Stuart Woods - Under the Lake

“You could never explain the plane, Bo. That’s just too big a mess.”

“Oh, it’s a mess, all right. An Air National Guard plane crashes and burns on a training exercise, probably trying to make an emergency landing on our little strip. The woods will be swarming with state patrolmen and FAA inspectors by noon. ”Course, there’s nobody left alive to identify me.“

“That plane’s got a few bullet holes in it. Somebody’ll notice.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if they did. Imagine, some crazy person taking a shot at an airplane. I predict they’ll never find him. And Scotty’s pictures are over there.”

Howell followed Bo’s glance to the fireplace, where something was smoking. There were still two rolls in Howell’s pocket, though. Bo didn’t know about those.

“And where are you right now, Bo? Why isn’t the sheriff up there at that plane crash?”

“Oh, I’m asleep in a motel over at Gainesville. I went over there with Eric Sutherland’s body this afternoon and waited for the autopsy results. The medical examiner and the coroner agree with your judgment, by the way; clear-cut suicide. Then I was just so tuckered out, I checked into the Holiday Inn and went right to bed with instructions not to be disturbed.” Bo grinned ruefully. “Have I left out anything, John? Anything I forgot?”

Howell felt numb. He knew, now, that Bo was going to get away with it, with everything.

“I’m real sorry, John,” Bo said, “but I’m afraid we’re going to have a murder and a suicide up here. The way you’re holding your ribs there, and the way Scotty’s face is, it’s going to look like a real knock-down, drag-out, too.”

“You’re getting real good at suicides, aren’t you, Bo?” This was just a stab, but Howell didn’t know what to do except keep talking.

Bo’s eyebrows went up. “Now that really interests me,” he said. “I’d really appreciate it if you’d tell me how you figured that. I thought it looked real good.”

“It did look good, Bo. The pencil was a particularly nice touch. And then I read Eric Sutherland’s will and an affidavit he’d attached. That got me thinking that you had a first-rate motive to blow Sutherland away.” Howell tried to talk as slowly as he could. He needed the time to think. “Then I began to think that if Sutherland had put the shotgun into his mouth, only the back of his head would have been gone, not most of the front, as well. It occurred to me that if I were going to kill myself with a shotgun, I wouldn’t look right down the barrel, as Sutherland apparently did. On the other hand, if I were going to kill somebody in the heat of the moment, I probably wouldn’t take the time to stick it in his mouth. I’d just point it at his head and pull the trigger. Which is what I reckon you did.”

Bo nodded thoughtfully. “And just how did you happen to read Eric’s will?”

“He kept the combination taped to the edge of a stenographer’s shelf in his desk. Who the hell could ever remember the combination to a safe? And when I read that will, a lot of things began to make sense.”

“Excuse me,” Scotty said, sounding irritated. “I’m awfully sorry to interrupt, but this doesn’t make any sense to me at all. Would you please tell me what you’re talking about?”

“It’s a long story,” Howell said. He looked at Bo. “Have we got time?”

“Oh, sure,” Bo said. “I’d like to hear this myself. Go right ahead.” He held up the bottle. “You want a drink?”

“Don’t mind if I do,” Howell replied. He watched closely as Bo poured a slug of bourbon into a dirty glass on the table at the end of the sofa and handed it to Howell. Bo was very careful about it.

“Well,” Howell said, knocking back some of the bourbon, “where to begin? A long time ago, I think. The middle of the last century. When the original settlers of the valley started putting down roots here, they had an idea that they were establishing something permanent, something that would live on. They expected to proliferate. They were Irish, after all. But every time their numbers would begin to build, something would happen to set them back again – war, disease, that sort of thing. Father Harry brought me up to date on that. Well, nearly up to date, anyway. Do you mind if I sit down, Bo? These ribs are giving me hell.”

Howell moved around to the sofa and sat down. Bo didn’t stop him, but moved around with him, leaving his back to the fireplace. Howell was hoping Scotty would remember that her pistol was in his desk drawer, but, maddeningly, she rolled the office chair toward the sofa, away from the desk, clearly fascinated by his story. When she moved, though, he saw on the desk behind her the red glow of the ‘on’ light of his tape recorder. Good girl, he thought.

Howell continued. “The Irish in the valley were staunch Catholics, of course, and they wouldn’t intermarry with the locals hereabouts who were all Baptists and Methodists and other such heathens. And, unlike the Mormons, they didn’t have instructions from an angel of God to practice polygamy, so – God knows how it began – somehow, they came around to incest. Father with daughter, brother with sister, that sort of thing.”

“Jesus Christ,” Scotty said.

“Well you might say,” Howell said, “and you might wonder why they didn’t, themselves, and why the Church didn’t keep them from it. They were Christians, after all, and the Faith clearly prohibits incest. On the other hand, it prohibits a number of other things that good Christians often quite proudly do and advocate. Well, who knows exactly how they rationalized it, but they managed. And since they were choosing their priests from among their own number every generation or so, they were able to send young men to the seminary in Ireland who had grown up with the local idea, who understood, who felt an obligation to their families and friends to help perpetuate their community, no matter how they had to do it. Which is how poor Father Harry came to grief.”

“He married Mama Kelly and her brother in the Church,” Scotty said.

“Right,” Howell replied, “and a great many more besides, I suspect. He was a priest for a long time around here, after all. But the Kellys didn’t live in the valley; they didn’t have the protective insularity of the community. Eric Sutherland noticed, and he got involved. He blew the whistle on Father Harry.”

“How did you find out about all this?” Scotty asked.

“Some from Father Harry, some from Eric Sutherland’s will, and, most important, some from Mama Kelly. A piece here and a piece there,” Howell replied, “but Sutherland’s affidavit was the most interesting. He went to some lengths to justify himself.”

“What made him get involved?” Scotty asked. “I mean, if this had been going on for a hundred years or more, why go after the priest?”

“Aha!” Howell exclaimed, raising a forefinger, “now you’re getting at the heart of things. You see, in 1930, Eric Sutherland fell in love. He met a lovely young Irish lass from the valley, and he went head over heels, perhaps more so than she. She was unhappy with the way things were going in the valley, as were some others in the community. Once in a while, a girl would break away and find herself a beau from the outside; at least, long enough to get pregnant.” Howell knew about this from personal experience. He glanced at Bo, who was staring, glassy-eyed, into the middle distance. He still gripped the shotgun, though.

“As you might imagine, a few generations of interbreeding were having their effect on the community. This girl had already borne a retarded child by her brother, and she wanted a healthy baby. Then, as soon as she knew for sure she was pregnant, she broke it off with Sutherland. He was devastated. He didn’t understand what had happened for a long time, but when he finally did, he determined to bring what was going on in the valley to a halt. He was in a position to do it. He started with Father Harry.”