Beneath Still Waters Page 20

  car. He wouldn’t let himself go through that again.)

  No matter what.

  But this . . .

  This was growing stranger by the minute, and for the

  first time he thought he’d pick up all his gear, throw it into

  the back of his Land Rover, and get the hell out of there.

  “What’s a couple of thousand dollars?” he said, trying

  to convince himself to give up the article.

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  187

  After all, it’s a bit late in life to become a materialist.

  He heard something outside again.

  Steps, slow, tentative, coming toward his room.

  Probably the late-night rummy on his appointed rounds.

  Trying to get a closer look at the room numbers.

  But the steps were steady, assured, until they came to

  stop just outside his door.

  Dan looked at the door. He half expected the doorknob

  to twist back and forth ominously.

  He looked over at his knife. (Easy, boy.)

  The late-night visitor knocked. Once, gently. Then harder.

  It felt cold in the air-conditioned room.

  He went to the door and opened it.

  Claire could still feel it. Lying on her bed, eyes wide open.

  As if she could smell the reservoir here, touching every-

  thing.

  Her mother hadn’t believed her. But she understood that,

  really understood that. You couldn’t have moms running

  around believing in their kids’ crazy fears, now could you?

  It just didn’t work that way.

  Kids get scared, and the grown-ups make it all better.

  Except that this was different. (She should have known

  that a long time ago.) The dream had been a warning

  from . . . from . . .

  Somewhere. Trying to tell her about what was going to

  happen.

  (Her mother made a sound in her sleep, a little grunt,

  and it made Claire feel weird to hear it, like she was in

  charge, watching over her mother or something.)

  And maybe she was.

  She thought now, too, of the Benny kids—not that

  she liked them; they were too spoiled for that. But still

  she worried about them, in that nice new home so close to

  the water—

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  m a t t h e w j . c o s t e l l o

  (And the plants, and the funny black things growing in

  the ground.)

  When she closed her eyes, she could also hear them

  growing, like toadstools popping out of the ground, the

  grass going to seed, waving in the breeze. And the water.

  God, yes, the water. Not just sitting there nice and still,

  but jumping around in the moonlight.

  Excited.

  She pulled her blanket closer.

  Didn’t anyone else hear it, she wondered, or smell the

  way the air was damp and heavy? Reaching everyone as they

  slept, filling their lungs with the moist air from the lake.

  Everyone who slept.

  But not her. She wouldn’t sleep tonight. No way. She’d

  keep her eyes wide open, listening, waiting . . .

  Until everyone heard it and she wasn’t alone anymore.

  If only it wasn’t too late.

  S I X T E E N

  At first she didn’t call out his name, as if breaking the si-

  lence of the night would somehow confirm that there was,

  in fact, something wrong here.

  She didn’t want to admit that.

  Her Joshua just went outside. That’s all. Her explorer,

  her adventurer, saw the moonlight (so bright tonight) and

  went out . . . to see it.

  But as soon as she started running across the milky

  white yard down to the woods, she knew that this, her

  backyard, had changed. Now it was an eerie, alien place

  where she had no right to be.

  So she yelled out his name, listening to her voice carry

  so clearly in the night air.

  “Joshua!” She heard a truck, miles away. Then a gentle

  breeze pressed her thin nightgown against her skin. Leaves

  rustled.

  But no one answered her call.

  Now she ran, full out, single-minded, into the woods.

  The lake was all he talked about. He loved the lake.

  (“Why can’t I fish there, Mommy, and why can’t I swim

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  there? And why can’t Daddy buy us a boat for the lake?

  And why is there a fence around it? Why, why?”)

  The lake was like a lurking stranger.

  Luring her child with the promise of play and excitement.

  Every few steps she yelled out his name.

  Once she thought she heard his answer—or maybe it

  was just the sound of her own voice echoing off the sheer

  cliffs across the water.

  She reached the fence, and even though the moonlight

  made everything almost dazzlingly white, she didn’t see

  much. The trees went right up to the fence line, arching

  over it, covering it with shadows.

  She looked around, confused, as if she expected Josh to

  be there, standing beside the fence, wearing his mischie-

  vous grin.

  (“Sorry, Mommy.”)

  But he wasn’t there. She went to the fence and dug her

  fingers into the mesh, looking left and right.

  (Now she doubted herself. Maybe he’s still at home,

  maybe he opened the door, took a quick look outside, and

  went back to bed or to the bathroom. Sure, I probably

  missed him, and—)

  Such hopeful thoughts rambled through her mind, then

  she saw there was an opening, at the bottom of the fence. It

  was like someone had dug at the bottom of the mesh and

  yanked it out of the ground, pulling it up and out like the

  flap of a cardboard box.

  Could Josh have done that? Just big enough for a boy

  to crawl under.

  “Oh, no,” she said, moaning. And again she made a piti-

  ful, hopeless sound. She knelt down.

