Beneath Still Waters Read online

gasped for air. He was greeted by a crowd of onlookers,

  most registering a weird surprise at his sudden emergence.

  And he was glad that none of the idiots watching had de-

  cided to jump in and “save him” by opening his door. That

  just might have killed him, pinning him inside the car while

  the water rushed in.

  Yeah, Dan thought, moving his Rover to the exit lane

  for the northbound Henry Hudson Parkway. Ever since then

  he’d had a tough time dealing with bridges.

  Bridges and, for completely different reasons, women.

  b e n e a t h s t i l l w a t e r s

  21

  Bitchin’! Tom Fluhr popped open the door to his dad’s

  creamy beige Lincoln Town Car. And, of course, it was god-

  damn spotless. Nothing inside except a magnetic coin caddy

  and the antenna jack for the cellular phone.

  No phone, naturally.

  But the car still had that sweet, sweet smell of newness

  and money.

  Then he turned to look at Emily.

  “I can’t believe your dad let you borrow it,” she said.

  “Sure. I told him it was a special date, real special, and

  I’d be especially careful.”

  Right. Real special. ’Cause tonight’s gotta be the night,

  honey.

  Emily slid into the front seat, and her tanned legs stood

  out real nice against the plush material.

  Real nice.

  “Did you bring your suit?”

  Emily hiked up her tank top, revealing her tanned, flat

  tummy and then dark purple bikini top.

  “Great suit. And I’ve got the goodies.” He pointed to

  the backseat. Emily turned around and looked over her seat.

  “Beer, Tony’s Famous Combo Wedges, and munchies galore.”

  Oh, yeah. He looked at the sleek curve of her body bent

  over the seat, and her tight rear end pointing at the wind-

  shield.

  Gotta be tonight.

  He started the car and drove away.

  “I just hope no one else has stumbled on our secret spot.

  You haven’t told anyone, have you?”

  “No, sir. I’d die first.” She laughed. “Of course, there’s

  got to be other spots around the lake where kids have bro-

  ken through the fence to swim and hang out.”

  “But not as nice as our spot.” He reached over and patted

  Emily’s leg.

  22

  m a t t h e w j . c o s t e l l o

  Emily smiled and leaned over to turn on the radio.

  And he raised the electric windows while he cruised

  through Ellerton with Z-100 safely blasting away inside.

  She was quiet during the short ride. Perhaps she was

  thinking what he was thinking. Yeah, enough damn waiting.

  Enough games, enough pulling his hand away, telling him

  she wasn’t ready.

  Yeah. It was going to be tonight.

  He reached the reservoir just as the sun was dipping be-

  low the far ridge. Damn. It was later than he hoped it would

  be. He wanted some mellow afternoon sun. Yeah, and a bit

  of swimming and a few beers. And then, just as it got

  cooler, they’d cuddle on the blanket, getting warm, getting

  close . . .

  He pulled into an impromptu pull-off that got his dad’s

  twenty-thousand-dollar car off the road.

  “Move out, girl.”

  He reached behind him and snatched up the bag of food

  and beer.

  “It’s cool,” Emily said. She sounded disappointed.

  “No sweat. We’ll just take a quick dip and then warm up.”

  Then he followed the snakelike trail, his trail, that cut

  through the woods to the chain-link fence. The sun was al-

  ready gone from here, and now he was pissed off at him-

  self for not making the date earlier in the day.

  “Ouch!” Emily yelled out, and he turned to see her rub-

  bing her arm.

  “A branch.” She smiled. “Scratched my arm . . .”

  He nodded and kept walking.

  Then he was at the fence. He bent down and pried the

  twisted mesh apart. It was a neat bit of work, the way he cut

  the fence and then rehooked it. Undetectable even when

  you were sitting right on top of it. He held it open for Emily.

  “This way, my lady.”

  “Why, thank you, kind sir.”

  b e n e a t h s t i l l w a t e r s

  23

  He followed her to the small indentation on the western

  shore of the lake, shaded by a towering elm.

  He didn’t bother spreading the blanket. He just put the

  groceries down and peeled off his clothes, tossing his jeans

  and T-shirt to the side. He dived into the water, smoothly,

  sleekly, like the county diving champ he was.

  It was cool, almost cold. Certainly colder than an ordi-

  nary lake. This baby was deep. Still, it felt good. Cooled

  him down.

  He surfaced and watched Emily kicking out of her

  clothes. She dived in and surfaced next to him.

  “Brrrr,” she said.

  “Cold, huh? We can always play arctic seal.”

  He started dipping under the water, swimming between

  Emily’s legs, surfacing behind her, grabbing her tightly as

  he nuzzled her neck.

  And he began to harden in his blue Speedo bathing suit.

  “Tom,” she scolded, laughing, “stop it!”

  But that only sent him under again, making great arf-arf

  sounds, grabbing at her feet, pulling her under the clear

  water.

  But then he surfaced, and the lake was bathed in shade.

  The sun was gone, and he felt it was time to move the show

  along.

