Beneath Still Waters

by Matthew Costello

what Passworthy might have showed the governor to per-

  suade him. Was it some kind of otherworldly artifact?

  Something left in Gouldens Falls? Or did Passworthy dare

  to threaten the governor himself, perhaps with a display

  of his newfound power?)

  No matter.

  The dam was built. The town inundated.

  Rogers held the last legible page of the diary in his

  hand.

  “It’s only half here, Dan.” He passed it over to him.

  It was labeled “The Pentagram of Solomon,” an enor-

  mous five-pointed star surrounded by words and runes . . .

  half of them gone.

  He looked at Rogers. Was he buying any of this? Am I?

  “Chief, what do you—”

  Rogers stood up. “Dan, I’m not an especially religious

  man. Like most of us, I pray when there’s nothing else left.

  I’d be lying if I said that this wasn’t all . . . a bit hard to

  take. But, son, I’m afraid there’s something that has to be

  done here.” He looked down at the pentagram. “You have

  to find the rest of this somehow. It would seem like the job

  started fifty years ago . . . must be finished.”

  Easily said. But where would he find the rest of the pat-

  tern (if it’s really true . . . if it’s not some fable . . . a folk tale)?

  And like a gift from heaven, he had an answer.

  “Chief, I’ve got an idea. But I’m worried about Su-

  san . . . she could be at the dam. I’d appreciate it if you’d

  get her away from there.”

  Rogers held up his hand. “No problem. I’ll call my boys

  on duty there. I’ll have them look for her. Go look for her

  myself if I have to.”

  Dan stood up. “Thanks.”

  He picked up the fragment of the last page. Fifty years

  ago it hadn’t worked. There were five of them, like the five

  points of the star. Five.

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  But one had gotten away.

  So it didn’t work.

  And now it was up to him, and maybe Rogers, to some-

  how settle the fate of Gouldens Falls.

  He left the police station.

  They were still coming! She sensed it, even though when

  she looked back, she saw nothing . . . just her own rough

  trail through the lush bushes and scrawny saplings.

  “I’m tired,” Joshua wailed.

  “Me, too, Josh. Me too. Keep going, just a bit farther,

  and we’ll take a break.”

  They were well into the park, making their own path

  through the thick mesh of plants and trees. Claire was keep-

  ing up a good pace, but the little ones were flagging.

  But she knew that they couldn’t stop.

  What had happened to the two cops? And Mrs. Benny?

  (She thought of the old Buffalo Springfield song;

  “. . . something’s happening here . . . what it is ain’t ex-

  actly clear.”)

  She had a plan. Not, certainly, to move toward the quiet

  roads to the west. Someone easily could have followed the

  road from the Benny house and be waiting for them there.

  No, she was going to circle around the lake (staying

  clear of the water), around and over to Route 100C, a ma-

  jor highway. It would be easy there to get someone to stop

  and take them . . . somewhere safe.

  (And just where is that?)

  “Puh-lease,” Joshua cried again, “I . . . can’t . . . walk

  anymore.” He was crying, a little boy on the edge of total

  collapse.

  She went up to him, knelt down.

  (Giving another check over her shoulder, and then a

  quick glance down to the water.)

  “There, there, Joshua, you can keep on go—”

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  “No, I can’t! I wanna go back home. I wanna—”

  He fell into her, melted into her body, ready now for

  even a stranger to try to make him feel better.

  There was only one thing to do.

  Her arms circled around his small, well-packed little

  body. She lifted him up. His head collapsed immediately

  onto her shoulder, and his legs circled around her body,

  monkeylike.

  Just standing there holding him was hard.

  “Okay,” she said breathlessly to Claire. “Keep going,

  honey, but start moving a bit more to the right.”

  She hoped that she had led them far enough into the

  park to pass the lake.

  As they walked, she constantly checked the ground,

  searching for those funny black things.

  And with each step she took, Joshua felt heavier and

  heavier.

  Max Wiley woke from his nap feeling oddly disoriented.

  Where am I? he wondered. What day is it? Is it morning or night?

  But as he lay there he slowly remembered just what was

  going on. I took a nap. Because tonight—oh, yeah—is the

  costume party. The kickoff to the four days of celebration.

  And all the old families of Ellerton would be there.

  (With all their nice old money!)

  He sat up, got out of bed, and opened the blinds.

  It was dreary and overcast outside.

  Not a particularly nice summer’s day.

  He opened up his closet and took out his costume. It

  was all red, from the tip of his red tights to the thin, rub-

  bery skullcap with two stubby horns.

  The cape, trimmed with a golden brocade, was draped

  over a chair in the corner. Resting right next to it was a nice

  long pitchfork.

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  (Just the thing for loading the souls in the next meat

  truck to hell, heh heh.)

