Drowned Hopes d-7

by Donald E. Westlake

  “Could make it easier to dig up Tom’s stash, though,” Kelp suggested. “Do it with high-pressure water instead of shovels.”

  “But we don’t get that far,” Dortmunder said, “because we go off our heads first from claustrophobia like all those other divers. Forget it. It can’t be done.”

  “Only eighty percent of the other divers,” Kelp reminded him. “Maybe we’re in the other twenty percent.”

  “I know me better than that,” Dortmunder said.

  HIRTY-TWO

  So the agreement was Tom could stay one more night, but the next day he’d have to make other arrangements. “I want you to know, Al,” Tom said, when Dortmunder came back from his telephone conversation at Kelp’s place, “I got to give you an A for effort.”

  “I think it’s an E for effort,” Dortmunder said.

  “Whatever it is, Al,” Tom told him, “you got it from me. I tell ya, I kinda wish it’d worked out. A nice quiet little heist would’ve been better in a lotta ways.”

  “Yeah, it would,” Dortmunder agreed.

  “Well,” Tom said, with a little shrug, “you win some, you lose some.”

  Everybody was depressed that evening and didn’t feel like talking. Dortmunder went to bed early and lay awake awhile, thinking about water: dirty dark water all around his own personal head, or billions of gallons of water crashing in a tidal wave into Dudson Falls and Dudson Center and East Dudson. After a while, he fell asleep, and then he dreamed about water in a whole lot of different uncomfortable ways.

  And then, middle of the night, all of a sudden he woke up wide awake, staring at the ceiling. “Well, hell,” he said out loud.

  “Mrm?” said May, beside him.

  Dortmunder sat up in the dark bedroom, glaring at the opposite wall. “Goddamn son of a bitch bastard all to hell and shit,” he announced.

  May, waking up, propped herself on an elbow to say, “John? What’s wrong?”

  “I know how to do it, that’s what’s wrong,” Dortmunder told her. “Tom stays. And I go down in that goddamn reservoir again. Hell!”

  THIRTY-THREE

  Real life. Wally sat in the front seat of the baby-blue Lincoln Continental, the road maps on his round knees, and directed everything. Andy was at the steering wheel beside him, while John slumped on the backseat and frowned to himself like a person doing multiplication problems in his head. Directly in front of Wally was the windshield, like technology’s largest and most true-fidelity monitor screen, displaying endlessly… the real world.

  A cellular telephone was mounted on the floor hump between Wally’s knees and Andy’s knees, and for some time as they drove north out of the city it intermittently rang; fifteen or twenty rings, and then silence for a while, and then another six rings, and silence, and so on. When it first happened, Wally said, “Andy? What’s that? Should I answer it?”

  “In my experience,” Andy answered, “it’s usually the doctor, wanting his car back. So I tend to leave it alone.”

  Wally digested that, while the phone stopped ringing, and then started again. But no Greek was ever as obsessed by the cry of the Sirens as the average American is by the ringing of a telephone; any telephone, anywhere. In this respect, at least, Wally was a true American. There was no way this phone call could be for him, since it was neither his phone nor his car, and yet his left hand twitched with the need to reach out and pick the thing up. After a while, a bit plaintively, he said, “Andy? Are you sure? Maybe it’s something important.”

  “Important to who?”

  “I guess so,” Wally said, still pensive.

  Andy shrugged. “It’s up to you, Wally,” he said. “If you want to hear an angry doctor make a lot of empty threats, go ahead, pick it up.”

  Wally kind of visualized that doctor. He was in a long white lab coat, holding the phone in one hand and a scalpel in the other, and boy, was he mad! Wally thought it over and decided he probably didn’t need to hear what the man had to say, and shortly after that the phone stopped ringing for good. Either the doctor had given up, or they’d moved out of range.