  He swam strongly back to shore and spread the terry-

  cloth blanket. Emily followed him, snatching the towel from

  him to dry herself off.

  Tom spread the food on the blanket.

  He watched her feast on the wedge, dripping oily bits of

  onion and provolone onto the blanket, munching down

  whole handfuls of Charles Chips.

  “The best,” he announced.

  They were drinking Heineken, courtesy of Leo’s lenient

  deli. Yeah, where IDs are never a problem.

  He was in heaven.

  24

  m a t t h e w j . c o s t e l l o

  “I’ve got a room reserved; my name is Dan Elliot.”

  The Ellerton Motor Inn was another one of those generic

  motels touting that they had a pool, color TV, and (in big

  letters) free HBO. With the parking lot more than half

  empty, business seemed to be none too swift.

  “Let . . . me . . . see.” The plump manager was leafing

  through his book. “Yes, here we are.”

  The manager looked up; his eyes narrowed. “And how

  will you pay for this?”

  “Visa.” He prayed that he wasn’t so late with his pay-

  ment that his card had been cut off.

  The manager, a Mr. Feely from the name in black-and-

  white letters on the back wall, took the card and searched a

  book filled with twelve-digit numbers of thousands of ter-

  minated credit-card desperadoes roaming the country.

  He placed the card into the roller. “We’ll write it up

  when you check out.” He smiled as he handed the card

  back. “How long you here for?”
/>   “A week. Maybe a bit more.”

  “Here for the big celebration, huh? Should be some

  party.”

  He smiled. Ellerton was making a big deal out of the

  fiftieth anniversary of the dam, with fireworks and concerts

  planned. But it wasn’t the dam that he was interested in.

  Not at all.

  “Yeah,” he said, letting his impatience show.

  “Room twenty-eight, right near the pool, Mr. Elliot,”

  Feely said, catching his drift.

  He picked up the key and drove his Rover over to the

  room. He opened it and ran back to pick up his bags and

  camera cases first, plopping them on one of the twin beds.

  Then he went back for his Panasonic portable typewriter

  and his diving gear, leaving the heavy tank and wet suit

  near the door. He saw Feely watching him from the office.

  b e n e a t h s t i l l w a t e r s

  25

  Nosy old bastard. Probably has peepholes in some of

  the rooms.

  When everything was finally out of the Rover, he opened

  his floppy leather bag and dug out a small blue book.

  Hagstrom’s Guide to Westchester and Putnam. He flipped it open to a dog-eared page.

  It was four-thirty. If he hurried, he might be in time to

  catch Mr. Fred Massetrino before he left for the day.

  And see just how much he knew about the quaint little

  burg of Gouldens Falls.

  T W O

  He threaded his way through the tree-lined roads of subur-

  bia, his Hagstrom’s open on the seat beside him.

  This is the end of the rainbow, all right. The pot of gold

  for all those hard working eager beavers who trot into New

  York City and spend their day juggling other people’s

  money from one low-risk, tax-sheltered investment to an-

  other.

  To judge by a quick look at Ellerton, nobody in the

  world could ever be in need of a hot meal or a tennis racket.

  Control was the key word here.

  The grass was tamed into submission with nary a single

  timid dandelion rearing its puffy head. No litter marred the

  streets, and no noisy kids cluttered the corner. Sure, the

  brats were all away, upstate, at Camp No-See-Um.

  Yes, everything in its place.

  He glanced down at the map, checking for the name of

  the road he was looking for.

  Kenicut Drive.

  Then, as if by magic, the road suddenly appeared on the

  left, a narrow, two-lane highway that angled sharply upward.

  b e n e a t h s t i l l w a t e r s

  27

  He shifted gears and took the turn. And the scenery changed

  as he left behind the split-level ranches.

  First there were sand-colored buildings, all with heavy

  green doors shut tight. Then, to his left, a big open field

  and, at its center, a massive poollike area, filled with brown

  pipes.

  These were the aerators. An enormous metal grid just

  rusting away now that Kenicut Lake was no longer in use

  as a reservoir.

  Like some kind of big spiderweb, like something you’d

  get in your basement.

  The road grew steep, and he curved around to pass the

  overlook inn—serving italian and american cui-

  sine. A few cars were parked outside the strategically lo-

  cated restaurant. Perhaps he might even risk eating there

  later. Hunger can do that to you.

  Then he saw the lake.

  And it didn’t look like an ordinary lake.

  (But you didn’t expect it to, did you?)

  He entered the roadway that crossed the dam, and he

  saw the water, saw how choppy it was, its small waves

  jumping back and forth as if confused as to where to go.

  Of course, that was to be expected. All that water just

  sitting there, flat against a stone wall. It makes for a strange

  and powerful wave action. Without the gradual slope of a

  shoreline to stop the actual waves, to break the little fuck-

  ers, it could get incredibly choppy. In a storm it probably

  sprayed right onto the roadway.

  (And wouldn’t that be fun to drive over, Danny Boy?)

