Beneath Still Waters

by Matthew Costello

  him.

  His life’s work, certainly. Year after year, page after

  page, devoted to finding out everything about Goulden’s Falls . . . and the dam.

  He still wasn’t sure he swallowed the story about

  Leeper’s boyhood friend, Jackie Weeks. C’mon, Dan

  thought, that just had to be some kid’s wild imagination.

  Dark old houses could work wonders. Or maybe it had

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  been embellished by years and years of reliving that mo-

  ment, reliving the fear. Exaggerating it.

  Not that there weren’t strange death-cult stories that

  had some basis in fact. There was that Wisconsin guy, Ed

  Diefenbaker, who made a habit of snatching passersby, fil-

  leting them, and storing them in his homemade freezer.

  They never proved that he ate them, but nobody could

  guess where all the meat went.

  Then there was the Mogue family. A whole tribe of mani-

  acs, mom-and-pop mayhem that operated out of their ram-

  shackle Southern California desert home, luring over a dozen

  people to their familial gatherings. Even after they were all

  arrested—the adults in jail and the kids in juvenile homes—

  there were reports of the family still prowling around.

  Still loose.

  Dan smiled. Teenage kids and all their slasher videos.

  Friday the 13th, Halloween . . . just cheap thrills for them.

  But suppose they met a real slasher?

  Why, it had to be like being on another planet, some

  dark, horrible world where all the rules of humanity were

  suspended, gone.

  The Amazon tribes he photographed the year before

  were almost a model society in comparison. They don’t

  even have a word for murder in their vocabulary.

  And what of Gouldens Falls? Something was going on,

  that’s for sure.

  But what? Would Billy Leeper’s notebooks tell the

  story, or just add the rumor of his own crazy imaginings?

  He saw the sign announcing the Throgs Neck Bridge,

  and he dug out two dollars for what he regarded as an ex-

  orbitant toll.

  With his ever dwindling money supply, everything

  seemed priced much too steeply. Dinner at Susan’s would

  be welcome in more ways than one.

  “Gouldens Falls . . .” he said aloud, as if it were an

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  incantation, as if he could summon a picture of the town in

  those last few weeks before it disappeared.

  He just hoped that picture was in the notebooks.

  “Same spot, fellows. Just head down and we’ll pick it up

  from where you left off.”

  Right, Tom thought. Just like it was an underwater scav-

  enger hunt. Body, body, now who’s got that body?

  A small squad of pumpkin seeds flurried by, swimming

  away from the bottom.

  Where are you going, girls?

  His light made their iridescent belts of yellow and or-

  ange glisten in the water.

  At least the “roof ” is lit, he thought. It was reassuring

  to look up and see the dull blue glow of the sky. Better that

  than just more darkness . . . much better.

  He and Ed swam close together now—no more solitary

  exploring.

  “There we go, Tommyrot,” Ed said, aiming his light

  straight down.

  Sure, Tom thought, that’s the place. The backyard. The

  tree stump. The stockade fence.

  Home sweet home.

  “Where to now, Russo?”

  “Due north . . . you can cut back and forth. Use your

  lamps this time, Flaherty. No more bumping ass-backward

  into things.”

  “Right, Chief. I had planned on doing that myself.”

  They swam, strangely silent, north, over other yards,

  past another excavated hole, left by someone who had

  taken their house with them. They both hovered low over

  it, letting their lights go back and forth.

  “Nothing,” Ed said, kicking quickly away, giving the

  site only a cursory glance.

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  The old boy’s nervous. Never thought I’d see the day.

  They passed another block.

  “Damn,” Ed said. “Will you look at that?”

  Tom brought his light up.

  They were suspended before a tall, splintery steeple of

  a church. It was pockmarked with holes. A fish darted out

  of one, startled by their lights. The cross was gone and the

  point was broken, worn down to a stubby nub.

  Needs sharpening.

  Below, Tom could see the name of the church, the raised

  letters on the sign only barely visible. He read it slowly:

  the first lutheran church of gouldens falls, rev.

  duncan passworthy, rector.

  Funny, it was reassuring seeing a church here.

  Place can’t be all that bad.

  Ed kicked ahead—the first time he left Tom’s side.

  Past the steeple and then down.

  “Hey, man, wait up. I thought we—” Tom hurried to

  catch up.

  He passed behind the church and nearly bumped into

  his partner.

  “What’s that?” he said, looking just ahead.

  “You guys find something?” Russo barked.

  Ed aimed his light down, at something on the ground.

  The skeletal remains of a tree lurked off to the side.

  Ed’s light picked up a grayish cluster of tombstones.

  “The graveyard, Tommyrot. I would have thought they

  moved ’em all.”

  “Buried at sea,” Tom said, joking.

  Ed didn’t laugh.

  Tom went a bit closer. “Cletus Finch, 1806–1882.

