”
“Perfect.”
She went to a wide-drawered cabinet, fished in a drawer, and pulled out a larger sheet. “There you are,” she said, spreading it on the counter before him.
And there he was. It took only a moment to find the crossroads and follow the road down to the cabin. True to life, the line of the road stopped at the lake’s edge. “Oh, that’s terrific,” he said, grinning at her and making her blush again. “Now, do you think you might have a map of the same area, on the same scale, before the lake?”
She wrinkled her brow and looked doubtfully around the room. “Gee, I don’t have the slightest idea where that would be. Just a minute, I’ll ask Mrs. O’Neal. She’s been here forever, and she’ll know just where to put her hand on it.”
The girl walked across the room to a door and knocked. Howell could see, through a glass partition, an older woman working at a desk. She looked up and heard the girl’s question, then looked out for a long moment at Howell. Then she got up from her desk, still looking at him, brushed the wrinkles from her skirt, walked out of the office and across the room to the counter where Howell stood waiting. “May I help you?” she asked, in a manner which immediately told Howell she had no intention of doing so.
“Gosh, I hope so,” Howell replied, in the manner of a high school junior doing research for a term paper. “I was just wondering if I could have a look at a map just like this one, except before the lake.”
“This is a map of the town of Sutherland,” she said evenly. “The town of Sutherland was much smaller before the lake, so of course, there can be no such map.”
“Oh, sure, I see,” Howell came back, as cheerful as ever. “Well, then, do you reckon I could see a map of the area without the town? Just the valley, and all?”
“Sir,” she said, not quite so evenly, now, “you are missing the point. The courthouse was not built until the town was built, so we would not have such a map.”
“Oh, yes, sure, that was dumb of me. Uh, where was the county seat before it was at Sutherland?”
“It was over in Pinewood, but when it was moved here, the old courthouse was torn down to make way for a school.”
“And the records were moved here.”
“Yes.”
“Well is there, maybe, somebody here now who worked in the old courthouse who might be familiar with the old maps?”
“I worked in the old courthouse,” she said, icily. “I have been in charge of these records for thirty-eight years.”
“Well, someone with all your knowledge is just the person I’m looking for,” Howell said, casting charm again, and watching it ricochet right off the old bat.
“When we moved the records, we naturally discarded a lot of outdated material, including old maps. I did it myself. I tell you again, no such map exists.”
A glance at the astonished face of the girl standing behind her told Howell that the woman was lying. “Oh, shucks. Well, I guess I’ll just have to go to the Army Corps of Engineers in Atlanta,” he said, anxious to let her know she had not won.
“I’m afraid that would be useless,” the woman replied with a triumphant smirk. “Lake Sutherland was privately built. The Corps of Engineers was not involved.”
Howell glanced at the girl, who looked embarrassed and shrugged. “Oh, well, I guess I’ll just have to forget about it,” he said ruefully, and slunk out of the room, hoping the woman believed him.
He thought about approaching the girl after hours, but she seemed thoroughly intimidated by her superior. He would have to think of something else.
The party had been under way for an hour when Howell and Scotty arrived, and it was clear that everybody who was anybody in Sutherland was there. The lord of the manor had summoned, and all had responded. Eric Sutherland spotted them almost immediately and came over with the butler, Alfred, in tow, bearing a tray of champagne glasses.
“Why, Mr. Howell, I’m so glad you could come.”
“Thank you, sir. Have you met Scotty Miller?”
“Of course, but only briefly. I understand you’ve made Sheriff Scully’s life easier down at his office, young lady.”
“Well, that’s nice to hear,” Scotty replied, turning on her best smile. “I’d better ask for more money.”
Sutherland chuckled appreciatively. Howell marveled at the difference between the man now and the first time they had met. Sutherland, the host, was an improvement on Sutherland, the town father. “Please wander as you like,” he said. “There’s food here and there, and Alfred will keep you in drink.” As if on cue, Alfred materialized and topped up their glasses. Sutherland moved off to greet another arrival.
