Beneath Still Waters Read online

  “Please, no,” he begged, pushing the folds of skin to-

  gether even as the tear widened, and he saw his insides,

  warm and steamy, exposed to the cool air.

  The hands came together.

  (Where is the pain? he wondered. It was as if it were all

  happening to someone else. Like the Scarecrow in The

  Wizard of Oz, when the witch’s monkeys rip his stuffing

  out and scatter his straw all over the ground and he said,

  “That’s me all over.”)

  So Billy looked down . . . amazed, horrified, oblivious

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  now to Martin Parks and those damn manicured fingers

  that went together, apart, together, apart—

  “Gouldens Falls will live again,” Parks said to the air,

  the lake, the trees. “I’m afraid you won’t be here for the

  glorious revival. Not in the flesh, anyway.” He smiled.

  Billy looked up at him, knowing that pleading was

  useless.

  Parks’s fingers moved apart—slowly.

  The pain was allowed to flow, along the tiny nerve end-

  ings, through the maze of neurons, along the spinal cord, to

  Billy’s brain.

  A tidal wave of pain. An eruption of pain that turned the

  world into a single burning point of white, lavalike fire,

  centered in this body.

  The fingers touched. The pain stopped.

  “Unfinished business, eh, Billy Boy? Our work was

  interrupted.”

  A sound from just behind them. A few feet away. In the

  water.

  He turned to the side (away from his body—so oddly

  fascinating in its destruction).

  Something slithering out, crawling out of the lake, onto

  the muddy edge. Grabbing at the vines and bushy plants.

  A hand. Billy screamed. But there was no sound.

  Except the gentle splash of something crawling out of

  the water.

  N I N E T E E N

  He dropped his knife.

  It slid down, wobbling back and forth, somewhere into

  the darkness that surrounded him.

  Damn. He retrieved the lamp from the small perch he

  had made for it out of some loose rubble, and searched the

  stone floor for the jagged blade.

  It rested on the webbing of one of his flippers, looking

  incongruously shiny.

  He snatched it up and tried to balance the lamp again,

  aiming it right at the chunk of stone he was working on.

  (It had been no trouble finding the stone.) Just a matter

  of swimming over to the wall, counting the blocks, and

  now, just digging the sucker up.

  The cement was soft, almost porous, and great chunks

  of it chipped away easily, swirling in front of him, block-

  ing his view of the stone. He waved his hand with a swirling

  motion to clear the water. Then, back to jabbing at the rec-

  tangular outline of the cement.

  How many minutes left now? he wondered.

  He checked the gauge.

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  Twenty minutes. Should be plenty of time. Plenty. Four

  or five minutes to get the stone loose, get the diary—

  (If there is such a thing.)

  And if there’s time, snap a few photos on the way out.

  His Nikon SU-50—a compact underwater camera—was

  strapped to his side. Not the most versatile piece of equip-

  ment, but small and reliable.

  Chop, chop. Like an underwater archaeologist explor-

  ing a sunken city. He had cleared a two-inch-deep outline

  around the stone. Another few seconds and he’d try to lift

  it up.

  He felt movement. The water had been still. Perfectly

  still, bottled up inside this old church. But just now he felt

  the water move against him, like an underwater current,

  or maybe—

  Something moving. Inside the building.

  He wanted to get the lantern and just take a look around.

  (Just to check. Just to be sure.)

  Keep cool. There’s nothing here. Nothing.

  He went back to work.

  Chop, chop. He had finished clearing the stone. He put

  down his knife (feeling a tad defenseless). He grabbed the

  stone. The water moved against him, buffeting his body,

  and he looked around into the darkness. He waited.

  Something was coming. Here. Just a feeling.

  Like he could read it in the tiny eddies and swirls of the

  water.

  He pulled on the stone. It didn’t budge. Again. It moved—

  or did he imagine it?—a few millimeters. He placed his flip-

  pered feet firmly on either side of it. He grunted and pulled

  with all his might.

  The stone flew up into the air. He knocked the lamp

  over. (The light beams fell onto the wall, outlining in a

  darker green some now departed religious icon.)

  How much time now? Fifteen minutes? Ten?

  He threw the stone to the side and grabbed the light. He

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  aimed up and around quickly. Ready to catch whatever

  might be inside the church with him.

  (The knife . . . where’s my damn knife!)

  But he saw nothing, save the stray pumpkin seeds swim-

  ming by.

  He aimed the light into the cavity he had just made in

  the floor.

  At first he saw only the grit and sand. Then, brushing at

  it, he saw a small metal chest, no larger than a cigar box.

  He picked it up.

  (Screw the pictures, he thought. I’ll get pictures later.

  Now I just want to get my knife and get the hell out of

  here.)