  Beloved father of Anna and—looks like—Johanna. Devoted

  husband to . . . can’t make it out. It’s all crusty with algae and shit.”

  “Let’s go,” Ed said. “We’ve enough air for another

  sweep. Okay by you, Russo?”

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  “Sure . . . just go east about fifty feet or so, then head

  back south. I’ll try to center the boat over you.”

  The shoreline couldn’t have been more than a hundred

  feet or so away. No Tommy Fluhr. Not yet, anyway.

  (And just what happened to Fred Massetrino? Yes, the

  big question was—ta da!—did old Fred get chopped up be-

  fore or after his swim? That was the question, but Tom

  wasn’t too damn sure he wanted the answer.)

  “Hey, Tom, look over there . . . quickly.”

  He spun around and aimed his light in the same direc-

  tion as Ed’s.

  “What have you got?”

  “I thought . . .” Ed said.

  Easy, boy. I’m supposed to be the nervous one. I tried

  to get out of this gig, not you.

  (Or did you call police headquarters too?)

  “You see something?”

  “I thought I saw something, over there, toward the

  shore. Could have been a shadow or something.”

  “I’m right over you guys,” Russo said, sounding almost

  human. “Could have been the boat’s shadow.” Probably

  getting a bit worried they were losing it. “Want to come

  up? Take a break?”
/>
  Ed looked at Tom . . . a subtle shift of power.

  Tom shook his head. “Let’s get it over with, Ed. Finish

  this, and then we can go home today. They can get another

  team if they decide to scour the whole lake.”

  Ed nodded. “We’ll go on, Jack. Are we still heading

  okay?”

  “Sure. You’re almost at Scott Street again. Another fifty

  feet past that should do it.”

  They swam quickly now, not really caring whether they

  found anything or not.

  No, that wasn’t exactly true.

  Not wanting to find anything.

  Mechanically their flippers moved almost in unison, while

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  their lights moved back and forth, catching the top of the

  house, then the water-bloated branches of a long dead tree.

  Jeez, how long does it take for this stuff to rot?

  And he thought of all the people who drink this water.

  It was enough to make him gag.

  “Okay, this is the street,” Ed said. “Let’s just keep

  moving.”

  But Tom saw something. It was just another house, big,

  brown. Just an ugly hulk down here, away from the light,

  but he could imagine on a hot summer’s day people dressed

  in white shirts sitting on the oversize porch drinking

  lemonade.

  Then he saw something else. Just a small detail. Worri-

  some, the type of thing one would like to wish away.

  But unfortunately he couldn’t.

  The front doors—two heavy-looking pieces of wood—

  were wide open.

  “Ed,” he said, but Ed continued swimming, across the

  streets. “Ed!”

  His partner stopped.

  “What’s up?”

  “The damn doors are open. To that house there. Do you

  think we should—”

  He watched Ed examine the doors at a distance, his light

  just barely picking them up. Was it his imagination, or did

  Ed’s eyes seem kind of funny, wide open?

  “No big deal . . . probably the wood just rotted away

  around the lock. No, we’ll just keep—”

  “Better take a look,” Russo said.

  (Easy for you to say, fucker. Get your ass down here and

  see how you’d like to— )

  “Why?” Ed asked angrily. “You think the kid went

  swimming into the house? It’s a couple of hundred feet

  down, for Pete’s sake.”

  Russo yelled right back. “And how do you know what

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  kind of funny currents are in the water? Could be the body

  ended up right inside. At least you can take a look.”

  He looked at Ed. Whatever he said, he’d stand by. Look

  or leave, Tom knew he’d do whatever Ed said.

  But he sure hoped he said to hell with it.

  “Look, Russo, how could—”

  “Remember Fiscetti?”

  Tom remembered Fiscetti, and he knew Ed did too. He

  was a two-bit capo who was playing ball with the Kerner

  Commission, secretly testifying, wearing a wire. But the

  mob finally got wise to him and dumped the body, all tied

  up and weighted down . . . but not in the East River.

  No, they threw him in the bubbling stew called Spuyten

  Dyvel—the spitting devil—where the East River and the

  Hudson River meet the brackish waters from upstate.

  It could be rougher there than in the ocean.

  Someone called in a tip—laughing—that Joe Fiscetti

  could be found—hah, hah—swimming with the fishes

  there.

  But after two hours of searching they had found noth-

  ing, except every kind of garbage from shopping carts to

  the rear axles of Camaros.

  There was a small indentation—a cave, almost—that

  they had passed . . . illuminating it as someplace to search.

  So they finally went back to it, swam in, and found Fis-

  cetti’s body, wedged there by some kind of strange current

  that kept all kinds of crap pushed into the hole.

  He had a D’Agostino’s bag over his face.

  “Yeah,” Ed said, “I remember Fiscetti.”

