Beneath Still Waters Page 16

  ferent.

  Then, only halfway to the top and the doors leading out,

  Morton’s light died. He said his prayer—not the first of the

  day—as he finished his climb, guided only by the glow of

  an occasional naked light bulb.

  The girl decided to go into the castle. Despite the fact that she knew they were waiting for her, planning to capture

  her the moment she passed the castle gates. Still, she was

  going in.

  Because she had to. Had to. The only way to save her family was to destroy the evil inside the dark, brooding

  castle walls.

  She started walking in, joining a group of peasants back

  from a long day in the fields.

  Claire turned the page.

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  In that second of pause between pages of her fantasy

  novel, she heard something. Or rather, she didn’t hear

  something. The TV was off—always a bad sign. Anything

  could be happening now. Once she found the brats investi-

  gating their parents’ bureau drawers, dangling Mrs. Benny’s

  frilly underwear in the air. It took her an hour to put it all

  back more or less the way it was. At least Mrs. Benny never

  said anything.

  No TV always meant trouble.

  And how long, she wondered, had it been off now? The

  book she was reading was so good, she was lost, drifting in

  this other world, struggling with the girl, sharing her fear,

  her courage.

  “Samantha. Joshua . . .” she called, lazily sliding off the

  couch and depositing her book on the cushion, open and

  ready for her quick return. “What are you guys up to?” she

  asked, going downstairs to the now quiet family room.

  “Why’d you turn the TV off?” she asked.

  Claire walking into the sun-filled room.

  Samantha was on the floor, surrounded by Barbie and

  all her slim and trim friends. (No fatties there.) There was

  Barbie’s pink Corvette, her heart-shaped dressing table,

  her bicycle for two (for Ken, of course).

  Yuck.

  Right . . . I was supposed to play Barbie with her.

  “Oh, yeah, I forgot,” Claire said. “Sorry.”

  “I was just getting it all ready. I can’t find her tennis

  stuff.”

  Claire smiled. “Her pink tennis outfit? I’ll help you

  look, it’s probably . . .” She looked around. No Joshua.

  “Where’s Josh?”

  Samantha shook her head. “I dunno. He shut the TV off

  when Smurfs came on. He hates Smurfs. He says he’d like

  to blow the Smurfs up. Then he went outside.”

  “Stay here,” Claire ordered. “I’ll be right back.” Claire

  walked over to the sliding door that led to the backyard.

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  She felt the air from outside filtering into the cooler family

  room. The door was open, just wide enough for a small body

  to pass through.

  “Stay right here,” she again ordered, tugging the heavy

  door open wider, her heart beating fast.

  Damn my reading. It’s just like my teacher says. I’m al-

  ways lost in a never-never land.

  But this was bad. Real bad.

  She ran out into the yard, looking left and right, sur-

  prised by the peace and quiet. A bird chirped from a nearby

  tree. A gentle breeze rustled the willow tree just to her

  right.

  But there was no sign of Joshua.

  She yelled.

  “Joshua!” Then, more insistently, “Joshua! Where are

  you? Come back here!”

  Now, when there was no answer, she became really

  scared.

  “Oh, no,” she whimpered to herself. “Please, God, don’t

  let this be.”

  “Joshua!” She looked straight ahead. And she knew

  where he had gone.

  The woods, and then beyond. Down to the mesh fence

  and the reservoir.

  (“No matter what you do,” Mrs. Benny had said, just

  about out the door, “don’t let Joshua go down there. No

  matter what.”)

  She ran, feeling cold and clammy, sick to her stomach.

  This, she thought, was real fear. This was really how it felt.

  All sick and horrible.

  “Joshua!” she screamed, “are you down here? Joshua!”

  And she began to wonder if maybe he went exploring in the

  other direction, toward the highway, crossing the street . . .

  just as some monster-sized truck with dozens of wheels

  came roaring down upon him.

  An exposed root—a snaky, arch-shaped thing—snagged

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  her right foot and sent her down hard onto the leaves and

  twigs. Her knee was scraped, like when she used to fall

  skating down her driveway, but she popped up, not even

  looking at it. She started running again.

  It was dark in here—only tiny pinpricks of light got

  through the leafy roof. It was a world removed from the

  bright green lawn and the gentle willow. And so crowded—

  leaves, plants, and hulking trees jumbled awkwardly to-

  gether. Like some kind of battle was going on.

  Then she came to the fence.

  And no Joshua.

  (Oh, please, where are you?)

  The she heard him, just off to the side, crying quietly.

  She hurried over to him.

  He was lying on the ground, rubbing his arm back and

  forth. It was the tail end of what had been a bout of crying,

  with the streaks of his tears dried into blotches on his

  cheeks.

  She crouched beside him, fighting to hold back her fear

  and her anger. “What happened, Josh?”

