Under the Lake

by Stuart Woods

  He saw the corner of the map before he had the drawer fully open. It was dated 1936. The topography was wholly unfamiliar to him; he could find no landmark. Finally, he looked back at the box containing the date. There was a set of coordinates. He quickly compared them to the 1969 map. Identical. He could have shouted with joy.

  The door behind him slammed, hard. Scotty emitted an involuntary cry.

  “What? What?” he said aloud, throwing the dim beam on the doors.

  “The wind,” Scotty gasped. “There was a gust; sucked it shut, I guess. Oh, God, I think I wet my pants.”

  Up the hill toward the house, a dog began to bark, a small dog, a yapper. Howell quickly folded the two maps and stuck them in the waist of his jeans, under his sweater. He played the light around briefly to see that everything was as he had found it. The dog sounded closer. “Let’s get out of here,” he said.

  Scotty opened the door and peered out. Howell jerked her hand from the knob and wiped it with his glove. “Sorry,” she said.

  Now Howell could hear a man’s voice, calling the dog. It sounded like the butler, Alfred. They eased out the door and stepped around the corner of the building, then looked back. A flashlight was bobbing toward them from the direction of the house.

  “Duchess? Duchess?” Alfred was closer, now. Howell couldn’t see the dog.

  “Head for the boat through the woods,” he said to Scotty. “I’m right behind you.”

  She started to run. Howell glanced back at the bobbing flashlight for a moment, then turned to follow. At that moment, there was a high-pitched snarl, and a small ball of fur hit him just below the knee and bounced off. Howell ran, but this time, his route was more directly toward where the boat lay, and there was brush to slow him down. It didn’t slow down Duchess.

  The little dog was all over him as he moved, going for his throat. Fortunately, being a short dog, it couldn’t reach much above his ankles. Still, it was a damned nuisance. It boiled around his feet, tripping him, hanging onto his trousers when it could, slowing him all the way. Once, he stopped and threatened it with the flashlight, hoping to scare it away. It wouldn’t scare, and he couldn’t bring himself to hit it. It was Yorkshire Terrier. It was too cute.

  Finally, he broke out of the trees at a point where he had estimated the boat would be. Neither the boat nor Scotty was there. It must be further up toward the town, he thought, and anyway, he didn’t want to go back toward Sutherland’s. He could hear Alfred calling the dog again.

  Then he saw the boat, and he saw Scotty. The boat had been another hundred yards along the shore toward the town, but now it was a good thirty yards offshore, and drifting, and Scotty was in the water, half that distance from the shore, making for the boat. He began to run down the shore, the dog still, amazingly, with him every step of the way. At the closest point to the boat, he turned and hit the water running.

  Scotty was three quarters of the way to the boat, now, and up to her chest in the cold water. But then, she was short and short-legged.

  Howell yanked the maps out of his waistband and held them above his head as he plowed through the deepening water. Dutchess stood at the water’s edge, yapping still.

  When Howell made the boat, Scotty was clinging to it, apparently too exhausted to climb aboard. Howell, who was swimming, now, as best he could with the handful of maps held out of the water, tossed them into the front seat, held onto the side of the boat with one hand, and with the other, grabbed Scotty by the seat of her pants and heaved. That got all but her legs into the boat, and Howell, with his last strength, gave a kick and hoisted himself in with her.

  They lay in the bottom of the boat, gasping for air, too exhausted to move. Perhaps a minute later, Alfred’s voice, borne on the breeze, drifted out to them.

  “Duchess, what’s the matter with you? Don’t you know how to mind anymore? You been after another rabbit? I keep telling you them rabbits bigger than you, they going to eat you up one of these days. Come here to me! What you barking at?” There was a silence. “Oh, somebody’s boat done gone adrift, huh? Well, it ain’t none of your business and ain’t none of mine, either. Come here to me.” Then, still talking to the Yorkie, his voice faded into the distance.