  They were quite far north now. Big green signs announced North Dudson as the next exit from the Thruway. Wally, suddenly nervous, began to rattle his maps, self-conscious and shy. He had maps for the area as it was now, and maps for the area from before the reservoir was put in, and the reservoir was only one of the changes that had taken place in the intervening years. Wally felt the awful weight of his responsibility, to guide these people and this car through the modern map to one specific spot on the old map. And to do so without revealing his own extra knowledge of the terrain.

  None of the others knew about that private trip of his up here; not telling them about it had been another part of the computer’s advice. In fact, the whole trip had been at the advice of the computer. After Wally had input the story of the unknown women following them around in circles, the computer had said he should definitely find out who those people were.

  The hero must identify his helpers.

  The hero must know his enemies.

  All players in the game must be aware of one another.

  So he had gotten out his little old yellow VW Beetle that he only drove four or five times a year and that he kept otherwise in a Department of Transportation garage on Twelfth Avenue rent-free (arranged through his computer access), and he’d putt-putted all the way up to North Dudson—the farthest he’d ever gone in that car—and he’d driven around and around looking for a black Ford Fairlane, knowing that even in a town like this there couldn’t be more than one such vehicle, and when he saw it at last—just got a glimpse of it, really—at the end of a driveway, in front of an old-fashioned two-door garage, being washed by an angry-looking old lady, the rest had been easy.

  Wally, who was almost always tongue-tied and shy with other people—especially girls—had partly by luck and partly out of a sense of self-preservation begun his conversation with Myrtle Jimson on the one topic that would permit him to be fluent, even eloquent: computers. By the time they were through with that, some level of rapport had been established, and he was even confident and relaxed enough to ask her to join him for lunch.

  All through lunch at Kitty’s Kountry Kitchen on Main Street they’d just talked. Wally told her about growing up in Florida, and she told him about growing up in North Dudson, and there was just nothing in any of what she told him to explain the car-following incident.

  Was she even related to Tom Jimson? But the name couldn’t be a coincidence, it just couldn’t. In the first place, coincidence does not exist in the world of the computer. [Randomness (a.k.a. chance) has been factored into some of the more sophisticated games, but coincidence (a.k.a. meaningless correspondence other than junk mail) violates the human craving for order. Which is why puns are the pornography of mathematicians.] But knowing the computer would be just as confused as he when he reported back to it (and it was) didn’t help Wally’s mood much.

  Myrtle had insisted on paying for her own lunch, and then he’d walked her back to the library, where she’d promised to keep using her computer terminal from now on, and where he’d gotten back into his yellow VW and putt-putted away to the city. And this was the first time he’d been back among the Dudsons since. “It’s our next exit, Andy,” he said, rattling his maps.

  “I know that, Wally,” Andy said, amiably enough. “The State of New York spent three hundred thousand dollars to put up a sign there to tell me so.”

  “Oh,” Wally said. “I wasn’t sure you saw it.”

  “Thanks, anyway, Wally,” Andy said.

  So Wally subsided again, as Andy steered the Lincoln Continental expertly off the Thruway and around the ramp and down the narrow road into North Dudson.

  As usual, the town was full of people who’d forgotten why they were driving. In a pleasant voice, Andy made speculative remarks about such people’s ancestry, education, brain power, and sexual bent, while Wally, scandalized, his ears burning (his earlobes actually felt hot,
so suffused with blood from his blushing were they), blinked obsessively at his maps, double-checking and triple-checking his projected route, and from the backseat John gave an occasional long sigh. His sighs didn’t seem to comment on Andy’s language or the quality of North Dudson’s drivers so much as on life itself.

  “Pilot to navigator,” Andy said, as pleasant as ever.

  Wally jumped, rattled, the maps sliding from his knees to the floor. “What? Me?”

  “We’re out of that charming village,” Andy pointed out. “It’s time to give me directions, Wally.”

  “Right! Right!”

  “Turn right?”

  “Not yet!” Wally was scrabbling about for his maps. “Stay on this road until, uh, uh…”

  “Take your time,” Andy said, and John sighed.

  Wally found his maps and his place. “We turn right,” he said, “at, uh, where the road says to Dudson Falls.”

