Beneath Still Waters Page 22

  would be good—”

  Russo shook his head. “We’ll start here. ”

  Okay, Dan thought. It’s your boat.

  He peeled off his T-shirt—gooseflesh rising—and

  pulled on his wet suit. There were a few cracks in the rub-

  bery suit that exposed his skin to the water. The fins felt

  slimy, almost lizardlike.

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  “Give me a hand with these tanks,” Dan said.

  Russo picked up the twin tanks and held them while

  Dan put his arms through the straps.

  “Good,” he said, and he pulled the straps in front of him,

  making everything tight before buckling it. He reached

  down and picked up his weight belt.

  “Wish we had that radio,” Russo said.

  “You and me both.” Dan put his face mask on his fore-

  head and gave his regulator a test by sucking on it.

  “All set?” Russo asked.

  Dan nodded. He slipped the mask down and sat on the

  edge of the boat.

  ( Fool. Why the hell am I doing this? Never was one for

  good judgment. )

  He glanced over at Billy Leeper, standing on the shore,

  looking suddenly so all alone. The two cops were in the

  roadway talking to the crew working there.

  And he was worried. But not for himself.

  For that old man who shouldn’t have come back here.

  He flipped himself back, curling sleekly into the water.

  Joshua woke up all in an instant and did what he did every

  morning. He left his room quietly, moved even more qui-

  etly past his mother’s bedroom, and walked down to the

  family room. And the TV.

  If he did it all quietly enough—just like a mouse—he’d

  get to watch cartoons, maybe two shows before his mom

  woke up. Thundercats, then GI Joe—his favorite.

  Except his mom hated the show, actually told him that.

  “I hate that program. It’s just a bunch of stupid violence.”

  He didn’t know what violence was, but if it was what

  made GI Joe so super, he was all for it.

  He sat Indian-style in front of the TV, enjoying the toy

  and candy commercials almost as much as the program.

  It wasn’t until Thundercats ended that he noticed that

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  the great sliding door leading to the backyard wasn’t quite

  right. No, for one thing, the funny red light was off. Usu-

  ally his mom did that, flipping it off as she said, “No more

  TV, mister.”

  And the door was open. Just a crack. But the light showed

  green.

  A few thoughts ran through his head. Was his mom up

  already? Or maybe his sister was up? Or . . . or . . .

  But then GI Joe began with the Joe Team blowing up one

  of Cobra’s sky tanks, and Joshua gave up on the problem.

  When Joe ended—and he still hadn’t heard his mom

  walking around upstairs—he became a little curious. He

  got up during a Jem, Queen of the Teenage Rockers

  commercial—yuck!—and walked over to the sliding door.

  Outside, it was foggy and misty, like in one of his dad’s

  spooky movies that he wouldn’t let Joshua watch. He could

  barely make out the trees, and the backyard looked cold

  and wet.

  He put all his weight against the door. It didn’t want to

  move, but he dug his small feet into the tightly woven rug

  and pushed even harder. It jerked forward an inch or two.

  But it wouldn’t close.

  And all of a sudden Joshua wanted to find his mom. He

  ran upstairs, calling her name, his voice growing louder

  with each step.

  (All the time expecting her to just be there, a frown on

  her saying, “Josh, what have you been watching?”)

  “Mom!” He reached the hall and ran to her room. Her

  door was open and her bed empty. She’s up real early to-

  day, he thought. Real early.

  “Mom,” he said now, quietly. “Mommy?”

  The house was still.

  Then he heard voices from downstairs. He took a step

  out of the room. Right into someone.

  “Josh, what’s all the noise, for Pete’s sake? You woke

  me up.”

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  “Where’s Mom?” he demanded of his sister.

  “Mom? You probably woke her up, you ding-dong.

  Mom?” she said quietly, peering into the empty room.

  Samantha looked at the bed, then at Joshua. “You’re

  going to get it from her, buster.” She turned sharply

  around and walked away from Joshua.

  He watched his sister enter the kitchen, throw the light

  on, her voice now calling out loudly, “Mommy!” When no

  one answered, she turned back to Joshua.

  He walked down the hall slowly, the TV’s voices from

  downstairs growing louder.

  “The door downstairs was open,” he said, biting his

  lower lip, not liking the way his sister’s face looked. “It was

  open, and the red light was off.”

  Samantha came close to him, and he was glad.

  He looked up at her, not really so much taller despite

  her two years.

  “We should,” he said slowly, “go look for her.”

  Samantha took his hand.

  Claire was up early and in her mother’s room, negotiating

  even before her mother had her eyes open.

  “Mom, I won’t be any problem. I’ll bring along tons of

  books and I’ll sit in the car if you want me to and . . .”