They wandered among local merchants and businessmen and their wives, dressed in their Sunday best. A couple approached them.
“I’m Doctor Joe McGinn,” the man said, extending his hand, “and this is my wife Maeve.” They were both short and plump, and the woman was wearing a bit too much jewelry. “We’re both old fans of your column.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” Howell replied, and introduced Scotty. “Beautiful place Mr. Sutherland has here, isn’t it?”
“Ah, yes,” the doctor replied, “and made all the more beautiful by his crowning achievement,” He waved a hand toward the lake.
“Have you lived in Sutherland long, Doctor McGinn?”
“Oh, yes, ever since the lake. Maeve and I both grew up in the valley, and we married right after I got out of the army. That was just after the lake was built, and we knew Sutherland would need a doctor.”
“You must have known the O’Coineen family, then,” Howell said.
The two people froze for a moment, then the wife, expressionless, said, “Yes.”
“Tell me,” Howell said, taking care to sound only pleasantly curious, “in what part of the lake… or rather, the valley, was their farm?”
They both seemed frozen again, then the doctor managed to shape his face into a regretful frown. “That was a very unfortunate thing, and it’s not something I’d care to discuss, especially in Mr. Sutherland’s house.”
He took his wife’s arm. “Would you excuse us, please?” The couple did not wait for a reply, but fled.
“I don’t think you’d better bring up that subject again at Eric Sutherland’s party,” Scotty said.
“Tactical error,” Howell agreed.
They wandered through the house for half an hour, rubbing elbows with the prosperous-looking group, exchanging a few banalities here and there, peeking into the dining room and into Sutherland’s study, with its leather-bound volumes and rack of custom-made English shotguns. Howell received an admirer here and there. He waved at Bo Scully across the living room. The sheriff waved back, but his ear was being held by Doctor McGinn and his wife, who looked grim. Alfred materialized whenever a glass was half empty, and they got a little drunk.
Scotty excused herself to look for the powder room, and Howell wandered onto the broad rear terrace, which overlooked a long, gently inclined lawn, rolling down to the lake. There Howell encountered Enda McCauliffe, looking oddly well groomed in a new suit.
“The Fourth Estate,” McCauliffe cried, raising his glass.
Howell thought the lawyer must have been drinking awhile, as well. “Justice,” he replied, raising his own glass.
“You seem remarkably ambulatory, my lad, considering your posture the last time we met,” McCauliffe said.
“Indeed, I am.” Howell replied. “I could run the high hurdles on short notice. Well, the low ones, anyway.”
“Medical Science,” McCauliffe intoned, raising his glass again.
“Not a bit of it,” Howell said, clinking glasses. “Faith Healing.”
“Y’didn’t,” McCauliffe said, looking astonished.
“I did, and I owe you a large drink for your guidance in these matters,” Howell, said, thinking he owed
the lawyer a case of the stuff, at least.
“Jesus, John, I never thought you’d go up there. I was just having you on. It really worked?”
“Believe your eyes,” Howell replied, affecting a golf swing. “I am whole.”
“Mother of God. What was it like up there?”
“Pleasant enough place, I guess. No goblins. Mama Kelly looks like going soon, though.”
“So I hear. You met the lovely Leonie, then?”
“I did.”
“Ah, the lads used to howl after her, when their folks weren’t looking. Some of them got in her pants, but none of them got close to her. A pity, but what with her family history and all, nobody would go calling, proper-like.”
Howell was immediately uncomfortable. “You’re looking very prosperous, I must say, Counselor.”
“Oh, I’ve a new client,” McCauliffe replied, nodding toward Eric Sutherland across the terrace.
Howell was astonished. “I thought you were the only game in town if somebody had a beef with him. What’s happened to your principles?” Howell had meant it as a joke, but the lawyer took him seriously.
