Stuart Woods - Under the Lake

She’d talk about the things we’d done to each other in the back of that patrol car. She said she loved me, and she wanted me to take her away. We’d go to California, or someplace where nobody knew us. She looked older than her age, she said; we could do it. She really was getting to me. I began to think that if I couldn’t have one O’Coineen girl, I might have the other one. I began to think about leaving everything – my job and the idea of being sheriff, Eric Sutherland’s help – everything. I was tempted, but I knew it was a crazy idea. I liked hearing from Kathleen, though, so I never told her I wouldn’t take her away.

The thing between Eric Sutherland and Donal O’Coineen had heated up pretty good by then. Donal wouldn’t budge, and the water was rising. I knew Eric wouldn’t flood him out, but Donal didn’t know that. They were at an absolute stalemate, and I knew that before long, something had to give.

Then one night Kathleen called me.

“Hey, Bo.”

It was the way she knew how to say that. Bo’s guts turned to water.

“Listen,” he whispered, already breathing hard, “I can’t talk right now, the sheriff ”ll hear me. I’m fixing to go out on patrol, anyway.“

“You don’t have to say anything,” she said. “Just listen. I talked Daddy into selling.”

This was some sort of trick, Bo thought immediately. She just wanted to get him out there.

“No,” she said, anticipating his thoughts, “Daddy really said he would sell. He’s already signed that paper Mr. Sutherland sent out here. He says for you to come out here and get the paper and take it to Mr. Sutherland. He wants Mr. Sutherland to put the money in his bank account in the morning.”

“Let me talk to Donal,” Bo said.

“He doesn’t want to talk,” Kathleen replied. “He’s already packing everything up. He means to leave here tonight and take us all somewhere else.”

Bo hesitated, trying to think.

“You better come out here quick, Bo, before he changes his mind. Mr. Sutherland would be awful mad if you gave Daddy a chance to change his mind.”

“All right,” Bo said, at last. “All right. I’ll be out there in about half an hour.” He hung up, told the dispatcher he was going on patrol, and left the station. In the car, though, he had second thoughts. Instead of heading for the valley, he made a U-turn and started toward Eric Sutherland’s house.

“You mean it?” Sutherland asked, pacing his study. “You think he’s finally decided to sell?”

“That’s what Kathleen said on the phone,” Bo replied. “I think you ought to go out there.”

“No, no,” Sutherland said quickly, “Donal hates the sight of me by now, and, anyway, he said for you to come. We’ll do as he says. You go out there, get the paper, and tell him I’ll deposit the money in his account in the morning, just as he wants.”

“But Eric, I’m on patrol tonight,” Bo pleaded. “I can’t go running out there in a patrol car; the sheriff’ll have my skin.”

Sutherland dug into a pocket. “Here,” he said, tossing Bo some keys, “take my car. Don’t worry, I’ll fix any problems with the sheriff that might come up. Just get out there and get those papers.” He kept pacing. “I can’t believe it; Donal’s finally caved in. We can start filling the lake again tomorrow!”He stopped and looked at Bo. “Well, don’t sit there, boy, get going!”

Bo left the house and got into Sutherland’s old Lincoln Continental convertible. He put the top up so nobody would see him in his uniform in the car, then started for the north valley road. He turned left at the crossroads and started down into the valley. It was a glorious night. Ahead of him, down the road, the house was lit up like a Christmas tree. The moon flooded the valley, casting a glow over the surface fog that covered the lake, right up to the roadway that held the water from Donal O’Coineen’s farm. Bo thought it looked like the floor of Heaven.

Bo swung the car through the gate and drew up next to the front porch. Donal’s truck must be behind the house; he was loading it there, Bo thought. She met him at the door, slipping her arms around his waist, moving against him. He plucked at her arms, moved her away. “Are you crazy?” he whispered.

“It’s all right,” she said. “They’re all upstairs, packing.” She led him toward the table in the front hall. “Here,” she said, handing him a pen and leading him toward the paper there. “Daddy wants you to witness it. There’s a place there for a witness to sign.”

Bo looked at the paper. Donal O’Coineen’s name was written at the bottom. Bo signed it. Kathleen hugged him again.

“Now it’s done,” she said. “Take it back to Mr. Sutherland, and then we can go anywhere we like, you and me.”

He held her back. Something was wrong. It was dead quiet in the house, not a sound. There was always some sound, he remembered, Joyce playing the piano or Donal and Mary listening to the radio, but it was strangely quiet. “Where’s your folks?” he asked. “Where’s Joyce?”

“They’re all upstairs packing,” Kathleen said, taking his hand and leading him toward the front door. “Now you take the paper to Mr. Sutherland, then come back for me. I’ll be all ready to go.”

Bo held her by the shoulders and looked at her. “Don’t talk crazy, Kathleen,” he said. “Something’s wrong here.” He was beginning to be frightened. He started toward the stairs. “Donal!” he called out.

Kathleen grabbed at his sleeve and pulled, but Bo swept on down the hallway toward the stairs. “No, Bo, don’t go up. He doesn’t want to see you, I told you.”

“Donal!” he called again as he put a foot on the stairs.“

“Bo, let’s go now,” Kathleen cajoled, climbing the steps beside him, tugging at him.

He shook her off. “Joyce!” he yelled, louder, now. He turned at the landing and continued upward, Kathleen begging still.

“Joyce!” he said once more as he reached the top of the stairs, and the name died in his throat. Halfway down the upstairs hallway, at the door to her room, Joyce lay, sprawled in an unnatural position, her legs crossed oddly. Her chest was a mass of blood, and most of her face was gone. She had been shot at least twice with a shotgun, up close, a part of Bo registered, the deputy part. The dark glasses she always wore lay twisted near her head. Her golden hair was scarlet, how, spilling over a pool of her own blood.

Bo’s mouth worked, but nothing would come out. He made himself continue down the hallway, toward Donal and Mary’s room. Kathleen was quiet, now. She had stopped begging. Bo came to the door, which was slightly ajar. He pushed it and it swung freely with a loud squeak. Donal and Mary were in bed, sitting up, or, at least, they had been. Donal was twisted sideways, both his arms flung to the same side of his body. Mary’s head, what was left of it, lay across his leg, and a great deal of her blood had soaked his trousers. The wall behind the bed held gobs of red and gray matter; bits of hair was stuck to it.

There was a pump shotgun on the floor beside the bed. Bo picked it up and worked the action. Empty.

Kathleen spoke for the first time since they had reached the top of the stairs. “I took the plug out,” she said, matter-of-factly.

The gun would have held eight shells without the plug, the deputy part of Bo thought. That part tried to reconstruct what had happened.

“Daddy and Mama were in bed listening to the radio,” Kathleen said, in the same calm voice. “I shot them first, twice each. I heard Joyce call out, and I went into the hall and shot her twice when she came out of her room. Then I came back in here and shot the rest of the times at them.” She paused. “Then I turned off the radio,” she said, finally.