Stuart Woods: Under the Lake

She nodded and put her arms around his waist.

He yelped in pain. “Watch it, I think I’ve cracked something in there.”

She put a hand on his ribs, at the center of the pain. “Yes, you have,” she said. She put her arms around him again and held him gently to her body.

Howell felt once again the amazing warmth he had felt when she had healed his back. A moment later, she stood back and looked at him.

“I think you can take off the bandage now,” she smiled. She kissed him on the cheek.

Howell took a tentative breath, then another, deeper one. “I think you’re right,” he said, but she was already walking down the stairs and turning toward the truck. He watched her drive away, then went back into the cabin.

“I’ve been on the phone to the paper,” Scotty said triumphantly. “Would you believe they’re sending a chopper up here for me and the film? We’ve only got the first two rolls I shot, but that’s got just about everything on it.”

“Good for you,” Howell laughed, and hugged her.

“I’d better get into town and get my stuff together,” she said. “They’ll be at the airport in a hour.”

Howell kissed her. “Get going, then.”

“Listen, we’ll see each other in Atlanta, won’t we?”

“From time to time, no doubt.”

“That’s not often enough,” she said, punching him playfully in the ribs. “Jesus, I’m sorry, I forgot.”

Howell pulled out his shirttail. “Undo this, will you?”

Scotty undipped the bandage and unwound it from his ribcage. “Shouldn’t you leave this on?”

Howell pounded on his chest and took several deep breaths. “Don’t need it,” he crowed.

“There isn’t even any bruising!” she said. “There sure was when I wrapped you up this morning. I thought you’d be weeks… ” Then she stopped. “Oh, I see; Mama Kelly.”

“Well, sort of, by long distance I guess. She died this morning, just about the time Bo did, I suspect.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Scotty said. “I never even met her, but I could sure feel her in that house yesterday.” She cocked her head to one side. “Listen, what was going on between you and Leonie? There was something going on there, I know it.”

“I’ll tell you about it some time,” he grinned. “And you ought to get to know her better, when you’re back up here. She’s your cousin, you know.”

“I guess she is, at that.”

“So are Dermot and Brian and Mary,” he said, more soberly. “When you get used to the idea of being a wealthy woman, you ought to think about doing something for them. After all, if it hadn’t been for their mother, you wouldn’t be the filthy capitalist you are, now.”

“I’ll do that,” she said. “Listen, I don’t want to get all maudlin, now, but I’m awfully grateful to you for getting me through this alive. I’ll call you for lunch next week and thank you properly, okay?”

“I’d better call you,” Howell said. “I’m not sure just where I’ll be.”

“I think I know,” she said, “but let me hear from you.” Then she grabbed her two precious rolls of film and fled.

A couple of days later, Howell threw the last of his gear into the back of the station wagon and shut the tailgate. He went back into the cabin, picked up the phone, and dialed a number.

“Bob Allen, please.” There was a click and some ringing.

“Allen.”

“Hello, Bob, it’s John Howell.”

“Well, I’ll be damned. A voice from the past. You got my note, huh?”

“Sounded more like a death threat to me.”

“You want it?”

“Maybe. We can talk about it. We’ll have to get some things straight, like what happens after Nairobi.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“London.”

“I expect we might find a slot there in about three years.”

“I won’t stay in Africa a minute more than eighteen months.”

“Two years, and I’ll see what I can do about London. When can you get up here?”

“I’ve got a few things to sort out in Atlanta. A week from Monday?”

“Okay, you’re on. Uh, listen, you’ll have to learn Swahili, you know.”

Howell could hear him grinning. “You bastard,” he said. “That’s going to cost you an extremely expensive lunch.” He hung up.

Howell picked up the completed manuscript of Lurton Pitt’s autobiography from the desk, and looked around the cabin. It was strangely dark, with its boarded-up windows. It seemed dead; just a lot of lumber and furniture.

He still wasn’t entirely sure of what had happened to him here, and he wasn’t sure if he ever would be. But he felt ready to go back and work at his life, instead of just wandering through it; to go back to what he did best and try to do it better.

He walked over to the battered player piano; it was missing chunks of veneer and spattered with buckshot, but still, somehow, whole. He flipped the switch. A flood of music poured out.

George Gershwin was playing “I’ve Got Rhythm”. Howell waited until It was finished, then he flipped off the switch. He laughed all the way to the car.