  “You incredible jerk,” Howell wheezed, when he had a little of his breath back. He still could not move, and they lay tangled together in a heap. “When I get my health back, I’m gonna strangle you, if you aren’t already dead.” There was no response. “Scotty? You hear that? I’m going to strangle you with my bare hands.” Nothing. She was lying awfully still, he thought. He struggled up onto an elbow. “Scotty?” He wrestled himself into a sitting position. Over the gunwales of the boat, he could see Alfred’s flashlight moving jerkily toward the house, nearly there.

  He got Scotty by the shoulders and shifted her limp form until her head was in his lap. He brushed the wet hair away from her face and felt for a pulse at her throat. “Say something, for Christ’s sake!”

  “I can’t,” she said, suddenly. “You’ll strangle me.” Then she began to laugh. “Jesus, you should have seen yourself,” she managed to say. “Some cat burglar you are – not even a Doberman, either, a Yorkshire terrier! I couldn’t believe it!”

  He laughed, in spite of himself, at the thought of the determined little dog. “Well, I’ll tell you this, sweetheart, it was the biggest fucking Yorkshire terrier I ever saw. Must’ve been a four pounder!”

  It was another ten minutes before they could stop laughing enough to get the boat started.

  18

  They huddled in front of a roaring fire, naked, swathed in blankets, sipping hot coffee heavily laced with brandy.

  “We did it,” Scotty said, elatedly.

  “Your first illegal entry?”

  “Yep. It was terrific.”

  “You’re crazy. We damn near got caught, we damn near drowned, and it was terrific?”

  “Well, we got it, didn’t we?”

  “Yep, we got it.”

  “What did we get?”

  “The maps, dummy.”

  “I know that, but what’s in the maps?”

  “Confirmation of a theory of mine, maybe.”

  “Look, you’re acting as though you’ve taken me into your confidence, but I don’t have a clue to what’s going on here.”

  “Well, something is wrong around here, and somebody’s trying to put it right. Whoever it is, is using me to do it. I think.”

  “Okay, what’s wrong?”

  “I told you about the O’Coineen family, the story that Enda McCauliffe told me. Rabbit, remember?”

  “Yes, I remember. They were the holdouts when Eric Sutherland was buying the land to build the dam.”

  “Then they disappeared, after Eric Sutherland says they agreed to sell. His story was that he went out to their place, got the deal signed, then put the money in their bank account.”

  “And McCauliffe says it’s still there.”

  “Right. Uncollected. Building up interest for twenty-odd years. Then I turn up, we meet these people at dinner, we have this little seance, and somebody named Rabbit, which is English for the Irish name, O’Coineen, turns up and says howdy.”

  “To me.”

  “Yes, but mostly, I think, to me.”

  “Whaddaya mean, you? It was me, the table liked, remember?”

  “Well, I don’t exactly understand this, myself, but Mama Kelly thinks it was me.”

  Scotty shifted her weight, tugged on the blanket and looked thoughtful. “Now, let me see if I’ve got this,” she said. “You think Eric Sutherland has knocked off the O’Coineens for their land to build the lake, and now somebody from the spirit world has tapped you on the shoulder and whispered in your shell-like ear that you’re supposed to bring him to justice.”

  Howell was quiet for a moment. “Maybe.

  “You think the house we saw is real, then?

  “I don’t know, but it might be best if it were, because that would put us firmly back on this earth.”
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  “And if it’s not real?”

  “That would be nearly as good, because I’d know I was making the whole thing up in my mind and, somehow, communicating it to you, and I could spend some time in a rubber room and, maybe, be all right again.”

  Scotty was shaking her head. “You’re losing me. If it’s real, everything’s okay; if it’s not real, everything’s okay…”

  Howell held up a restraining hand. “What if it used to be real, but isn’t anymore?”

  “Huh?”

  “That’s what I hope the maps are going to tell us. We know the O’Coineen place is under the lake, but we don’t know where under the lake.” He went to the maps on the desk and unfolded them. “Come over here.”

  Scotty went to the desk.