  He started for the opening, kicking hard, checking the

  angle of the steeple as the walls curved to a point.

  He reached the top and then moved toward the hole. It

  looked smaller than he remembered it.

  He hurried—too fast—into the hole, holding the metal

  box in one outstretched hand and the lamp in the other.

  He got stuck.

  And this time he wouldn’t budge.

  (Just like a human lobster trap.)

  He kicked harder with his flippers, but it only seemed to

  wedge him tighter. Damn, he needed a free hand, some

  way to push himself out.

  If he let the box go, it would tumble away, vanishing to

  who knows where. He’d never find it again.

  If he let the lamp go, he’d be in the dark.

  (Like when his car went off the bridge and he was in

  the dark, the water rushing in, pressing close.)

  He felt the water move, swirl strongly now around his

  flippers.

  He hastily searched for a place to hook the lamp, or to

  balance it at least. But there was nothing.

  He let it fall. It tumbled silently, lazily spinning over

  and over, like an underwater cop’s beacon.

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  (Pull over, sir, we’re the fish police.)

  He couldn’t see anything except the milky-gray roof of

  the surface—a good fifty feet above him.

  He brought up his free hand and pushed, while he

  squirmed left and right.

  His tanks chipped at the wood, and once he thought his

  air
hose was going to be ripped in two. Slowly he gained a

  few centimeters more space in which to move. Then a few

  more.

  Until—as if it were all some kind of mistake—he was

  free, scuttling out of the hole.

  (As he kicked away, his fins hit something just near

  the hole. Probably part of the steeple, he thought.

  Probably—)

  He had to guess his depth, taking time to decompress.

  He couldn’t rush to get to the surface quickly.

  He didn’t bother making his way to Jack and the boat.

  Straight up would do just fine.

  He paused, then started up again.

  The air tasted metallic . . . then—

  Bingo.

  My time’s almost up.

  The kicking of his legs became more urgent.

  (No panic, no sir. Just a bit of precautionary extra speed.

  That’s all. That’s—)

  Gone. No . . . more . . . air.

  And how many more feet to the surface?

  He spit out his now useless regulator and pressed his

  lips together tightly as he slowly exhaled.

  Rogers held a megaphone in his right hand.

  “Soon as he’s up, you bring him over here.”

  Russo waved to signal that he understood.

  Five cops stood around the police chief, their arms

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  folded, and he knew they wondered if they were all going

  to catch hell for letting those two jokers out in the water.

  And maybe they would.

  Maybe he’d pin their ears back like they’ve never been

  pinned before.

  He broke the surface.

  And gasped horribly at the air.

  Filling his lungs once, twice, and then again.

  He started coughing, his head almost bobbing below

  the water.

  But then Jack was there, beside him, the steady putt–putt

  of the small inboard motor just a few feet from Dan’s

  head.

  “We’re in some trouble, Dan,” he said, gesturing at the

  beach.

  Dan turned to look and saw the small phalanx of Eller-

  ton’s finest—all of them with their eyes trained on him.

  “Trouble?” Dan said. “Here, take this.” He handed Jack

  the metal box.

  “What did you find? Any sign of Tom and Ed?”

  Russo helped hoist Dan onto the boat.

  “No. Nothing. Just what’s in there.”

  Russo looked at the small box. “What the hell is it?”

  “A diary,” Dan said hoarsely, breathing still not the nat-

  ural thing it had been. “About Gouldens Fails.”

  Russo shook his head.

  Dan snatched a towel up from one of the seats. He

  pulled off his wet suit and started drying himself.

  “Jeez, it’s cold. What kind of weather do they get here?”

  He looked back at the beach.

  Where’s Billy?

  He’d expected to see him waiting there. Unless, maybe,

  it was all too much for him.

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  Russo turned the boat to face the shore. “Time to face

  the music.”

  Dan sat down, wondering, Where’s Billy Leeper?

  There were roses, mums, marigolds, and a scattering of

  black-eyed Susans. All neatly clipped from lawns and

  gardens around Ellerton.

  Now she made her way toward the lake, retracing her

  steps of just four days earlier, down the small path to the

  secluded spot on the reservoir.

  Their spot.

  She wasn’t scared, or upset, or anything bad. No, she

  felt exhilarated to be here, to remember Tommy. Already

  she had built their relationship into one of history’s great

  love affairs.

  Great unrequited love affairs.

  The branches that had seemed to scratch and snap at her

  when she ran through there Monday night now seemed

  soft, gentle, almost welcoming.

  It would be a secret shrine.

  She reached the spot. It was clear now. No picnic blan-

  ket, no bag of food. Not even any footprints on the ground.

  There was a small breeze, and she wished she had a

  sweater on.

  She picked a rose from her bunch and tossed it into the

  water.

