Stuart Woods - Under the Lake

“Shit.”

“Exactly.”

“What now, then? How’re we going to nail him.”

“How’re you going to nail him, you mean. My interest lies elsewhere.”

“Okay, how’m I going to nail him?”

“Well, he’s been to Switzerland since his last payment, so there’s no money in his mattress to find. But you’ve got this schedule. What ever he’s doing he does every few weeks. Let’s see, it’s five weeks since the last one, so, if he’s still in business, he’s due for another what-ever-it-is pretty soon. If we can figure out what it is, and if you can catch him at it – I mean, flat red-handed, squinting into a flashbulb, well, that’s your best shot.”

Scotty flopped down on the sofa, looking determined. “You’re right,” she said. “I’m going to have to catch him at it, whatever it is.”

“Something else, Scotty, something maybe a lot harder.”

“What’s that?”

“You’re going to have to live to tell the tale.”

“You’re a real optimist, aren’t you?”

“I’m a realist; you’d better be, too.”

Howell got up and walked out onto the deck. Scotty followed him and flopped into a chair. It was dusk.

“Days are getting shorter,” Howell said.

“Yeah, the leaves will be turning soon. Happens earlier up here than in Atlanta. They say it’s gorgeous.”

“Scotty, what is Bo’s full name? Do you know?” “

“Sure. He’s touchy about it, though; prefers Bo. Sally told me. It’s Christopher Francis Scully.”

“I thought it would be.”

“Why? Where’d you hear Bo’s full name?”

“Pay attention for a minute. Eric Sutherland’s story is that he went to see Donal O’Coineen alone and finally talked him into selling up. Sutherland put the money in the bank, and O’Coineen and his family picked up and left. That’s Sutherland’s story, and Bo backs him up on it. Bo heard from the older girl, Joyce, later.”

“That’s what you’ve told me.”

“The vision, or whatever it was, seems to back up Sutherland’s story, too. A man in a 1940 Lincoln Continental convertible, top up, drives down the mountain to the farm, gets out, goes in, stays awhile – I don’t know how long – leaves the house, drives away. Sutherland owned a Continental convertible, didn’t sell it until the mid-fifties.”

“I thought you were all through with the O’Coineen thing. What’s got you back onto that?”

“I just thought it needed some more checking out. I went to the courthouse this afternoon and dug out the transfer deed that Sutherland filed, and, just to check out O’Coineen’s signature, his license for his well-digging business.”

“Signature genuine?”

“Yep.”

“So?”

“The transfer deed was witnessed by Bo Scully.”

“Yeah? So?”

“That means Bo must have been at the meeting between Sutherland and O’Coineen.”

“Okay, good.”

“Yeah, except Sutherland says he went alone, and Bo says he wasn’t out at the place for nearly a month before the O’Coineens left.”

“Well, if he was at their meeting, why would Bo deny it?”

“That’s what’s got me stumped. The whole reason for any suspicion of Sutherland all these years – all the rumors that have sprung up – is that Sutherland’s story of meeting with O’Coineen was unsubstantiated. If Bo was at the meeting and witnessed the document, then why hasn’t he said so? Why hasn’t he backed up Sutherland’s story and taken the heat off him?”

Scotty gave a low chuckle. “You’re hooked on this one, aren’t you?”

“Yeah,” Howell replied. “I guess I am.”

“Hallooo.”

Howell put down his razor and listened.

“Halloooo. Anybody home in there? Halloooo.”

He got into some jeans and grabbed a towel.

“Hallooooo!”

It was nearly a howl, now, echoing around the lake. He came out onto the deck to find a priest standing down by the water. The same priest he had seen in town early in his stay at the lake, a tiny man, very old.

“Good morning, Father,” he said, wiping soap from his face. “I’m sorry I didn’t hear you sooner.”

“Ah, now,” the priest called back. “I’ve come at a bad time, have I? Would another time be more convenient?”

“No, indeed. Please come on up and have some coffee.”

The priest climbed the stairs, and at the top, offered Howell his hand. “I’m Father Riordan,” he said, “called by most, Father Harry. I’m very pleased to meet you, Mr. Howell.”

“Call me John, please, Father Harry. Can I get you some coffee?” he asked, leading the way into the cabin.

“Would you have a bit of tea, now?”

“I think so, if you don’t mind a teabag.”

“Ah, that’s fine, fine, lad.”

Howell made tea for both of them and took the pot out onto the deck. The sun was high; it was nearly noon. Howell poured the tea and made to sit down.

Father Harry cleared his throat. Howell stopped. “Was there something else I could get you father? Some toast…”

“Ah, do you think you might have a drop…”

“Of course, Father, but I don’t have any of Irish.”

“Whatever will be fine,” the priest said.

Jesus, he was starting early, Howell thought. He broke the seal on a bottle of brandy, walked back onto the deck and poured a generous slug into the priest’s tea.

“Ah, that’s lovely,” the man said, sipping it noisily. “Will you join me, now?”

What the hell, Howell thought, and poured some into his own cup.

“It’s a grand place you’ve got, here,” the priest said, waving a hand at the view.

“I’m afraid it’s only borrowed, Father. Belongs to my brother-in-law.

“Ah, yes, young White. I used to see him about. Not met him.” There seemed to be a note of disapproval of Denham White in his voice.

“Well, now, Father, what brings you up this way? Just out for a stroll?” The priest seemed to have something on his mind. Howell wanted to make it as easy as possible for him.

He looked directly, but sympathetically at Howell. “I understood I might be of some service to you, lad.”

Howell was nonplussed. He started to speak but didn’t know what to say.

“Oh, I understand now. Forgive me, my boy; I was up to see Lorna Kelly, and she said you might need a word with me. I can see you weren’t expecting me, but Lorna has a way with her… she sometimes knows these things just a bit before the rest of us.”

“How is Mama Kelly?” Howell asked, to give himself time to think.

“Not well at all,” the priest replied. “In fact, I don’t know how she holds on. She seems to be waiting for something; I don’t know what.”

Howell wanted to immediately ask about the O’Coineens but stopped himself. “Well, I don’t feel any special need for spiritual help just at the moment, but I am interested in the history of this area. Have you been here for some time?”

“Oh, fifty-two years, it is, now, since I’m back. I’m eighty-one, you see.” He looked at Howell as if he wanted to be told he didn’t look it.

Howell thought he looked ninety if he looked a day. “Well, you certainly don’t look it, Father,” he said.

The priest accepted the compliment as his due. “Yes, it was nineteen hundred and twenty-three I was ordained at Maynooth, and I left Dublin on a steamer, eventually winding up at Savannah, as my fathers did.”

“Your fathers?” Howell was puzzled. “I’m sorry…”

“Oh, I was born right here in the valley.” The priest pointed out over the lake. “A fine view this spot has, then and now.”

“So you went back to Ireland to enter the seminary, then?”

“I did. I was chosen to do that.” The priest half reached for the bottle. “May I?”