  “Check,” Andy said, and a few miles later made the turn, and all the subsequent turns Wally told him about, as they maneuvered their way through the spider web of back roads; these roads, already a planless catch-as-catch-can hodge-podge by the middle of the twentieth century, had only been made more complicated when the reservoir was dumped in their midst.

  “It should be around here somewhere, shouldn’t it?” Andy asked as they bumped over an old railroad track.

  Wally stared at him to be sure he wasn’t joking. “Andy? That was it!”

  Andy frowned at the rearview mirror. “What was it?”

  “We’re looking for the railroad,” Wally reminded him. “We just drove over it, Andy.”

  “By God, you’re right,” Andy said, and swung the Lincoln off the road to wait for an oncoming bulk milk truck to pass. “I think what it is, Wally,” he said, “I never went looking for anything so short before.”

  “I guess,” Wally said.

  Andy swung around behind the milk truck, reapproached the railroad line, and again pulled off onto the verge, where a million spring weeds were in flower. They all climbed out, stretched, shook their legs as though looking for a quarter that had fallen through a hole in their pocket, and went over to look at the railroad line.

  It was a singleton, one pair of rusty tracks stretching off both ways into the woods, here and there partly covered by encroaching weeds and brush. The section across the black-top road was less rusty than the rest, which had aged to a dull dark blackish red. Set back on both sides of the road were barriers across the rail line, these consisting of two broad bands of horizontal metal attached to metal stakes set in concrete footings. The barriers had once been painted white, but most of the color had rusted away. Signs reading NO ENTRY were screwed to them.

  Andy beamed at the railroad line. “You know what this reminds me of?”

  “Yes,” John said. “It reminds you of Tom Thumb.” He didn’t sound particularly cheerful about it.

  But Andy was cheerful. “You’re right!” he said.

  John looked back and forth, then said to Wally, “Which way’s the reservoir?”

  Wally pointed to the right. “Two miles that way.”

  “Two miles,” John repeated, and sighed.

  “That isn’t so far,” Andy told him. “Two miles, just a good healthy walk.”

  “Four miles,” John said. “Unless you figure to live there.”

  “Well, let’s get started,” Andy said, walking around one side of the barrier.

  John said, “I don’t suppose there’s any way to get that car onto the tracks.”

  “Even if it was the same gauge, John,” Andy said, leaning on the barrier on its other side, “we’d have to chop down these three or four trees here to get the car in.”

  John glared at him. “Gauge? What do you mean, gauge?”

  Andy pointed at the tracks. “If the width between the rails is the same as the width between the tires on the car, then we can let some of the air out of the tires and put the car up on the tracks and drive on in. But it probably isn’t the same, and we can’t get the car in here anyway, so why are we talking about it? Why don’t we just walk?”

  “I wore the wrong shoes,” John said, but then he shook his head and walked around the barrier, and the three of them set off along the old line toward the reservoir.

  As they walked, trying to adjust their pace to the distance between the old half-rotted ties, Wally said, “Andy? What did you mean, Tom Thumb?”

  “It was a locomotive,” Andy explained. “One time, John and me and some other people, we had to get into a place with an electrified fence, and there was an old track like this, and we got a locomotive from a circus—pretty locomotive, painted all different colors, called Tom Thumb—and we drove right through the fence.” To John, he said, “Things worked out that time, too.”

  “Later on they did,” John admitted grudgingly. “Kind of.”

  Wally wanted to know what place they had to get into that had an electrified fence and why they had to get into that place, but he didn’t exactly know how to ask, and he suspected anyway that Andy wouldn’t tell him. Andy was very cheerful and open and everything, but then later on you realized he told you as much as he wanted to tell you and then he stopped. Wally imagined the bright-painted locomotive crashing through the electrified fence. “Were there sparks?”

  “You bet!” Andy said, and laughed. “The crazy people were running everywhere!”

  “I guess they must have been,” Wally agreed, hoping for more.