  Her mother crawled out of bed, looking past Claire as

  she made her way to the bathroom. She shut the door, and

  Claire came behind it and raised her voice a bit to get past

  the wood.

  “So what do you think? Can I go with you today? Skip

  camp? Huh? Huh?”

  “Claire, can’t I pee in peace?”

  “Sure,” Claire yelled back. “Sorry, Mom.”

  She backed away from the door a token few feet and

  waited for Susan to come out again. She heard the toilet

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  209

  flush, then the sound of water running in the sink. After an

  eternity or two, her mother came out, her eyes now open

  and staring right at Claire.

  “Not today. Besides, I paid a lot of money for that camp,

  which I’m not about to see wasted.”

  Her mother breezed past her and rattled around the

  closet for some clothes. Claire never tired of watching her

  mother dress—the way she went from some crumpled, hot,

  frizzy-haired sleeping monster into someone beautiful.

  I’ll never be like that, she knew, no matter how many times I watch.

  And she knew she wouldn’t tell her mom the reason—

  the real reason—why she didn’t want to go to camp. That

  worried look was in her mother’s eyes a lot lately, when-

  ever they talked of Claire’s dreams.

  How could she tell her this, that the lake at the Kenicut

  Reservoir was the same lake? The same lake from her dream!

  And that she knew, really knew, that it was dangerous.

  (Did she sleep last night? she wondered. Did it touch

  her as she sle
pt?)

  She didn’t want her mother going there alone. No, she

  was wise to the lake and its tricks now . . . the way it had

  almost snagged Joshua. The way it had probably snagged

  the others.

  And it wasn’t going to get her mother.

  No way.

  “I’m sorry, Claire, but I’ll be talking to people all day,

  the police, other people. It wouldn’t be right.”

  Claire began to perform. First a simple tear formed and

  rolled down her cheek. Then it became easier. “But . . . but

  I’ll be scared to be away from you. I’m so scared by my

  dreams, Mom. Please don’t make me go to camp.”

  Her mother took a step closer and ran her hand along

  her daughter’s cheek, catching a tear. “Claire, baby, don’t.

  They’re just dreams . . . just silly—”

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  Claire threw herself at her mother. She clutched her

  tightly, sobbing now, on cue. She’d have to be the witch

  from “Hansel and Gretel” to send me away now.

  “Stay home,” Claire pleaded.

  “I . . . can’t, honey. I’m writing a big story.”

  She looked up at her mother’s face. “Then take me with

  you.”

  Her mother looked right back, her eyes filled with a

  funny pain. They were all milky and confused. She ran her

  hand through Claire’s hair.

  “Okay, sweetheart, you can come.” She pulled Claire

  tight, squeezing her in a great bear hug. “You can come,”

  she held Claire away. “But I warn you, it’s going to be

  mighty boring, and you’ll be stuck inside the car a lot.”

  “Well, at least we can do lunch together,” Claire said,

  permitting herself a small grin.

  Her mother smiled back. “Yes, we can ‘do lunch.’ Now

  go pick out something nice to wear.”

  “I’ll be back in a few minutes,” Claire said, running to

  her room.

  There, she thought. For the first time she could breathe almost normally. There. At least I’ll be able to save my mom.

  It was everyone else that was in danger now.

  Herbert Blount was an early riser. In fact, on the regular

  mental-health days he took off from his job, he’d often

  sleep in until eleven, or, God, even twelve.

  So now why the hell was he up at seven a.m.?

  He stepped out onto his porch. He sipped his coffee,

  stronger than his wife would ever make it. Just a small sip,

  savoring the warm, burning sensation on his lips, his

  tongue, and then down his throat. It was nice and hot.

  And that’s when he noticed it.

  Not the dam, though they seemed pretty active up there

  for so early an hour. The banner was nearly completed. (Just

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  the word falls was missing, the year 1989, and the last few

  letters of the word celebration. Then it would be all done,

  as big as a building.) And there seemed to be workers mov-

  ing stuff from a truck onto the dam.

  More paraphernalia for the celebration, he figured.

  But that’s not what he found, well, peculiar.

  It was cool.

  Sure it could be a little cool, up here away from the city,

  on a midsummer’s morning. It happens. But by seven the

  sun—even through the clouds—usually had things warmed

  up a bit. And the weather report for Westchester, which he

  watched every night on the Weather Channel, was for a real

  hot, muggy day. Overcast and humid.

  Except that it seemed damn cool out here, standing on

  his porch. He almost could use a sweater.

  But despite the chill, he just sat down on his Adirondack

  chair, sipped his scalding coffee, and watched the curious

  activity on top of the wall of the Kenicut Dam.

  PART THREE

  E I G H T E E N

  “You haven’t eaten a thing.” Edith Rogers sat down at her

  small butcher-block kitchen table, facing her husband. “It’s

  just not like you to skip breakfast.”