“They got tired of eating Bubba’s chicken-fried steak,” he shot back. “The old boy popped up with a plum of work, and I took it.” He knocked back the rest of his glass, and Alfred zoomed in to refill it. “I’ve decided instead of fighting him, I’ll break him with my fees. Altogether, a more satisfactory method, don’t you think?”
“I can’t argue with that.” Howell searched for a way of changing the subject. “Say, do you know where I can lay my hands on a map of the area before the lake was built?”
McCauliffe looked at him sharply. “I doubt if one exists, and if I were you, I wouldn’t go around asking about one.”
“Why not?” Howell asked, innocently. “Why would anybody be touchy about that? This neck of the woods interests me; I’d just like to know more about it.”
McCauliffe lowered his voice and spoke earnestly, nearly soberly. “Now, listen, John, you’re getting into things that shouldn’t concern you, and I suppose it’s my fault, telling you stories and sending you up to the Kellys‘, so I want to give you the best advice I can muster. Go up to that cabin and write your book, and then go back to Atlanta. Stay away from the Kellys and don’t tell anyone else about that seance nonsense of yours, and for Christ’s sake, don’t go blundering around asking a lot of stupid questions about maps and before the lake and all that. It doesn’t concern you – it doesn’t concern anybody, anymore. Just leave it alone, all right?”
Howell was stunned for a moment. “It seems to me you had a different attitude about all this before Eric Sutherland became your client,” he was finally able to say.
A flash of anger crossed Enda McCauliffe’s face, then passed. He put his hand on How-ell’s arm and squeezed. “John, you’re a good fellow and a bright one, and I’ve enjoyed your company. But I’ve no more to say to you.” The lawyer turned and walked into the house, upending his glass on the way.
Howell looked after him, puzzled, and worse, intrigued. He thought himself good at reading people, and he had read McCauliffe as tough, stubborn, and unlikely to yield to pressure, let alone money. If the lawyer had suddenly got into bed with Eric Sutherland, there must be a better reason than Howell knew about. Mac, he thought, if you wanted me to forget this, you couldn’t have gone about it in a worse way. He walked down the steps to the grass and strolled down the hill toward the lake.
He had gone only about halfway to the water, fifty yards or so, when he noticed a small building to his right, in the trees. It looked like a guest house, and Howell wandered in its direction. He stopped outside a set of french doors and put his hands up to shield his eyes from the reflection in the glass. There was one large room, and it was furnished as an office, with a steel desk and furniture and, in a corner, a drawing table. He tried the door; it was locked.
“You’re wandering very far afield, Mr. Howell,” a voice said, from a few yards behind him.
Howell started, then turned. Eric Sutherland was standing on the grass, holding a bottle of champagne.
“Come, let me fill your glass, and join me in a stroll down to the lake.”
Howell joined him, and began the stroll down the hill, but his mind was on what else he had seen in the office. The wall behind the desk had been covered with maps.
17
Howell told Scotty about his conversation with Enda McCauliffe. They had finished dinner and were on coffee and brandy, having never entirely sobered up since their afternoon of drinking at Eric Sutherland’s.
“I’m damned if I know what’s going on around here, but I’m going to find out,” Howell said.
“The investigative reporter rears his ugly head,” she grinned.
“Yeah, I guess so. I think the whole thing that drove me when I was reporting was I couldn’t stand it when somebody knew something I didn’t. Now, I get the impression that everybody knows something I don’t. And I don’t like it.” He took a healthy swig of the brandy. “The funny thing is, I think I know something, and yet I can’t seem to figure out what it is.”
“You wanna run that by me again?”
“You got any department store charge cards?”
“Huh?”
“Not Mastercharge or any of those; department store cards.”
“Sure. A wallet full of them. You need some jockey shorts, or something?”
Howell got up and started toward the kitchen. “Dig ‘em out, let’s have a look at them.” He found a large flashlight, switched it on to see if the batteries were fresh, and dug a roll of black electrical tape from a drawer.
Scotty found her purse and plucked her credit cards from her wallet. Howell rummaged through them and chose one. “Neiman-Marcus, huh? They must be paying green newsies better these days.”
