Stuart Woods - Under the Lake

“Of course, Father,” Howell replied, reaching for the bottle, but the priest was already pouring for both of them.

“You were chosen?”

“I’m getting a bit ahead of myself, I can see,” the priest chuckled. “I should begin at the beginning.” He resettled himself in the deck chair. “You see, our people first came up here from Savannah in the 1840s to work on the railroads.”

“I’d heard that, but not much more.”

“Well, not all at once and all together, but the Irish among the workers had a way of gathering, and some of them took their earnings and bought land here; others joined them from the old country, and by about 1850, there was a thriving farm community in the valley – maybe forty families. And they needed a priest. There were not then, as now, a great many Roman Catholics in this corner of the earth.”

“So I understand. The Church sent them a priest, then?”

“No, the community was too small to be sent a priest, so a lad from among the families went back to Ireland to the seminary. It was a long wait, but after a time, the valley had a priest from among its own. The tradition continued, and I was the fourth in the line.”

“Did the community grow a lot over the years, then?” Howell reckoned that forty Irish families could grow practically into a nation in a century and a quarter.

“No, I’m afraid it didn’t,” the priest said, sadly. “It seemed that every time things were moving well in that direction, something happened. Nearly all the men in the community fought in the Civil War, and most of them didn’t survive it. It took a great many years before the valley began to recover from that blow. Then, in ‘89,I believe it was, there was a smallpox epidemic that hit us particularly hard.”

“I see.”

“Oh, they were a hardy lot and couldn’t be kept down. But there was the Great War, you know, and then a good many of the lads fought in Ireland after 1916. We recovered again, though, and after my return to the valley, things… well, things started to look up.”

“Then came World War II?”

The priest nodded and took a large gulp of his tea, now mostly brandy. “Exactly. Most disheartening, it was.”

“And then what?”

Father Harry looked at John, then waved his hand. “Then… there were… other problems.”

“Other problems?”

“Then came the lake. Eric Sutherland’s lake.” The old man’s voice was bitter and sad as he spoke the words. He poured himself another drink without asking.

“Tell me about Donal O’Coineen and his family,” Howell said, softly.

“Ah, Donal,” the priest said, smiling a little. “Donal was the best of us. If we’d all hung on like Donal… ” He let the phrase drop.

“What was he like?” Howell asked.

“A handsome lad; strong, industrious. He was always the hardest worker, the most successful. Married the prettiest girl, made the most money, had the most beautiful daughters.”

“Joyce and Kathleen?”

“Yes, yes,” the priest smiled, “and there’d have been more if there’d been the time.” The brandy seemed to be getting to him, now. God knew it was getting to Howell. “Joyce lost her sight when only a young thing. She was the artist of the family, the musician. Sweet, kind, virginal girl.”

Howell leaned forward. This was very important, somehow. “And Kathleen?”

A streak of pain flashed across the old priest’s face. Howell thought for a moment he was ill, but he continued. “She was the most beautiful creature I ever saw,” Father Harry said, softly. “A tiny thing, but strong, tough, even. There was something in her I could never…” His voice trailed off.

Howell searched for something to say to keep the old man’s train of thought going. “I understand Donal pulled her out of school when the pressure about the land got bad.”

The priest shot him a scornful glance. “Nothing to do with the land, sir. You see… ” He was fading again.

“Why did he take them out of school, then, if it wasn’t because of the fight over the land?”

“She was only twelve,” the old priest said. “It was awful. Her father loved her so.” He seemed on the verge of tears. “I thought it would kill him.”

“What happened to Kathleen? Did she die?”

“It might have been more merciful if she had,” Father Harry said. He was nodding now, with the brandy.

Howell struggled with his own load of brandy to keep the conversation going. The priest’s eyes were closing, now, his chin dropping to his chest. “Do you ever hear from them any more? Donal O’Coineen and his family?”

Father Harry’s eyes half opened for a moment. He looked confused. “Hear from them? Faith, lad, they’re under the lake these many years.“ Then his chin dropped onto his chest again, and he began to snore.

Howell stood up unsteadily and went into the living room. He could make no sense of all this. He dropped onto the sofa and laid his head back, just for a moment.

When he awoke, the sun was low in the sky, and the old priest was gone.

Bo Scully picked up the phone on his desk, consulted his notes, and dialed the eleven digits. The switchboard answered on the first ring.

“Neiman-Marcus, good morning.”

“May I speak with Mr. Murray in Credit, please?”

“One moment.” There was a click and ringing started.

It had been nearly two weeks since Bo had written to Murray, and he had heard nothing. Sutherland was giving him a very hard time.

“Credit.”

“Mr. Murray, please.”

“Who’s calling, please?”

“Sheriff Scully, Sutherland County, Georgia.”

“One moment.”

“Hello?”

“Mr. Murray, this is Sheriff Bo Scully. I talked with you a couple of weeks ago.”

“Yes, Sheriff. Did you get my letter?”

“No, sir, I didn’t; that’s why I’m calling.”

“Well, I sent you a copy of the credit application you asked for; it went out the day I got your letter, I believe.”

“Well, sir, I haven’t received it yet.”

“That’s the mails for you.”

“Yessir. I wonder if I could trouble you to just give me the information on the phone? You do have my written request.”

There was a deep sigh on the other end of the line. “Oh, all right. What was the name and account number again?”

“H. M. MacDonald.” Bo read him the number.

There was a shuffling of papers and some muttering, then, “Here we are, Sheriff. H. M. MacDonald, Address, 291 Cantey Place, NW, Atlanta 30327, phone (404) 999-7100, Employed by the Atlanta Constitution, Marietta Street, Atlanta…”

Bo missed the rest. He felt as if he had received an electric shock. He thanked the man and hung up. What the hell was going on, here? He’d been told a reporter was being sent to Sutherland, but he had seen no one except Howell, and he knew Howell was who he said he was, because his picture had been in the paper so often. There had been no strangers at Sutherland’s party; he’d known every soul there. What the hell was going on?

It made no sense to him whatever that a reporter would come to town and break into Eric Sutherland’s office without asking at least a few questions around town. He dialed information and got the number.

“Good morning, Atlanta Journal and Constitution. ”

“Mr. H. M. MacDonald, please.” He would hang up as soon as the man answered.

There was a pause and the noise of pages being turned. “I’m sorry, we have no one by that name. Are you calling the Constitution?”

“Yes. Are you sure there’s no H. M. MacDonald?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Any other MacDonald?”

“No, none at all.”

He thanked her, hung up, and dialed another Atlanta number.