  Howell spread out a map. “This was made in 1969. Now look here, this is where we are now, at this moment. Crossroads, road to the lake, cabin.” He pointed to a lakeside lot and a house marked, “Denham White Property.”

  “Right.”

  Howell unfolded the other map. “Now this is the 1936 map, covering, according to the coordinates, exactly the same area in the same scale.” He switched on the word processor and turned the brightness control on the monitor all the way up, then placed the newer map on top of the older one and spread them across the screen, using it as a light box. “Now, what we have is the new map superimposed on the old one…”

  “And…?”

  “And presto, we can see under the lake.”

  Scotty peered at the map. “So?”

  “Well, let’s see.” He pointed to the crossroads. “Let’s start from here and follow the road toward the lake.” He moved his finger along the backlit map. “Here’s the point where it enters the lake, right by the cabin. Now, we continue along the road – we’re going downhill sharply, now, see the elevation markings? And we come to – what do we come to? Your eyes are better than mine.”

  Scotty stared at the map. “We come to a farm. It says, oh, Christ, it says, ”O’Coineen Farm‘.“

  Howell peered closely at the writing. “You’re right, it does. Come with me.” He put down the map, took her wrist, and led her onto the deck. The moon illuminated the cove brightly, sparkling on the water. He pointed out and down toward the water. “There,” he said. “Down there, about a hundred and fifty feet under the lake, lies the O’Coineen farm. You and I saw it together the other night.”

  Scotty stared, transfixed, at the shimmering surface of the lake. “It was real, but it isn’t real anymore.”

  “But sometimes I can see it. Something wants me to see it.”

  “Me, too. Why me?”

  “I think something is using you to convince me that I’m not crazy.”

  19

  Bo Scully was later than usual getting into the office. He came in, glanced at the mail, then went into his office and closed the door. Then he opened it again.

  “Scotty, will you get me the number of the Neiman-Marcus department store in Atlanta, please, ma’am? I think it’s at the Lenox Square mall.”

  He closed the door and turned away, missing the stunned expression on Scotty’s face. Quickly, she opened her handbag and checked her wallet. It wasn’t there. Oh, God, this couldn’t be happening. She recovered enough to dial information, get the number, write it down and take it to him. “Want me to call them for you?” she asked, hopefully. “Those stores will keep you hanging for hours. You ordering something?”

  “No, it’s okay, I’ll call ‘ em myself. Close the door, will you?”

  She closed his door and returned to her desk but watched him through the plate glass window. He dialed the number, said something, waited a while, said something else, something longer, waited another while, then spoke for about a minute to someone. God, she wished she could hear him. He wrote down something, then hung up and dialed another number. Eleven digits, she counted; long distance.

  “Scotty, write me a letter, will you? Neiman-Marcus in Dallas – here’s the address, attention of a Mr. Murray in the credit department. Say that, confirming our phone conversation of today, I request a copy of the charge account application of… he glanced at the paper in his hand ”… an H. M. MacDonald, account number 071107. Say it’s in conjunction with an investigation being conducted by this department, and the information on the application will be kept confidential.“ He handed her the paper. ”Sonofabitch wouldn’t tell me nothing on the phone,“ he said, and walked back into his office.

  Scotty quietly thanked God that she had used her initials on the card. If Bo ever got his hands on that application he’d see that the card belonged to a Heather Miller MacDonald, who was employed by the Atlanta Constitution as a reporter; he would figure out in milliseconds who that was, and she’d be dead in the water, or maybe just dead.

  Well, she’d take a couple of days to write that letter, that would give her time to think, anyway.

  Bo opened his office door again. “Do that letter now, will you, please? I want to get it right off.”

  She typed the letter on the word processor, ripped it from the printer, and took it in for Bo’s signature. She addressed it, sealed it, ran it through the postage meter, and tossed it on top of a pile of letters waiting to go to the post office. She’d take them herself at lunch and ditch that particular one.