  Paddy Rogers pushed his chair away from the table, away

  from his I-can’t-believe-it-’s-not-buttered toast, melon, and

  bowl of Special K. He took a sip of his coffee.

  “Just not hungry. Not today.”

  He hoped his wife would back away, just let him sit

  there a few more minutes, think about things, try to figure

  something out.

  She had a napkin all twisted in a knot around her bony,

  wrinkled hands—once so soft and beautiful, now ravaged

  by arthritis that she rarely complained about.

  She’ll always be young and beautiful to me, he thought.

  Always.

  But now he needed just to sit and stew.

  “I’ve got no appetite,” he said, managing a weak grin.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll make up for it tonight.”

  She smiled back, but her napkin made another loop

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  through the web of her fingers. “Then take your vitamins,

  at least.”

  He nodded and picked up the assortment of containers,

  popping down the chunky megavitamins. “I don’t like to

  see you so . . . so preoccupied.”

  Is that what I am? he wondered.

  Preoccupied? With what? With retiring and getting away

  from this town I’ve worked in for over twenty-five years?

  Migrating down to Florida. The good life. Preoccupied? Or

  afraid?

  Ellerton has been a quiet town, sleepy and easy to pro-

  tect. The bad things he’d known in the city just never trav-

  eled up here. Many a day he’d ride through the sleepy streets

  of Ellerton and marvel at the whole range of horrors that just

  never made it to suburbia.

  He looked at Edith. She had had a quiet life, and she ex-

  pected to retire quietly, slipping into the peaceful routine

  of the “golden years.”

  Except that things were different now. Yes, now a little

  problem had fallen right in his lap. When people disappear

  in a small town, it’s the police chief ’s job.

  His job.

  And he wasn’t sure he had the stomach for it.

  The phone rang, jarring him out of his reverie.

  “Should I get it?” his wife asked.

  He shook his head and reached behind him for the pale

  blue wall phone.

  “Hello,” he said, his voice still flat and distant. “Yes,

  Bob,” he said, recognizing the young cop’s voice.

  “Chief, we waited until we were sure you were up.

  Sergeant Russo went back onto the lake this morning. . . .

  He had that fellow from the first dive with him.”

  The writer, Rogers remembered. “And why the hell did

  you let them go?”

  “He said it was okay, that you knew. They were going to

  search for the other two divers.”

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  “Great. Now maybe we’ll lose some more people.”

  Rogers stood up. “When they come back out, don’t let them

  leave. Arrest them if you have to. Just hold them there. I’ll

  be over there in fifteen, twenty minutes. And, Bob, do me a

 
favor. Don’t let anyone else out there unless you see a writ-

  ten order from me.”

  He slapped down the receiver.

  His wife was clearing away the untouched plates of

  food.

  He walked over to her and put an arm around her. “I’ve

  got to go over to the dam, Edith. I’ve got a feeling it’s going

  to be a long day.”

  “Call me,” she said.

  He pulled her close, hugging her hard. “Do I ever for-

  get? Ever?” he said, looking right at her eyes.

  Then he smiled and turned and walked out to his patrol

  car.

  It’s a cool morning, he thought, reaching the open air.

  Almost nippy.

  For days Emily Powers didn’t let herself think about it.

  No, every time she thought about that night she just told

  herself, “Stop.” And literally forced her mind to think of

  something—anything—else. Except that morning it wasn’t

  working.

  Sure she prayed for Tommy Fluhr, really prayed. But she

  didn’t let any creepy pictures into her head . . . pictures of

  Tommy swimming, getting a cramp, calling out for her—

  “Emily! Emily!”

  Calls that she didn’t hear, plodding back to the car,

  ready to sulk and pout, making Tommy apologize for being

  so rude, so nasty.

  But then he didn’t come. And she had waited, listening to

  the deep hum of the cars and trucks as they barreled along

  the two-lane highway.

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  At first she just fumed, getting angrier and angrier at the

  obnoxious Tommy, who kept on swimming when their pic-

  nic was so obviously over. She thought of hitching a ride

  home (but that, of course, conjured up other images . . .

  images of even uglier things than fending off Tommy’s

  horny advances).

  So she just got out and stormed back through the open-

  ing in the fence, back to their spot, calling out his name

  even before she could see the water.

  “Tommy, Tommy Fluhr?”

  He wasn’t there. At first she assumed he was hiding, a

  prankster playing tricks, ducking under the water, peering

  out from behind a tree. You know boys.

  But she noticed the towels and the blanket, just as she

  had left them.

  He hadn’t come out of the water.

  She looked out at the lake.

  It was still, dark now, bluish-black with the coming of

  night.

  “Tommy . . .” she had whispered.

  And the nightmare began, the running through the