  Herbert Blount did have a sweater on, A frayed, fire-

  engine-red acrylic with buttons.

  It was cold. And he had it all buttoned up tight.

  He started walking to the plaza after the workers van-

  ished into the hole on top of the roadway.

  Wonder what they’re up to, he thought.

  And having nothing better to do, he started to stroll,

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  vaguely, almost absentmindedly, toward the grassy plaza

  below the dam.

  Reverend Winston was supposed to spend the morning at

  Tyler Memorial Hospital. Visiting the sick, the dying, all

  the poor souls who happened to put down “Protestant” un-

  der “religion” on their admitting card. Most of them would

  be startled to see him, a few pleasantly surprised. Others

  merely polite.

  It was a job he didn’t particularly like.

  In fact, he thought of skipping it today. Call the hospital

  and plead a cold or some such story.

  But there might be that one person for whom his visit

  would make the difference. Someone who’d feel better—

  all day!—because he had stopped and prayed with them.

  So he eased out of his Dunhill slippers (a gift from the

  nice people downstairs) and put out his collar and his black

  suit. No casual minister clothes for him.

  When you do the Lord’s work, you look the part.

  Shedding his pajamas, he felt cold. He took a look at the

  thermometer on the wall. It was sixty degrees, much too

  chilly for his taste. He wished he had a thermostat in his

  room instead of depending on the generosity (or the lack

  of it) of the family downstairs.

  He grabbed his collar.

  Funny.

  Just then he thought of Dan Elliot.

  Something about that boy—

  That young man, he thought, correcting himself. Almost

  anyone seemed young to him these days. Yes, he worried

  him. The past, Winston knew only too well, was often bet-

  ter left undisturbed.

  But even he admitted to a bit of curiosity about Dan’s

  research.

  What had he found out about the town and the dam?

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  Perhaps later he’d try to find him.

  He picked up his Bible, its cover creased and criss-

  crossed with hundreds of tiny cracks. Opened the book and

  began the first of his many readings for the day.

  Dan sat in a hardwood chair inside Paddy Rogers’s small

  office.

  “If you find Billy Leeper,” Dan said, “he’ll support my

  story. I’m not making this up.”

  “I’m sure you’re not.” Rogers nodded almost distract-

  edly. “But the fact of the matter is, Dan, there is no Mr.

  Leeper. Sergeant Russo saw him, but he knew nothing

  about any diary—”

  “I already explained that. I knew, if I told him, he might

  thi
nk the whole story is a bunch of nonsense. I wanted his

  help getting out there.”

  “Well, he had no idea what you were up to. Which is

  why you’re here and he’s not.” Rogers shook a finger at

  Dan. “Though I gave him some hell too. I’ll let his superi-

  ors deal with him.”

  “Chief, can’t we at least look at the diary?”

  Rogers sighed. “Sure, Dan. But I don’t think it will help

  you.” Rogers pressed his intercom button, and his secretary

  brought in the small metal box.

  The lid was open.

  “It’s in there?” Dan asked.

  “Sure is.” Rogers took it from his secretary and handed

  it to Dan. “It’s all yours.”

  It looked like a piece of hundred-year-old cheese that

  had been sitting in a tub of water. It was brown and green

  and dotted with puffy mold spots.

  “There’s some kind of worms living in the box, tiny

  things called tubifex.” Rogers said.

  Dan took the cover and peeled it back. It came apart like

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  237

  a waterlogged wafer. He attempted another page, and a

  chunk of pages—all stuck together—peeled away easily.

  “I’m afraid whatever secrets that diary had will remain

  just that, Dan. Secret.”

  Dan sat down, holding the tin in his lap.

  Before the dive, he had been skeptical of Billy Leeper’s

  tale. The Club, the occult mumbo jumbo. Now, seeing the

  diary, maybe something had happened fifty years ago.

  But the diary’s not what convinced him.

  No, those last moments in the church before springing

  free—that was what had done it. He felt something sur-

  rounding him, coming closer. Like a wolf sniffing at its

  prey, circling closer, ready to pounce.

  He felt it.

  And now he believed Billy Leeper. Completely.

  “We need what’s in there.”

  Rogers laughed. “Glad you think so. But”—more

  laughter—“as you can see, Dan, it’s all illegible.”

  Wrong.

  Even as the pages slid away—all mushy and water-

  soaked—he could see that the writing was still visible.

  “No, something can be done.”

  He stood up, placing the diary gently in the metal box.

  “There are people who work with things like this, docu-

  ments from disasters, plane accidents.” He looked right at

  Rogers. “There are things that can be done.”

  It was as if he were trying to convince himself.

  Rogers arched his eyebrows—impressed, startled by

  Dan’s vehemence.

  “Easy, just sit down there a second.”