  Bo came out of the office. “I’m going to make a round or two, and I’ll go straight on to lunch. Be back about two, I guess.” He reached into Scotty’s out basket and scooped up the pile of letters. “I’ll drop these by the post office for you,” he said, starting for the door.

  “Hey,” she called. He stopped and turned. “No need to go to the trouble. I’ve got to go down there anyway.”

  “Oh, no trouble,” Bo grinned. He left.

  Scotty buried her face in her hands and tried not to cry. She’d kill John Howell, the clumsy bastard. She was blown, or would be before the week was out. And what could she do in that short a time?

  “Hey, Scotty,” Mike, the radio operator, called, “will you keep an eye on the radio for me? I gotta get a haircut.”

  “Sure, Mike,” she said, brightly. “Be glad to. Take your time.”

  Mike left, and she was alone. Alone with Bo Scully’s Great Iron Filing Cabinet. It was now or never. She took a big breath and dug for her key.

  20

  Howell spread out the maps again and peered at them, hoping for some new inspiration, but none came. What did come was an overwhelming sense of guilt. His earlier contention that he could whip Lurton Pitts’s autobiography off in a hurry had turned out not to be true. He had made no sort of real beginning on the book, and that was supposed to be his reason for being here, what was paying for his being here.

  He folded the maps and stuck them in a desk drawer, then got out his old Uher voice-activated tape recorder, which he had once used so often for interviews. Maybe when he had some sort of outline, it would be easier to do the actual writing. He began to organize and speak his thoughts into the machine. He liked the recorder; it paused when he did.

  An hour or so later, with a rough outline nearly completed, he stopped, hearing a car pull up to the cabin. He went to the door and opened it before Bo Scully could knock.

  “Hey, Bo. You’re getting to be a regular visitor. Come on in.”

  The sheriff settled himself in a chair next to the desk. “Well, I was in the neighborhood, and a little bit more sober than the last time I was. Sorry about that. I’d had a bad night.”

  “I know the feeling. Coffee?”

  “No thanks, I just had some. Tell you the truth, this isn’t entirely a social call.”

  “Oh? Something official I can help you with?”

  “Well, not exactly official, either, I guess. I hear you’ve taken an interest in cartography.”

  “Boy, word sure moves fast, doesn’t it.”

  “Small town. Word doesn’t have far to go.”

  “Yeah, I was trying to locate a map of the area before the lake was built.”

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p; “And one after it was built.”

  “Oh, I located that. A Mrs. O’Neal down at the courthouse had one squirreled away. I must say, she wasn’t too eager to help me find an earlier map.”

  “Well, Nellie O’Neal’s been in the courthouse for so long, she sort of takes a proprietary interest in her records, I guess.”

  “I mentioned my interest to Enda McCauliffe,” Howell said, beating the sheriff to the punch, “and he wasn’t too anxious to help, either.”

  “Oh, there’s nothing real significant about that. Most folks hereabouts would have the same attitude. Y’see, this area around here was just an unproductive backwater before the lake came. Folks’ memories of that time are pretty hard, I guess. It wasn’t easy to scratch out a buck around here. Now, it’s different, of course. We’ve got the lake and everybody’s real proud of it. I guess we like to think of our county the way it is instead of the way it was.”

  Howell wanted to yell bullshit at Scully and demand to know what was going on. “I see,” he said.

  “I hear you took an interest in Eric Sutherland’s office, too,” the sheriff said, still friendly.

  “The little place down from his house? I had a brief peek in there from the outside; just wondered what the place was.”

  Scully’s demeanor changed ever so slightly. “Looks like somebody might’ve had a little peek on the inside.”

  “Oh? How do you mean?”

  “I mean a little breaking and entering.”

  “Was a lot of stuff taken?”

  “What do you think might get taken from Eric Sutherland’s office?”

  “Beats me. What’s he got in there?”

  “Maps.”

  Howell let the word sit right there.

  “Tell me, John, you acquainted with a H. M. MacDonald?”

  “H. M.? Don’t think so. Went to school with a Bob MacDonald. Don’t remember a MacDonald since. Local fellow?”