Beneath Still Waters Page 3
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.
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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?”
“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
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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.
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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,