“Daddy helps out with clothes. And who’s green? What do you want with that, anyway?”
Howell picked up her American Express card and thumbed it. “Stiff as a board, right?” He did the same to the store card. “Nice and flexible.”
Scotty watched as Howell began winding black tape over the lens of the flashlight. She placed a hand on his forehead. “You running a fever?”
He pulled off his necktie and began to unbutton his white shirt. “Get changed. Put on some jeans and a dark sweater.”
“This is beginning to sound like some sort of commando raid.”
“It is.”
Howell throttled the engine back to an idle and let the boat glide toward the trees. There was a breeze from the shore; that was good, he reckoned; some of the noise would go with it. A few yards out, he cut the engine and let the boat drift until it touched bottom. He threw a leg over the side and eased into the water, which was knee deep, then pulled at the boat until it was held firmly on the bottom.
He turned to Scotty. “Now, listen. I shouldn’t be more than fifteen or twenty minutes. If I’m not back in twenty, start the engine and head slowly back to the cabin at the same speed as we came. If you hear any sort of commotion, go like hell, but not toward the cabin. Head down the lake toward Taylor’s Fish Camp, and when you’re halfway or so down there, cut toward shore and work your way back to the cabin at low speed, okay?”
“I want to go with you.”
“Godammit, do as I tell you. There’s no need of both of us taking the risk, and anyway, you’ve got to take care of the boat. We can’t get close enough to shore to tie up here, and we’re sure as hell not going to drive up to Eric Sutherland’s dock.”
Howell turned away without another word and waded ashore. Well into the trees, he cut toward Sutherland’s place and emerged a couple of minutes later at the edge of the long lawn. He walked up the slight hill, keeping just into the fringe of trees, until he came to the small building. No lights were on. Up at the house only an upstairs light, apparently Eric Sutherland’s bedroom, and a ground floor light, probably the kitchen, still burned. Howell looked at his watch; just past two. He’d reckoned Suth
erland and the servants would have been asleep by now. There must have been a lot of cleaning up to do after the party.
Howell switched on his masked flashlight. He stepped onto the little raised porch, approached the french doors, and slipped on a pair of driving gloves. In the dim beam he had a closer look at the doors. He had been right; the lock was in the knob. The bolt would be spring-loaded. He fished Scotty’s charge card from his pocket, inserted it into the crack between the french doors, and felt for the bolt. He pressed the strong, flexible plastic card hard against it. Nothing. He pressed harder. The bolt gave and slipped back. The door opened an inch..
Then, behind him, there was the soft scrape of a footstep on the concrete steps. Howell froze, clenched his teeth. He didn’t want to jerk around and invite nervous gunfire. He slowly opened his hands, held them away from his body, and turned around.
“Hi,” she whispered.
He resisted a heartfelt urge to strangle her. “What did you do with the goddamned boat?” he asked her through teeth still clenched.
“It’s okay, don’t worry. It’s stuck on the mud; it won’t move.”
“If it’s not there when we get back, I’ll drown you, I swear.”
“Let’s get on with it, okay?”
“Wipe your feet,” he said, pointing at the doormat. He wiped his own feet, then entered the office. He went immediately to the wall covered with maps, and played his light over them.
“This is a larger scale version of the map I saw at the courthouse,” he said. There was a date in the corner: 1969. He turned the flashlight to the other maps. There was one of the state, one of the county, both recent – nothing else on the walls.
He shone the thin beam around the room: leather sofa, some steel chairs, the drawing table he had seen that afternoon. Next to the table, a tall, wide drawing cabinet. The drawers were unlocked and unlabeled. He began at the top: aerial photographs of the lake and dam. He worked his way down, drawer by drawer: engineering drawings of turbines; architect’s drawings of Sutherland’s house; more photographs of the lake and the town; a smaller-scale version of the 1969 map which hung on the wall. There were several copies; Howell slipped one out of the drawer. One more drawer; Howell prayed.
