Suddenly the valley was gone, and the lake was back at their feet. They stood, silently, unable to react. Then, as they watched, a soundless explosion of light came from under the lake, rising to a brightness that hurt their eyes, then, pulsating erratically, faded slowly into darkness, until they were left, staring once again at dark and peaceful waters. There was no moon. The crickets began to chirp again.
A touch of dawn had begun to light the sky. Howell turned to lead Scotty back into the cabin and stumbled over Denham White’s double-barreled shotgun, lying at the lake’s edge.
“Where did that come from?” Scotty asked.
Howell picked up the weapon and broke it to inspect the empty chambers. “It’s something I misplaced,” he said.
39
“Tell me again how this tape recorder works?” The Georgia State Patrol captain’s voice came down somewhere between skepticism and outright incredulity.
“It’s voice-activated,” Howell explained again. “Once it’s turned on, it only records when it hears something, and it automatically controls the recording level. Miss MacDonald managed to turn it on when I arrived at the cabin, when Scully was occupied with me.”
“Okay, I’ll take your word for that,” the captain said. The late afternoon sunlight reflected off his collar insignia. “And you say that right after this shooting on the tape, Sheriff Scully threw down the shotgun, ran out onto the deck, ran down the steps out there, and jumped in the lake.”
“Jumped in and started swimming away,” Howell said. “I tried to stop him, but he wouldn’t listen to me; he just kept going.”
“We found his body nearly a mile along the lake,” the captain said, shaking his head. “I expect we’ll get a suicide-by-drowning verdict from the coroner. Wasn’t a mark on him.”
“He seemed to hear the piano and see something outside on the deck before he started firing,” Howell said. “I think he must have been hallucinating. He’d had a lot of bourbon to drink.”
“Well, there’s no piano on the tape,” the captain said. “I guess maybe he must have been. I’ll tell you, though, I’d have said that Bo Scully was just about as level-headed a fellow as I ever knew. This sure don’t fit him.”
“I guess every man has his breaking point,” Howell said. “He’d been under a lot of pressure, I think, what with having killed Sutherland and having the drug delivery aborted.”
“I wouldn’t say exactly aborted,” the captain came back. “We’re still looking for that furniture van. The GBI have picked up an Air National Guard lieutenant colonel down at Dobbins Air Force Base, though. Maybe they’ll get something out of him.”
“I’d be willing to bet that his training logs jibe with the schedule from Scully’s files.”
The captain put his hands on his knees and stood up. “Well, counselor,” he said to Enda McCauliffe, “I can’t see any reason to detain your clients. Everything they’ve told me seems to be backed up by the evidence we have.” He put on his Stetson hat and squared it carefully. “I don’t mind telling you, though, this is the damnedest thing I’ve investigated in nineteen years on the job.”
“I don’t doubt it,” McCauliffe said, shaking the man’s hand.
“Just as long as they’re available if we need to know anything else,” the captain said, and took his leave.
McCauliffe came back to the fireplace and flopped into a chair. “I think we did the best thing,” he said to Howell and Scotty. “If you’d told him what you told me, we’d never hear the end of it, not for the rest of our lives.” Mac still looked skeptical.
“I think you’re right,” Howell said. “I’d be hard pressed to tell the truth about what happened; I’m still not sure what the truth is.”
“I don’t have any speculation to offer,” the lawyer said, “but I do have Bo’s will.” He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew, a heavy, blue, legal envelope. “He typed this out himself and brought it to my office to be witnessed a few days ago. Following Bo’s instructions at the time, I opened it and read it when you called me and told me he was dead.”
“I remember his working on something all one morning at the office and saying he was going over to your place,” Scotty said.
McCauliffe nodded. “It’s pretty straightforward. He leaves everything to his only living relative, Heather M. MacDonald, also known as Scotty Miller.”
“Is it legal?” Howell asked.
“Airtight,” the lawyer replied, then took another, plain envelope from his pocket and handed it to Scotty. “He left this for you.”
Scotty opened the envelope and read the sheets inside while Howell and McCauliffe waited. Finally, she looked up. “It’s a short version of what he told us last night,” she said, “and the number of the Swiss bank account.”
“That’s a bunch of money, Scotty,” Howell said.
“I don’t want it,” she said, unhesitatingly.
“It’s dirty money. I liked him, in spite of everything, and I’d rather forget that part of him.” She turned to McCauliffe. “Can I give it away?”
“Well,” the lawyer said, “there’ll have to be some negotiations with the Internal Revenue Service; you can give away what’s left. In any case, you don’t need the money. Bo was Eric Sutherland’s heir, and you’re Bo’s heir. I can’t give you a figure off the top of my head, but you’re a very wealthy young woman.”
Scotty nodded. “That occurred to me. I don’t know what the hell I’ll do with it.”
“There’s a fair amount of liquid stuff – stocks and bonds, plus his house – but the main thing is the lake. You’re the majority stockholder in the power company – the banks have a chunk.”
Scotty looked at him and grinned. “Does that mean I can hand out lakefront lots around here?”
“Yep. You’re the boss, or will be, when the will is probated.”
“Okay, Johnny,” she said, turning to How-ell, “Take your pick. Find a lot you like, and it’s yours. It’s the very least I can do for you.”
“Thanks, Scotty, I’ll take you up on it. I think a place on another part of the lake, though. It gets a little hairy around here.”
“There’s something else, Scotty,” McCauliffe said. “It seems pretty clear that you’re entitled to the money that Sutherland thought he paid Donal O’Coineen, plus the interest that’s been building up for the last twenty-five years. I’ll make a claim with the bank, if you like. Strictly speaking, the transaction never took place, since Kathleen forged Donal’s signature on the transfer deed, but it hardly matters, I think, because you’re O’Coineen’s heir as well as Sutherland’s. They were both your grandfathers. I can straighten out the legal end of it with the bank.”
Scotty put her hands to her cheeks. “This is getting to be too much for me to handle.”
“Can I make a suggestion, Scotty?” Howell asked.
“Sure. I could use a suggestion.”
“Before you start thinking too much about your inheritance, why don’t you let Mac sort things out for you here? Just go back to Atlanta, write your story, and be a reporter. I think you’d be very unhappy doing anything else for quite a while, speaking as somebody who left the profession before he should have.”
“That’s good advice,” Scotty replied. “Mac, you want to be my lawyer?”
McCauliffe grinned. “Sure, I’m already working for the power company, anyway, for my sins.” He closed his briefcase and stood up. “Well, I’ve got things to do. We’ll talk later.” He left Howell and Scotty alone.
Scotty came and put her arms around Howell.
He winced. “Ouch,” he said.