  Some nice red makeup for his face (with heavy, dark

  eyebrows) and . . . voilà!

  A perfect little devil.

  He looked in the mirror.

  Big party . . . big announcement . . . big doings in El-

  lerton.

  It’s gonna be a hot time in the old town tonight!

  “I was about to go down to dinner. Mrs. Thomas gets so

  cross if I’m late.” Reverend Winston smiled. “Besides, they

  like me to say grace.”

  Time seemed slow here. A small mantel clock on Win-

  ston’s dresser leisurely clicked off the minutes.

  And there just wasn’t time enough to tell Winston every-

  thing.

  Dan handed him the paper. “I wouldn’t ask you to look

  at it if it weren’t important.”

  “Well, if it doesn’t take too long.” Winston took the

  photocopy Dan handed him and started searching for his

  glasses. “I need my bifocals for this.”

  He put them on. “Oh, dear, wherever did you get this?”

  Winston looked right at Dan, a startled expression on

  his round, gentle face.

  “Billy Leeper led me to it.”

  Winston raised his eyebrows.

  “It came from the First Lutheran Church of Gouldens

  Falls.”

  Winston shook his head. “Are you serious?”

  “I found it there myself. Do you know what it is?”

  “Why, certainly I do. Of course I do. It’s the Pentagram

  of Solomon. Though I must admit I haven’t seen a copy of

  it outside of a church text in yea
rs.”

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  Winston studied it, following the crisscrossing lines,

  touching the symbols. “Nearly destroyed Christianity, it

  did. It was used by a splinter sect of the Albigensian

  Heresy. They had continued the traditions of the Cabala in

  the Old Testament. Do you know the Cabala?”

  He shook his head.

  “It was a very old form of black magic, from the earliest

  days of Judaism. Not exactly approved by the rabbis

  but often tolerated. It . . . infected some of the early Christ-

  ian groups, who mixed the occult with the new, true faith.”

  Winston fingered the truncated design. “They were very

  powerful . . . very. Until the group was purged.”

  Dan walked next to the old man, looked over his shoul-

  der. “Do you think you could complete the design?”

  “What? You mean, finish the pattern?”

  “Yes.”

  Winston studied the paper some more. “You found this,

  you say, in the church?”

  Dan let him study it some more.

  Winston looked up at him. “I won’t ask what you’re

  doing, Dan. I just pray that you’re not in over your head.”

  The reverend walked over and removed a heavy, gilt-edged

  book from his library shelf.

  Dan smelled the old worn leather, the tangy smell of

  paper.

  Winston laid the book on his small bed.

  “This book dates from, yes, 1923. Documents and Arti-

  cles Concerning Early Christianity. Volume 9. Heresies. ”

  He flipped through the pages.

  “Here we are. Let me have a pen.”

  Like an ancient scribe, Winston huddled over the mas-

  sive book. The clouds—growing thicker and darker all

  day—now turned an ugly black as the invisible sun settled

  below the hills to the west.

  It was getting late.

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  Winston’s room felt cold and uncomfortable.

  “There.” Winston picked up the completed sketch and

  handed it to Dan.

  Now came the tough part. (Stuff and nonsense, he

  thought . . . stuff and nonsense.)

  Dan removed a small vial of water from his shirt pocket.

  Right from out of the tap.

  “Would you bless this, Reverend?”

  “Are you serious?” He looked over his glasses.

  “Very.”

  Winston made the sign of the cross over the water. “God

  bless . . . whatever you’re up to.”

  “Thank you,” Dan said quietly. He turned to leave. “If

  all goes well, I’ll come back . . . and tell you everything.”

  “Yes,” Winston said. “Please do that.”

  But already Dan was moving down the stairs, taking the

  steps two at a time. Hurrying.

  I’m late for dinner, Winston thought.

  Nonetheless he knelt down on the cold, hard floor,

  placed his hands together, and prayed.

  As he promised, Paddy Rogers put a call in to Susan’s pa-

  per. He was told that she hadn’t come back from the dam.

  He knew she had a young daughter, so he called her

  home. The phone rang once, then twice, before an answer-

  ing machine clicked on.

  Perhaps she’s still at the dam, he thought. Though it

  looked real nasty out then, with the heavy clouds bringing

  an early darkness to the summer evening. A thunderstorm

  was on its way. His office was so cold, he was tempted to

  turn on some heat.

  He picked up the phone and had the switchboard patch

  him directly into the cops’ radios at the dam.

  Their radios had to be on—it was a regulation.

  No one answered him.

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  He had told Dan he’d wait for him. Here.

  (To do what? Help him track some phantom from fifty

  years ago? The more he thought about it, the more he thought

  it was a lot of silliness. Murder may have been committed

  years ago. But it was more likely over earthly matters.)