  “So,” Jack said, “maybe the same thing’s happening

  here. Maybe the body got pushed in there . . . maybe—”

  Ed tapped his head to register his opinion of Russo’s

  brainstorm.

  “Okay, okay, we’ll go.”

  And Ed waited, Tom knew, for him to offer to go in.

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  One man always stayed outside any underwater

  structure—in case of trouble—while the other went in.

  ( Stay here, Ed. I’ll check it out. Okay, pal? )

  But he couldn’t say that. And he knew—knew, damn

  him—that Ed would have to offer to go. Age, seniority, and

  a whole stupid macho code.

  “Well, I guess I’ll take a look, Tommyrot. Just stay nice

  and close in case . . . in case I get hung up on something.”

  “Sure,” he said, trying to keep the relief from his voice.

  Ed turned lethargically and began swimming toward the

  door. He followed a few feet behind.

  “Just give it a quick look inside, Ed. It couldn’t have

  gone in far . . . if at all.”

  Ed said nothing.

  He swam over the porch.

  (Lemonade, sir?)

  Paused at the entrance.

  And then went in.

  “See anything?” Tom asked.

  “Hey, they left their furniture. Do you like—”

  “Like what?”

  But Ed didn’t continue.

  “Like what, Ed?”

  Again, there was only silence.

  (Oh, damn, he thought. What’s wrong now? Is the radio

  all fucked up? Something causing interference with the sys-

  tem. It’s supposed to work for a good half a mile. Through

  walls, debris, anything . . .)

  Tom moved closer, under the overhang of the porch.

  “Jack, I’ve lost Ed. Can you hear him?”

  “Just you, Tom. Where are you?”

  “At the door.” C’mon, Ed . . . c’mon. Don’t do this to

  me. Just get the hell out.

  “Ed!”

  He inched closer to the door, all light from above now

  cut off by the porch.

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  165

  He pointed his light in, the darkness gobbling up the

  glow, catching just the faintest outline of the inside steps

  leading upstairs.

  I’m not going in, he told himself.

  I can’t go in.

  “Ed, man, if you can hear me, come on out. C’mon,

  dammit.”

  Again, nothing.

  Help, he thought. I’ll get help. Go up . . . get someone to come down with me . . . or maybe it’s just his radio not

  working.

  But I’m not going in there.

  No way.

  He gave a small kick back with his flippers. Just enough

  to edge away from the door.

  He didn’t move. There seemed to be the smallest cur-

  rent moving around him, into the house. He kicked again,

  harder, waving his hand to give himself a good push.

  He didn’t move away. In fact, he seemed to slide closer

  to the entrance, just a few inches but c
loser.

  Now he kicked madly, swimming full out, using his

  lean, muscular body to swim quickly and sleekly away.

  And he drifted yet closer to the door, feeling it sucking

  on him now, like a small piece of meat being squished

  down with a gulp of water.

  “No. Oh, God, no. Russo, I’m—” he started to say, but

  he let his lamp fall and reached out, grabbing at the open

  doors, his fingers closing, viselike.

  He held tight, and for a moment he didn’t move.

  “What’s wrong, Tom? What’s the problem?”

  “I . . . don’t . . .”

  He held, then the pull grew stronger. But this was no

  current pushing him in.

  That had been an error.

  No, this was suction, from behind. From inside the

  house. He held for another moment. Then it became even

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  stronger, and stronger, the water rushing past him, drag-

  ging chunks of wood, twigs, a stray fish, whose terrified

  eyes looked so familiar.

  His fingers began to slip.

  “Oh, God, no!” He tried to tighten his grip. But it was

  no contest.

  His legs were back now, sucked into the inside of the

  house, with only his hands outside. They slipped another

  fraction of an inch.

  His light was on the ground, pointed out into the dark

  reservoir.

  He felt something in the back, in the darkness, touching

  his flippers . . . gentle touches . . . then moving up the rub-

  ber ridges to the small, cut-out spots of exposed flesh.

  “Russo!” he screamed.

  But he heard nothing.

  And his hands pulled away, and he flew backward into

  the darkness, into the house, screaming as he slid giddily

  down the hall.

  His abandoned light outlined the twin oaken doors as

  they slowly shut.

  F O U R T E E N

  Wiley tried to make himself comfortable in his own office.

  But despite his best efforts—squirming in his seat, cross-

  ing, then uncrossing his legs—all he could think of was

  getting the hell out of there.

  And in spite of the steady drippy hum of the antiquated

  room air-conditioner, it felt close in the office, as if there

  just weren’t enough oxygen in it.

  The visitor, though, seemed perfectly at ease. He sat—

  no, rested was more like it—with an ever so cool grace on

  the hardwood chair. His suit, a summery pale gray, was im-

  maculately tailored. As he talked, his eyes were riveted on

  Wiley—perfectly relaxed and ignoring his discomfort.