  He slowed and looked around for a place to park his

  Land Rover. But outside the Overlook, there didn’t seem to

  be anyplace to stop and walk around. He wanted to look at

  the lake, and also look over the wall, on the other side, to

  the plaza at the bottom of the dam.

  Well, that could wait for later.

  Now he’d better find the site engineer’s office and start

  28

  m a t t h e w j . c o s t e l l o

  things rolling. With a two-week deadline—which he went

  and stupidly guaranteed, saying he’d give up his precious

  kill fee—he needed to move things along fast.

  Just as he reached the eastern end of the roadway and

  the dark lake was behind him, he saw a small building with

  a car in front of it, and a sign: fred massetrino—site en-

  gineer.

  He checked his rearview mirror and turned in. He hopped

  out of his Rover.

  The door to the car next to him suddenly opened, star-

  tling him.

  “Mr. Massetrino?” the woman asked.

  He smiled at her. She was pretty, with long dark hair.

  Nice and long, just like—

  “We had an appointment?” she said, taking a step toward

  him.

  “Sorry. I’m not the engineer. I was kinda hoping that

  he’d be here myself.”

  She looked away. He hadn’t exactly made her day.

  “Damn. This is the second time I’ve tried to see him.

  I’m just going to have to call the county supervisor’s office

  and report him.”

  He walked to the door of the small office, noting the

  heavy Yale lock bolting it shut. “Says here he’s on duty till

  five. I guess it was a slow day at the dam.”

  “Very funny. And he wasn’t here yesterday. This really

  screws me up.”

  Now he took in other particulars, the bland cut of her

  suit, her bright eyes, the absolutely luscious-looking lips.

  It had been a long time.

  He stepped over to her and stuck out his hand. “Dan El-

  liot,” he said, taking her hand and giving it a gentle squeeze.

  “Susan Sloan,” she said.

  She didn’t exactly seem interested.

  “Why are you looking for the elusive Mr. Massetrino?”

  he asked.

  b e n e a t h s t i l l w a t e r s

  29

  “I’m a reporter for the Ellerton Register, and I’m doing a piece on the golden anniversary of the dam.”

  She rubbed her fingers through her hair.

  Just like—

  “I was told that he was the one to talk with about the

  dam’s history.”

  “Perhaps.” He wished he had taken time to shower,

  maybe shave. He just had to stop looking like a slob. No way

  any respectable woman would give him the time of day. Not

  as long as he kept on looking like Jungle Jim on a bender.

  “What do you mean?” she asked, seeming to look at

  him for the first time.

  “Oh, just that he may know how the dam operates,

  where the water comes from, where it all goes, and all that


  crap. But its history? I don’t think so. . . .”

  Got her now. Just have to pull back a bit on the line. Just

  a bit.

  “Then who should I talk to?”

  Dan smiled. “Well, for starters, you could talk to me.”

  She laughed. “You? Why you?”

  “Take a look at the lake.” She glanced at it, but he walked

  over to her and turned her around. “No, look at it. Under that

  lake there used to be a town.”

  “Gouldens Falls.”

  “Right. And Gouldens Falls was my parents’ home-

  town.”

  Her eyes widened. “Really?”

  “Yes, really. But if you want, as Paul Harvey says, the

  rest of the story, you’ll have to adjourn with me to the Over-

  look Inn. The cocktail hour is upon us.”

  She seemed to hesitate a moment, as if weighing his of-

  fer. Then, finally, she smiled and said, “Sure. After all, I was

  ready to interview somebody today. And you’re available.”

  “Exactly.” Now he grinned, thrilled to have someone to

  talk with. Maybe his long period of emotional wound-

  licking was about to end. He sure as hell hoped so.

  30

  m a t t h e w j . c o s t e l l o

  He got into his Land Rover. “I’ll follow you.” Then he

  let her ease her blue Escort out before backing up to trail

  her to the roadside tavern.

  “They were kids, I guess ten or eleven years old or so,

  when it happened.” He ran his fingers over the tabletop,

  following the dead-end trails made by the carved initials of

  countless visitors.

  “They moved the houses, right?”

  “Wrong,” he said. A waitress sporting a blue gingham

  apron set down his Jack Daniel’s and Susan’s white wine.

  He took a good-sized sip of it before continuing. Got to

  watch it. Got too much of a taste for this stuff lately. “Some

  of the houses were moved. But for nearly everyone it was

  cheaper to take the federal money and just move. So every-

  thing was pretty much left there.”

  “Everything? Just left there?”

  “Sure. The bank, the churches, the homes. Apparently

  some scientists had told the state that the submerged build-

  ings and trees would have minimal impact on the water qual-

  ity. And the plant was set up to filter the water, anyway.”

  “So your parents saw the town flooded?”

  He shook his head. “No. They didn’t. You see”—and he

  leaned forward—“something else happened that year,

  something that scared the shit out of some of the good

  folks of Gouldens Falls.” He took a big gulp of his drink,