  (Ignoring the tiny popping sound of whatever was

  growing on the ground.)

  She crawled under the opening. It was so small, just boy-

  sized, but she might just be slim-waisted enough to go un-

  der it. She pulled on the mesh, gaining another few inches

  b e n e a t h s t i l l w a t e r s

  191

  to move, pushing away the nasty metal barbs at the base.

  She stuck her head through the opening.

  Now she inched forward, her bare legs digging into the

  dirt, mashing down whatever was growing there while her

  arms snaked their way through, her fingers digging into the

  mucky soil, pulling, pulling . . .

  She could see that Joshua wasn’t directly on the other

  side, just opposite the opening. But the shoreline weaved in

  and out, dotted with old oak and maple trees. He could be

  ten feet away and she wouldn’t see him.

  (The other thing she didn’t let herself think. No, despite

  the noisy sound of the water sloshing nearby, she didn’t

  think of Joshua walking into the water . . . falling in . . .

  calling for her once, twice, before disappearing forever.)

  No. He was here. Or back at the house.

  She admitted no other possibilities.

  She dug her knee into the
ground and moved forward with

  a grunt. A strong barb caught her shoulder, digging deep.

  “Ow,” she said, whimpering. She tried to lower her

  body to free herself from the barb, but it seemed stuck. She

  brought her left hand back and reached behind her. She

  grabbed the mesh, and seeing no other choice, she pushed

  it away. The metal spike pulled through her skin, tearing it.

  She felt the blood trickle down her side, tiny rivulets drop-

  ping to the ground.

  Then forward again, until she was almost free, almost

  on the other side.

  She felt something move.

  Below her.

  A tickling sensation at first, almost pleasant. A gentle

  vibration under her prone body. She heard more popping

  sounds, quiet noises, like the sound summer puffballs

  make when you squeeze the bulbs, releasing thousands of

  spores into the daylight.

  The popping seemed to pick up intensity, and she

  started moving forward.

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  Then the tickling turned into a rougher movement,

  something snaking out from under her. She looked at her

  left hand.

  It was lying flat on the ground, palm down, surrounded

  by the tiny blackish fungi, ugly dotlike things. She watched

  them pop open then, and after a pause snaky tendrils came

  out and crawled over her hand. Then along her arm, and

  her other arm. She raised her head a few inches above the

  muck and looked to her left and to her right.

  The ground near her was filled with thousands of them.

  She watched them open up—dozens of tendrils waving in

  the air, hesitating for a moment before falling onto her

  face, her neck.

  (And, sweet God, all along her body.)

  “Please,” she prayed. She tried to move backward, out

  from under the mesh. But her struggling did nothing.

  The tendrils landed and pulled her down to the ground,

  real close. And the popping went on, until the noise grew

  horrible and the tendrils crisscrossed her face in layers, and

  all her horror-struck eyes could see was a tiny chink in the

  weblike lattice that now covered her face.

  She moaned. She tried to scream, but the tiny vines that

  covered her mouth congealed, growing into a rigid cast that

  reduced her to inchoate mumblings.

  One nostril was still open enough to suck in desperate

  snorts of air. Then more tendrils landed, and there was

  nothing.

  Her muscles quivered against the ground. Her legs,

  arms, chest all spasmed uncontrollably.

  The tiny black threads tightened just a bit more.

  Then all was still again.

  Dan went to the door. The minuscule fish-eye lens gave

  him a distorted fun-house view of the parking lot. Whoever

  was there stood to the side, just out of sight.

  b e n e a t h s t i l l w a t e r s

  193

  He took a breath and opened the door. And saw Billy

  Leeper.

  “Hi, Dan. I hope I didn’t wake you or anything.”

  Dan let his breath out. Leeper stood in the yellowish

  glow of the motel’s parking-lot lamps. Big winged moths,

  not deterred, darted around the doorway.

  “You gave me a start, Bill. I’ll say that.” Dan opened the

  door all the way. “I’ve been plowing through your note-

  books. . . . I guess they’re getting me a tad edgy.”

  Leeper walked past Dan into the room, looking at the

  notebooks on the bed, then at Dan’s diving gear. “That’s

  why I came. Believe me, I didn’t want to.”

  Dan shut the door. “I was just beginning to wonder if

  I’d ever get the story pieced together.”

  Leeper nodded.

  “Drink?” Dan asked.

  Leeper smiled. “Never touch the stuff.” He tapped his

  skull. “I like being aware all the time.”

  “Sure,” Dan said, pouring himself another drink. “Me,

  there’s plenty of times I’d prefer not being aware. Have a

  seat,” he said, gesturing to an ugly green chair standing in-

  congruously near his diving gear.

  He saw Leeper dig into his shirt pocket and pull out a

  crumpled photo. “I’d prefer to stand, thank you. It’s been a

  long drive from Montauk, sitting on my behind. I found

  this . . . a couple of hours after you left. Must have come

  loose, slid behind the shelf.” Leeper handed him the photo.

