Stuart Woods - Under the Lake

“What did you do, Bo?”

“At first, I was going to throw it down the well,” Bo said, “but I couldn’t. It was a baby, and it was mine; I knew it was mine.”

“For Christ’s sake, Bo,” Scotty nearly shouted. “What did you do with it?”

“I thought about leaving in on somebody’s doorstep, but that would have only caused a lot of talk, made the newspapers and all. Then I remembered; when I came back from Korea, I flew from San Francisco to Atlanta and took a cab to the bus station. On the way, we passed the Georgia Baptist Children’s Home in Hapeville, out by the airport. It was the only orphanage in the state that I knew about. I called Eric and told him that everything was okay, but that I was tired and wanted to go home, that I’d bring his car and the deed to him in the morning. Then I put the baby in a box, and I drove it to Atlanta in Eric Sutherland’s car. It was the middle of the night, and there was no traffic. I gave the baby a bottle I found in the kitchen, and it was real good all the way to Atlanta; it didn’t cry or anything, it just slept. I guess I got there about four in the morning, before daylight, anyway. I left the box on the steps of what looked like the kitchen door and rang the bell. Then I got the hell out of there. I was back in Sutherland before Eric got up.”

Scotty, wide-eyed, was the first to speak. “What kind of box did you put the baby in?” she asked Bo.

Bo turned to her. “I didn’t even know whether it was a boy or a girl, until…”

“ What kind of box was it, Bo ?” Scotty demanded.

Bo hung his head. “It was a dynamite box,” he said, his face contorted with guilt. “I’m awful sorry, Scotty, I just didn’t know.”

The three of them stood in the room, silent, Howell looking back and forth from Scotty to Bo, baffled. “Hang on just a minute,” he said, finally. “What’s all this about a box?”

Scotty was staring incredulously at Bo, apparently unable to speak. She began speaking, never taking her eyes from Bo. “I’m adopted,” she said. “My parents got me from the Georgia Baptist Children’s Home, in Hapeville, in September of 1952. I had been left on the doorstep there in a dynamite box. My father used to tell the story all the time. ”Dynamite comes in small packages,“ he used to say.” She continued to stare at Bo as if she were seeing some fascinating creature for the first time. Tears began to spill from her eyes.

“Holy shit,” Howell said, looking worriedly at Scotty. She was flushed and was breathing rapidly.

“This can’t be happening,” Scotty said, still staring at Bo. “I’ve lived all my life wondering who the hell I was, and now I find out.” She suppressed a sob, then went on. “Let’s see, my paternal grandfather was Eric Sutherland, right?” She went on without waiting for confirmation. “My maternal grandfather was Donal O’Coineen. My mother is Kathleen O’Coineen, who, it turns out, was a mass murderer and who still comes to visit from time to time.”

“Huh,” Bo said.

“And you”… she pointed a finger of her unhandcuffed hand at Bo… “you are my father? Christ, I’ve been trying to put you in jail for three months!” She sat back in her chair and shook her head violently. “I know this is a weird time to think of this, but whatever happened to my journalistic objectivity and detachment? I’m up to my ass, I’m trapped in my own story! What editor would ever believe this? What reader would believe it?” She began sobbing. “ I don’t believe it!”

“I’m real sorry about everything, Scotty,” Bo said. “I just didn’t know until you told me about the box. I want you to believe that.”

Scotty managed to get control of herself for a moment. “I believe you, Bo,” she said. “I’ll try and forget about it if you will.” She started to sob again.

Howell was baffled. “Forget it? How can you forget it? He’s your father, for Christ’s sake!”

“Thanks, John,” Scotty said through her tears, “I believe I’ve got the picture.”

Howell’s eyebrows shot up; he snapped his fingers. “That’s what Mama Kelly has been on about, then. She kept saying, ”Little Kathleen is in danger.“ Jesus Christ, You’re little Kathleen!”

“I guess I am,” Scotty said, nodding at Bo and his shotgun. “And I’m in danger.”

Howell had nearly forgotten about that. Fascinated by Bo’s story, he had forgotten that he had meant to grab for the shotgun the first chance he got. “Listen, Bo…”

“Just shut up for a minute, John,” Bo said, waving the shotgun. “I’ve got to think for a minute.”

Howell stopped talking, stopped breathing, but not because of Bo. He had heard something, or rather, didn’t hear something. The crickets had stopped. Something was happening.

“Look, Bo,” he said. “You can’t kill us. You can’t kill Scotty, she’s…”

“You think I haven’t thought about that? If you’d just stayed away from the airport tonight, everything would have been all right. That was the last delivery here, ever.”

“No, Bo,” Howell said, shaking his head, “nothing would have been all right. You murdered Eric Sutherland. You’ve killed your fa ther, for God’s sake. You’ve killed the mother of your child. Do you think killing your daughter will make it all right? Do you think anything could ever be all right again?”

“Yes, I killed the sonofabitch,” Bo nearly shouted. “He played me along for all of my life; he never told me. If he’d told me, not when I was kid, but even as late as when I came back from Korea, then I could have married Joyce. I wasn’t tainted, but I didn’t know that. None of this would have ever happened if he’d only told me, can’t you see? It wasn’t until I figured it out on my own, when I found out he’d been having my mother’s grave tended all these years, that he admitted it. Then he tried to buy me off, showed me his will and how everything was left to me; that’s when I killed him.”

“He didn’t tell you just like you didn’t tell Scotty,” Howell said.

“Hardly,” Scotty chimed in.

“Everything would have been all right if you hadn’t been at the airport tonight, don’t you see? With Sutherland’s money, I could have taken care of Scotty for the rest of her life. Hell, I was already planning it.”

“It’s got nothing to do with our being at the airport, Bo,” Howell fired back. “It’s got to do with you, and the way you always try to overcome your own weakness by killing somebody. You were weak enough to let yourself be seduced by a twelve-year-old girl, then you killed your way out of it; you were weak enough to let Eric Sutherland pave the way for you and run your life, and you killed your way out of that; then, with all you had going for you here, you were weak enough to take drug money, and now you’re going to kill your way out of that, too?”

Bo turned a violent red, and Howell knew he had gone too far. “You stupid bastard,” Bo shouted, “I own this town, now, I own this lake; I own everything Eric Sutherland owned! Do you think I’m going to let you walk out of here and take that away from me?” He swung the shotgun toward Scotty. “You’re goddamned right, I’m going to kill my way out of it, and right now!” He pumped the shotgun and started to bring it to his shoulder.

Howell was struggling past his inflamed ribs, trying to get to his feet before the gun went off, but instead of a shotgun, what he heard was a loud click from across the room. Bo swung the shotgun in that direction and froze. The player piano was starting to play.

“I’ll Take You Home Again, Kathleen” rolled from the machine at a loud volume.