  But John interrupted, saying, “Isn’t this two miles?”

  “John,” Andy said, “we can still see the barrier back there.”

  “I don’t know why I wore these shoes,” John said.

  Then they walked in silence for a while, Wally contemplating the fact that an accent had been wrong in that last thing Andy had said about the train and the electrified fence. He should have said, “The crazy people were running everywhere,” but what he’d said was, “The crazy people…” Why?

  “Fence ahead,” Andy said.

  It was a chain-link fence, eight feet high, with three strands of barbed wire at the top, and it crossed the railroad line from left to right. When they neared it, they saw the expected sign.

  NO ADMITTANCEVILBURGTOWN RESERVOIR AUTHORITY

  “Gosh,” Wally said. “What do we do now?”

  “I’m gonna sit down,” John said, and went over to a nearby log and sat on it.

  Meantime, Andy approached the fence, took a pair of wire cutters out of his inner jacket pocket, went down on one knee, and started snipping the fence from the bottom. Wally goggled: “You’re cutting the fence!”

  “Well, we’re not going over it,” Andy said, snipping away, “and I didn’t bring a shovel to dig under it, so this is pretty much what’s left.”

  Wally looked at the official sign: NO ADMITTANCE. In games, sometimes, it was necessary to do shortcuts across the regular routes; so this must be the real-life equivalent. And when Wally stopped to think about it, what startled him mostly was not what Andy was doing, but his calm while doing it. Whenever Wally set out on an adventure in the computer, the excitement was what it was all about; but Andy and John did adventures as though they were jobs.

  “There,” Andy said, straightening, putting the wire clippers away. “John? You wanna go first?”

  John sighed, got up from the log, and came across to study the fence. Andy had snipped a vertical line up about four feet; it barely showed at all. John said, “That isn’t enough.”

  “Sure it is,” Andy told him. “Wally, you pull that side in. I’ll push this side out. Plenty of room to get through.”

  There was barely room enough, as it turned out. With Wally pulling and Andy pushing, it was like opening an envelope. John slithered through, complaining, and then he took over Wally’s role while Wally grunted and squeezed past, not quite ripping any of his clothing, and then Wally and John held the fence for Andy, and there they were on the other side.

  But still some distance f
rom the reservoir. They walked and walked, with John complaining from time to time and Andy pointing out pretty flowers or oddly shaped tree limbs, and at last they saw the bright glint of sunlight reflecting from water out ahead.

  That was very strange. The railroad tracks ran straight into the reservoir, under the water and gone. On both sides, tangled brush and small trees made an impassable obstruction right down to the water’s edge, with no path or cleared shoreline in either direction.

  Andy pointed to the left along the overgrown bank, saying, “That’s where we went in last time, way over there. So we’re farther from the dam now.”

  “Don’t remind me of the last time,” John answered. Turning to Wally, he said, “You’re sure this goes all the way down in there to the town.”

  “Oh, sure. And out the other side,” Wally promised him, pointing to the far shore. “But over there, it’s a lot farther from Putkin’s Corners.”

  Andy, looking dubious, said, “I dunno, John, I guess we could go look at the tracks on the other side, if you think we ought to.”

  “No,” John said. “What matters is what happens underwater, and we can’t know that until we…” another long sigh, accompanied by a headshake “… go down there.”

  “Well,” Andy said, “the point of the trip was to see are the tracks here, and do they go into the water. They are, and they do.”

  “And they go all the way across underneath,” Wally assured them.

  “Well,” John said, “I look, and I look, and I just can’t find any reason not to do it. So I guess that’s it.”

  Excitement leaped in Wally’s breast. They were going to try again. Maybe this time, he thought, they’d let him come along. Not to go down into the reservoir, he had no desire at all to do anything like that, but just to be one of the people up here on the bank, helping out, waiting, doing whatever the people up here did while John and Andy were down there in the cold and the dark and the wet. Trying not to sound too eager, he said, “Well, John? What do you do now?”