  “Maybe it was fate,” he said, laughing.

  Dan unfolded it. It was a professionally done portrait of

  a young man—thirty, thirty-five years old, dressed in a gray

  pin-striped suit. His dark hair was slicked back, and a ciga-

  rette was held for effect. The man in the picture had a confi-

  dent, powerful smile as he looked right at the camera.

  “Nice picture. Who is it?”

  Leeper walked over to the bed and picked up one of the

  notebooks. He flipped it open to a page and pointed.

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  m a t t h e w j . c o s t e l l o

  “The photo belongs right here.” He pointed to the page

  with the question mark.

  “The fifth man,” Dan said. “I was wondering what hap-

  pened to it.”

  Leeper was nervous, pacing the room with the notebook

  held tight in his hand. “The fifth man.” He smiled. “You

  know, for a long time I didn’t know who the hell he was.

  He covered his tracks real well. Records removed, editions

  of the paper missing, but I found out, years later, of course,

  who he was.”

  (Once again Dan wondered about Leeper’s sanity. He

  was a man obsessed, completely absorbed.)

  “And?”

  Leeper grinned proudly. “Why, he’s the one that got

  away, Dan . . . a lawyer, wouldn’t you know it. Mr. Martin

  Parks, Esquire.”

  Dan sat down on the bed. “I’m afraid you’re losing me,

  Bill. I’ve another eight notebooks or so to go, and although

  I feel something strange going on here, I haven’t a damn

  clue as to what it might be.”

  “Tired?” Leeper asked.

  Dan shook his head. “Not at all.”

  “You know, I probably knew all along I’d end up

  here . . . as much as I didn’t want to. Sometimes there are

  jobs you just gotta do . . . no matter how much you want

  them to go away.”

  He paused and walked over to the picture window. He

  pulled back the curtain.

  “So that’s why I’m here. But if I’m going to tell you the

  story, Dan, I’m going to tell it to you on the move. C’mon,

  let’s take a drive.”

  “Now? I’m not so sure I’m in any condition to—”

  “I’ll drive. You just listen. But no more drinking, friend.

  Your turn comes later.” Leeper walked over and pressed a

  hand on Dan’s shoulder. “You see, you, too, got a job

  b e n e a t h s t i l l w a t e r s

  195

  dropped in your lap, Dan. And I’m afraid it just won’t go

  away.”

  It was Thursday morning. Two a.m.

  Joshua curled up tightly, pulling his Popple—half basket-

  ball
and half furry alien—sleepily to his face.

  For some reason the hard floor felt comfortable. He had

  climbed down from his loft bed and had arranged the

  sleeping bag over his body like a tent.

  He hadn’t heard his mother come into his room, pat his

  bed, then quickly run out. So he slept peacefully here, in

  the dark, in the corner of his room, till dawn.

  “It started, hard to believe, as a club.”

  They were in Leeper’s jeep, a shabby-looking relic that

  moved along the Taconic Parkway, heading upstate with

  surprising speed.

  Dan sat back in the passenger seat, his window wide

  open.

  “There were five of them . . . pillars of the community

  and all that. I don’t know how it actually started, but they

  got together to talk about the future of Gouldens Falls. At

  least that’s what they did at first.”

  Dan looked at Leeper, his eyes on the road, but also

  looking beyond, out to something else.

  “Just a bunch of town boosters they were, Dr. Samuel

  Hustis, Thomas Raine, Jonathan Reynolds, Wallace Pfister,

  and the fifth man—Martin Parks. Took me a while to find

  him. They were sort of like the Kiwanis or something.”

  “Sounds pretty harmless.” There was no real traffic on

  the highway, only an occasional car heading south. The full

  moon gave shape to the gentle curve of the hills.

  “And it was. Until 1934. That’s when Dr. Samuel Hustis

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  m a t t h e w j . c o s t e l l o

  met some doctors in Manhattan, wealthy society doctors

  studying some new methods in medicine, some kind of

  mental-healing mumbo jumbo. Dr. Hustis got involved with

  them. And through them he met Aleister Crowley.”

  “Crowley? That rings a bell. Should I know him?”

  “That depends, Dan. Crowley was the world’s authority

  on black magic and the occult in the twenties and thirties.

  His nickname was the Great Beast.”

  “Oh, brother.”

  Leeper looked over to him. “He was a master of the

  ‘dark art,’ as Crowley called it. He was considered—still

  is, actually—to be a harmless crackpot. He wrote a lot of

  books, sacrificed some goats with his jaded London fol-

  lowers. When he died, he was a quaint relic of a more

  gullible era.”

  “So how does he connect with the Club?”

  “Dr. Hustis met him, read his work, and then went fur-

  ther. He was a brilliant man, and he tried things Crowley

  only talked about. He spent a summer in Europe research-