  He looked at her, and his tears picked up fresh energy. “I

  fell . . . off there,” he said, pointing to the fence. “I climbed halfway up, then I slipped.” He punctuated his sentence

  with a long swipe of his runny nose into the shoulder of his

  shirt.

  “I told you not to go here, didn’t I? And your mom told

  me that you were absolutely forbidden to—”

  His eyes widened.

  “You won’t tell her, will you? Will you?” He was poised

  to begin crying again.

  She paused, letting him dangle there a moment. Know-

  ing, of course, that if she told Mrs. Benny, she would be the

  one in trouble. Baby-sitters were supposed to keep some

  kind of watch on the kids.

  Claire gave his sandy-blond hair a light tussle.

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  “Deal.”

  He grinned in relief.

  “We’ll just say you bumped your arm on the climbing

  toy.”

  Joshua started to get up.

  “What do you say we go back and dig up something

  for you on the tube. Some robot show or—”

  “GI Joe!” he squealed.

  GI Jerk, she thought, and groaned. “Yeah, maybe

  that’s on.”

  She turned to go back to the house, glad that sick feel-

  ing was gone. When she happened to glance at the other

  side of the fence. Josh had already taken a few steps toward

  the house.

  “Wait a minute,” she said quietly.
“Just a minute—”

  From the fence, the ground sloped down to the water.

  The plants gave way to a small, narrow strip of mud beach.

  There was a boat in the water, not moving, and she could

  make out three people on it.

  “C’mon, Claire, the show’s probably started already.”

  “Hold on,” she said.

  But it wasn’t the boat that made her stop. It was some-

  thing else. The colors right in front of her. She’d read a book

  once with colors like that. A fantasy book, with strange crea-

  tures and plants. And the plants weren’t just green but a

  whole rainbow of colors—dark purplish reeds and shiny or-

  ange blades of grass. Sort of like what she was seeing now.

  She stepped toward the fence.

  It wasn’t so different . . . so strange . . . that most people would stop and notice. But it was there.

  “Claire! C’mon!”

  The grass had deepened past green to a rich, almost

  bluish, color. And the emerging stalks of the plants by the

  edge of the water glistened with a beautiful golden color

  that twinkled in the sunlight.

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  Almost beautiful. Almost—

  Except for the blackish-brown puffles, ugly, dotlike

  things that seemed to be everywhere, thickest at the water’s

  edge but seemingly spreading up toward the fence.

  She looked down at her feet.

  There were none there. And she was glad of that. But

  the grass was already darkening.

  She saw a few blades sticking to the seat of Joshua’s

  pants, and she quickly reached over and dusted off his fanny.

  “Hey, cut it out.”

  She stepped closer to the fence.

  She knew this place. Right here. The narrow, dark

  brown beach. Still water.

  She knew it because she saw it every night ( every night)

  in her dream.

  (The same dream. All the time.)

  But never with all the strange plants growing around,

  never with the bright colors spreading up from the water.

  That was new—

  “Let’s go,” she said, almost whispering. And she took

  Joshua’s hand—hard—and led him back to the house.

  Tom Flaherty tugged the top of his wet suit in place. He

  could see two children standing by the fence, looking out

  at him.

  He was going to wave. But under the circumstances—

  diving for a body and all that—he thought it might be a

  somewhat inappropriate gesture. Besides, there were still

  people on the shore—not as big a crowd as last night but

  enough to make him feel their scrutiny.

  “All set?” Ed asked him.

  “Right.”

  There was no bantering that afternoon. No joking. The

  previous night had taken the wind out of all their sails,

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  153

  even Russo, who seemed to retreat to his dials, brooding

  over them like solid Ed—who seemed a bit pale when he

  showed up before lunch to do a check on their gear.

  I wonder, he thought, which one of us doesn’t want to dive the most? But that was no contest. Because, unknown to Ed and Russo, Tom had tried to get pulled from the job.

  He actually had called the captain at the harbor patrol to

  plead a bad case of the heebie jeebies, He gave the captain

  a bunch of good reasons why he should send some other

  diver up to carry out the second day’s search.

  The captain bought none of them.

  Since Tom knew the layout of the place, it was best, all

  things considered, that he go on working with Ed.

  Then the captain hung up.

  Tom thought he’d throw up when he put the phone

  down.

  He just couldn’t imagine coming across another body.

  (No. He could imagine . . . that was the problem.)

  He felt trapped. That’s part of the problem with being

  a grown-up. Sure, you can get laid, drink beer, and order a

  pizza anytime you get an urge. But when duty calls, the

  rules say you gotta be there. You might be ready to crap in

  your pants, but hell, you got a job to do.

  “Let’s roll it,” Ed said flatly.

  “Okay,” Tom said, moving to the edge of the boat, sit-

  ting with his back to the water. He was facing Russo, and

  he wished the writer was here.