  He then decided to take a run over and see what was

  going on at the dam. He told the night desk-sergeant that

  he’d be back in an hour.

  He drove there himself.

  The first thing he noticed was the people gathered

  around the plaza . . . dozens of them, some eating, some

  drinking beer. As if the fireworks and the celebration were

  tonight. It was still light enough to see the banner, but soon

  a battery of spotlights would be turned on.

  He passed the plaza and curved up and around to the top

  of the dam.

  The police car was there. The door was wide open. And

  another car . . . a Rabbit.

  “What the—” he muttered, pulling alongside the Rabbit.

  He got out of his patrol car. He looked right, then left,

  and saw no one.

  He took a step closer to the water’s edge . . . the better to

  see the shoreline as it twisted its way around the reservoir.

  Up near the barricades there was a heavy truck. It

  looked like a State truck, but there didn’t seem to be any

  workers around.

  He was, he quickly realized, alone.

  He took a step back to his patrol car.

  Have to call this in. Get some more boys down here.

  Find out where the hell everyone went—

  He took another step.

  Someone grabbed his arm.

  Herbert Blount was directly under the wall, looking—my

  God, yes—straight up. It was so grand the way it curved

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  away from him, from the wide base to the narrow roadway.

  It almost looked like he could climb it.

  He took a bite of his ham sandwich.

  Other people had brought their dinner here. To the dam.

  It was a regular picnic. A party. People just milling about,

  looking at the banner. Sipping coffee and chewing sand-

  wiches.

  Lots of people. Just hanging around.

  All of them waiting . . .

  For, well—a funny thing—Herbert didn’t know what he

  was waiting for.

  And that didn’t bother him in the least.

  T W E N T Y - T H R E E

  He removed his knife from its sheath. The blade was over

  six inches long and one and a half inches wide, with a

  razor-sharp serrated edge. It could cut. It could tear. He

  once jabbed a nosy tiger shark in the snout with it (stupidly

  drawing a whole school of the medium-sized nasties, known

  to take a chunk out of a diver now and then). He also used

  it once to neatly fillet a water buffalo (and the meat had not

  been worth the effort or the stench—not by a long shot).

  He had used the knife to cut vines and small trees to make

  a lean-to in the Canadian Rockies right in the middle of a

  sudden blizzard.

  But had he never killed a man with it.

  He checked his watch. It was a little after six. He had

  called the police station, but Rogers had left. Another call to

  Susan’s house and he just got the answering machine again.

  ( Funny. No matter what goes on in our lives, no matter

  wh
at crisis . . . what problem . . . the voice on the answering machine tape remains oh so calm and unflappable. )

  He knew where she had to be.

  He knew it in the same way you know that, God, you’ve

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  done something really dumb, really stupid this time. Here

  we were, one by one, traipsing on down to the dam, hang-

  ing around—

  Waiting.

  Only now he knew what might be coming.

  He fingered the sheathed knife. It sat on the seat beside

  him like a silent passenger.

  The paper was in his shirt pocket.

  Over his head. That’s what Reverend Winston had said.

  Could be, Danny, boy. Could very well be.

  Her mom held Joshua tightly, but her breath was ragged.

  She was grunting, groaning—

  How much longer could she carry him?

  Her own legs felt like wobbly rubber sticks, ready to go

  all bendy and useless.

  Once she saw them. Behind them. Searching for them.

  They climbed a hill, and despite the too thick clusters of

  leaves, she could see down, to the small ravine they had

  just left.

  The two policemen were there, the dark navy blue of

  their uniforms now looking so horribly black.

  And someone else, trailing just behind them.

  It was not the man in the suit. It looked more like . . . a

  woman.

  Samantha started to cry.

  “I can’t . . . go . . . anymore,” she wailed.

  Claire took her hand. “Sure you can, Sammy. We’re

  almost there.”

  Are we? Her mother thought she was taking them to the

  big highway, where there’d be lots of cars . . . lots of people.

  But was she taking them the right way?

  “I can’t!” Samantha cried.

  She gave Samantha’s hand a gentle squeeze.

  “Just a bit more. You can do it . . . sure you can.”

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  279

  Her mother’s panting grew more hollow, more terrible

  in its pain.

  How much longer can she go on? Claire wondered.

  And what happens to us when she stops?

  It looked like somebody was having a party. There was

  Susan’s car. A patrol car. Another cop car with the word

  chief neatly lettered over the Ellerton insignia.

  And there was nobody around.

  Dan took the knife and looped his belt through the

  opening in the sheath.

  He got out of his Rover.

  The silence was total.

  Where was everyone? In the woods . . . up on the road-

  way . . . or maybe in the goddamn lake itself?

  The water moved.