Stuart Woods - Under the Lake

The man tending the Scully family plot was the filling station attendant, Benny Pope. The man reaching into his pocket for money and paying him was the lawyer, Enda McCauliffe.

He watched as McCauliffe walked back to his car and drove toward town. Bo put the car into gear and followed. The lawyer parked in front of his office, put some money into the parking meter, and walked down the street to Bubba’s. Bo parked and followed him in.

“How you doin‘, Mac?” Bo asked as he slid into the booth opposite the lawyer.

“Not bad, Bo.”

Bo ordered coffee and stirred in some sugar. “Mac,” he said, gazing out the window into the middle distance, “I was out at the old cemetery the other day – first time in a real long time – and I couldn’t help but notice that my family’s plot was very nicely taken care of; even had some fresh flowers. I was surprised, because I never did anything to the plot myself, and everybody who’s related to me around here is buried in it.”

Bo stopped for a reaction. There was none. The lawyer sat, looking at the table, drinking his coffee.

Bo continued. “I was surprised especially, because just about all the other plots, your family’s included, were rough and grown over. And yet, just a few minutes ago, I saw you out there, paying Benny Pope to work on my family’s plot. Now, I don’t want you to think I don’t appreciate your thoughtfulness, but I sure am curious as to why you would do something like that for my folks when you wouldn’t do it for yours?”

McCauliffe took a sip of his coffee and put down the cup. “I’m sorry, Bo, but I can’t talk to you about that.”

Bo sat and looked at the lawyer in amazement. “Why not?”

McCauliffe put a half dollar on the table and got up. “Coffee’s on me, Bo, but I can’t talk to you about the cemetery. Please don’t ask me again.” He turned and walked out of Bubba’s.

Bo sank back into the booth and watched the lawyer leave. He sat in the booth, drinking coffee for nearly an hour, letting his mind drift around the problem, and finally, something occurred to him – just a fleeting idea. As he considered it, it began to make sense; all the known circumstances fit, and if there was anything at all to what he thought, he had a new reason to sit tight in Sutherland County, and the hell with Switzerland.

A crunch was coming, he could feel it, and, he reflected, in a crunch Bo Scully had a way of protecting himself. He had learned a long time ago about his instinct for self-preservation – in Korea and afterward – and he had no doubt that, when the time came, he would do whatever was necessary to survive again. It wouldn’t matter who got hurt. It hadn’t mattered before, although he still sometimes dreamed about it, and it wouldn’t matter this time, either. He would do what had to be done.

Enda McCauliffe let himself into his office, hung up his coat, and flopped heavily onto the new sofa. He wondered how he had let himself land in the middle of all this. He got up and opened his new safe, got out the file and read through the document again. He didn’t want to know all this stuff. If he’d had any idea what had happened so many years ago, he might never have gotten mixed up in this, but now he knew nearly everything and suspected more. He stared at the other envelope in his safe, Bo’s signed and witnessed document. With some difficulty, he resisted the urge to rip it open and read the contents.

He knew that Howell was onto something, too. The priest, Father Harry, had told McCauliffe about his visit to the cabin and the questions asked. He hoped the lecture he had given the old man had put a stop to any more idle chatter from him. And to think it was he himself who had first put the flea in Howell’s ear. What a stupid, mischievous thing to do; but he hadn’t known that at the time. He had been out just to annoy Eric Sutherland, to pick at his scabs. If only he’d known more at the beginning, instead of now. If only Sutherland had told him the truth sooner.

The genie wasn’t going back into the bottle, he could feel that. Maybe he could, somehow, limit the damage. He didn’t see what else he could do.

Howell was as nervous as a cat. It was the morning of the ninth; Bo Scully’s shipment was due to arrive at three-thirty the following morning, and nothing was going right. He wished he had a few more days, another week, maybe, to bring it all together. The goddamned film hadn’t even arrived, and without it, Scotty wasn’t going to get any photographic evidence; in the circumstances, she could hardly use a flash. He had called Atlanta twice and had been assured it was on the way.

But what worried him even more was that he was stuck on the O’Coineen mystery, absolutely stuck. He had thought that, somehow, he could bring that to a head along with Scotty’s evidence against Bo, but it wasn’t happening. He was losing; he could feel it.

There were a couple of things he wanted to know, sure. But he didn’t know how to find them out. He had been to see the priest, Father Harry, but the old man had clammed up tight, after accepting a bottle of good Irish whisky. He suddenly didn’t want to talk about the O’Coineens again. Somebody had been at him, Howell thought.

He walked up to the mailbox and found a special delivery notice. At least the film had arrived; that lazy bastard of a postman might have brought it down to the house. Special delivery, my ass, Howell thought. Still, he didn’t mind going into town; he was too nervous to work. A letter had been forwarded from Atlanta, too: a New York Times envelope, hand addressed, the name “Allen” written in the upper left-hand comer. His old boss. Not like him to send personal notes, Howell thought. He ripped it open. “Dear John,” it said. “Don’t know what you’re doing with yourself these days. Nairobi’s opening up next month. You want it?” No closing; it was signed “Bob.”

Howard crumpled the letter and threw it as far as he could. Nairobi! The place that had been a running joke between them for years as the place in the whole world he would least like to work. You could always go back to the Times once, they said. This was that sadistic bastard Allen’s way of saying if he wanted to go back, he’d have to crawl. The letter wasn’t even worth replying to; Allen could go fuck himself. That sort of aggravation was all he needed today, with everything else on his mind.

The station wagon wouldn’t start. Howell tried repeatedly before he was able to admit to himself that he had let it run out of gas. He pounded silently on the steering wheel a few times, then he called Ed Parker’s filling station; Ed promised to send out some gas right away.

After a few minutes, Benny Pope pulled up in Ed Parker’s pickup truck and unloaded a five-gallon can from the back. “You run right out, did you?” he grinned. “Well, that’s what we’re here for.”

Howell watched the man empty the can into the station wagon’s fuel tank. He got behind the wheel and, after a few tries, the engine came to life again.

“Well, I’ll be getting back,” Benny said, and turned to go to the truck.

“Hang on a minute, Benny,” Howell said.

Benny stopped and came back, his usual grin in place. “Yessir, anything else I can do for you?”

“Benny, you don’t like it around here, do you?”

Benny looked puzzled. “Why sure,” he said. “I’ve never lived anywhere else. I was born and raised right here. I like it fine.”

“No, I mean right here, around this cabin, around this part of the lake.”

Benny’s grin disappeared.

Howell kept his voice friendly and gentle. “I remember a while back, you said you didn’t want to come up here at night, and the day you brought the outboard out here, you wouldn’t get onto the water. Why was that?”