  (He’d probably had enough fun also.)

  Dan had told them he had to meet someone . . . on Long

  Island, no less. A likely story. Can’t say I blame you.

  But he had a calm, reassuring voice under water. Not the

  shrill bleating of Russo telling them to go left or right, up

  and down like underwater puppets, sometimes forgetting

  all about them.

  “Check your microphones,” Russo said.

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  m a t t h e w j . c o s t e l l o

  “Testing, one, two,” Ed droned.

  “Testing, one, two,” Tom responded. He tapped his

  oxygen gauge—for good luck—as he usually did.

  “Okay, gentlemen. Over you go—”

  Easy for you to say, Tom thought, easy for you—

  And he cantilevered backward into the reservoir.

  T H I R T E E N

  “Yes, Mr. Morton. . . . I understand what you have to

  do. . . . Yes, I understand the danger—”

  Let’s overreact a bit, right, buddy? Same old story, Wi-

  ley thought. Give someone a bit of power, and all of a sud-

  den everything’s a crisis. Everything’s a damn crisis.

  Here’s this guy wanting to close the roadway over the

  dam, prepare evacuation plans . . .

  Dammit, evacuation plans! Unbelievable.

  “But you just told me that you can have a crew in there

  tomorrow, pumping the water out, patching it up, so why

  can’t—”

  But it was brick-wall time.

  “The procedure’s very clear, Mr. Wiley. The area is to

  be closed off, pending the repair and reinspection.”

  “Even though by tomorrow afternoon—tomorrow after-

  noon, for Pete’s sake—everything might be okay?”

  “Might. The operative word here is might, Mr. Wiley.

  Meanwhile you should immediately consult with your lo-

  cal police about evacuation routes . . . notify anyone in the

  affected area. It’s only a precaution.”

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  m a t t h e w j . c o s t e l l o

  Only a precaution. Nothing less than a full-scale alert,

  trashing everything because of some small leak—

  “Look, Mr. Morton,” he said, forcing himself to smile

  diplomatically, “I want to cooperate as fully as possible.

  But please understand we have been building to this week

  for more than a year.” He stood up. “So how about this . . .

  we’ll clear the roadway, set up a phone chain—internally,

  that is—so that we can notify anyone living near the place.

  I mean, I’m sure you people don’t want any panic.”

  “No, of course—”

  “But let the plans for the celebration go on . . . putting

  up the banner, setting up the speaker’s platform . . . so that

  if everything is fixed by tomorrow, we’re still ready. Now

  isn’t that fair enough?”

>   C’mon, you old bastard. He knew that if he wanted to,

  Morton could declare the whole area off-limits.

  “Well, I guess that’ll be okay. Just see that your workers

  stay clear of the engineers who’ll be coming.”

  “No problem.”

  “And make sure the police know what’s happening.”

  “I’ll do it right now.”

  “Okay, then. I’ll call and let you know when they’re

  done . . . if you’ll tell me where I can reach you.”

  Wiley scrawled a number down on a piece of paper,

  passed it to Morton, and then happily, with a big grin, ush-

  ered him out of his office.

  It’s still manageable, he thought as the door closed. Get

  the stupid leak fixed, find Tommy Fluhr’s body (write him

  off—hey, accidents happen), and keep Rogers from going

  nuts over Massetrino. (Though that little event disturbed

  even him. He knew what murder could do to a small town.

  A few summers ago the river town of Harley-on-Hudson

  had become hostage to some maniac. It’s bad for business.)

  He could still pull it off, he thought, and launch his con-

  gressional campaign.

  The festivities would all start the next day . . . well away

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  157

  from the dam. The Kiwanis and Embassy Clubs were

  sponsoring a big gala costume ball at the Stone Hill Coun-

  try Club. Lots of money there. Lots of it. And he planned

  on letting his political aspirations slip a bit early to some of

  the high rollers.

  Inside information.

  Just between me and some of the county’s fat cats. Get

  the old bandwagon rolling real soon.

  The town clerk buzzed him. “Mr. Wiley . . .”

  “Yes.” He was eager to wrap it up early, maybe meet

  Jamie later. Work off some of the pressure.

  “Your next appointment is here . . . a Mr. Parks. Shall I

  send him in?”

  Martin Parks. He’d described himself as a

  businessman—worldwide holdings, he had said—seeking

  to open up an East Coast office. Couldn’t find a better

  small town than Ellerton, he had told him. No, sir.

  “Send him in.”

  The notebooks sat in the backseat, filling two torn and

  musty boxes Leeper had dug out of a closet.

  “Take care,” Leeper had cautioned Dan. “They’re get-

  ting old and brittle. They won’t stand up to much rough

  handling.”

  It seemed to Dan, as he took the Long Island Express-

  way back toward Manhattan and the bridges to the Bronx

  and Westchester, that he was bringing Billy Leeper with