“Well, I don’t exactly understand this, myself, but Mama Kelly thinks it was me.”
Scotty shifted her weight, tugged on the blanket and looked thoughtful. “Now, let me see if I’ve got this,” she said. “You think Eric Sutherland has knocked off the O’Coineens for their land to build the lake, and now somebody from the spirit world has tapped you on the shoulder and whispered in your shell-like ear that you’re supposed to bring him to justice.”
Howell was quiet for a moment. “Maybe.
“You think the house we saw is real, then?
“I don’t know, but it might be best if it were, because that would put us firmly back on this earth.”
“And if it’s not real?”
“That would be nearly as good, because I’d know I was making the whole thing up in my mind and, somehow, communicating it to you, and I could spend some time in a rubber room and, maybe, be all right again.”
Scotty was shaking her head. “You’re losing me. If it’s real, everything’s okay; if it’s not real, everything’s okay…”
Howell held up a restraining hand. “What if it used to be real, but isn’t anymore?”
“Huh?”
“That’s what I hope the maps are going to tell us. We know the O’Coineen place is under the lake, but we don’t know where under the lake.” He went to the maps on the desk and unfolded them. “Come over here.”
Scotty went to the desk.
Howell spread out a map. “This was made in 1969. Now look here, this is where we are now, at this moment. Crossroads, road to the lake, cabin.” He pointed to a lakeside lot and a house marked, “Denham White Property.”
“Right.”
Howell unfolded the other map. “Now this is the 1936 map, covering, according to the coordinates, exactly the same area in the same scale.” He switched on the word processor and turned the brightness control on the monitor all the way up, then placed the newer map on top of the older one and spread them across the screen, using it as a light box. “Now, what we have is the new map superimposed on the old one…”
“And…?”
“And presto, we can see under the lake.”
Scotty peered at the map. “So?”
“Well, let’s see.” He pointed to the crossroads. “Let’s start from here and follow the road toward the lake.” He moved his finger along the backlit map. “Here’s the point where it enters the lake, right by the cabin. Now, we continue along the road – we’re going downhill sharply, now, see the elevation markings? And we come to – what do we come to? Your eyes are better than mine.”
Scotty stared at the map. “We come to a farm. It says, oh, Christ, it says, ”O’Coineen Farm‘.“
Howell peered closely at the writing. “You’re right, it does. Come with me.” He put down the map, took her wrist, and led her onto the deck. The moon illuminated the cove brightly, sparkling on the water. He pointed out and down toward the water. “There,” he said. “Down there, about a hundred and fifty feet under the lake, lies the O’Coineen farm. You and I saw it together the other night.”
Scotty stared, transfixed, at the shimmering surface of the lake. “It was real, but it isn’t real anymore.”
“But sometimes I can see it. Something wants me to see it.”
“Me, too. Why me?”
“I think something is using you to convince me that I’m not crazy.”
19
Bo Scully was later than usual getting into the office. He came in, glanced at the mail, then went into his office and closed the door. Then he opened it again.
“Scotty, will you get me the number of the Neiman-Marcus department store in Atlanta, please, ma’am? I think it’s at the Lenox Square mall.”
He closed the door and turned away, missing the stunned expression on Scotty’s face. Quickly, she opened her handbag and checked her wallet. It wasn’t there. Oh, God, this couldn’t be happening. She recovered enough to dial information, get the number, write it down and take it to him. “Want me to call them for you?” she asked, hopefully. “Those stores will keep you hanging for hours. You ordering something?”
“No, it’s okay, I’ll call ‘ em myself. Close the door, will you?”
She closed his door and returned to her desk but watched him through the plate glass window. He dialed the number, said something, waited a while, said something else, something longer, waited another while, then spoke for about a minute to someone. God, she wished she could hear him. He wrote down something, then hung up and dialed another number. Eleven digits, she counted; long distance.
“Scotty, write me a letter, will you? Neiman-Marcus in Dallas – here’s the address, attention of a Mr. Murray in the credit department. Say that, confirming our phone conversation of today, I request a copy of the charge account application of… he glanced at the paper in his hand ”… an H. M. MacDonald, account number 071107. Say it’s in conjunction with an investigation being conducted by this department, and the information on the application will be kept confidential.“ He handed her the paper. ”Sonofabitch wouldn’t tell me nothing on the phone,“ he said, and walked back into his office.
Scotty quietly thanked God that she had used her initials on the card. If Bo ever got his hands on that application he’d see that the card belonged to a Heather Miller MacDonald, who was employed by the Atlanta Constitution as a reporter; he would figure out in milliseconds who that was, and she’d be dead in the water, or maybe just dead.
Well, she’d take a couple of days to write that letter, that would give her time to think, anyway.
Bo opened his office door again. “Do that letter now, will you, please? I want to get it right off.”
She typed the letter on the word processor, ripped it from the printer, and took it in for Bo’s signature. She addressed it, sealed it, ran it through the postage meter, and tossed it on top of a pile of letters waiting to go to the post office. She’d take them herself at lunch and ditch that particular one.
Bo came out of the office. “I’m going to make a round or two, and I’ll go straight on to lunch. Be back about two, I guess.” He reached into Scotty’s out basket and scooped up the pile of letters. “I’ll drop these by the post office for you,” he said, starting for the door.
“Hey,” she called. He stopped and turned. “No need to go to the trouble. I’ve got to go down there anyway.”
“Oh, no trouble,” Bo grinned. He left.
Scotty buried her face in her hands and tried not to cry. She’d kill John Howell, the clumsy bastard. She was blown, or would be before the week was out. And what could she do in that short a time?
“Hey, Scotty,” Mike, the radio operator, called, “will you keep an eye on the radio for me? I gotta get a haircut.”
“Sure, Mike,” she said, brightly. “Be glad to. Take your time.”
Mike left, and she was alone. Alone with Bo Scully’s Great Iron Filing Cabinet. It was now or never. She took a big breath and dug for her key.
20
Howell spread out the maps again and peered at them, hoping for some new inspiration, but none came. What did come was an overwhelming sense of guilt. His earlier contention that he could whip Lurton Pitts’s autobiography off in a hurry had turned out not to be true. He had made no sort of real beginning on the book, and that was supposed to be his reason for being here, what was paying for his being here.
He folded the maps and stuck them in a desk drawer, then got out his old Uher voice-activated tape recorder, which he had once used so often for interviews. Maybe when he had some sort of outline, it would be easier to do the actual writing. He began to organize and speak his thoughts into the machine. He liked the recorder; it paused when he did.
An hour or so later, with a rough outline nearly completed, he stopped, hearing a car pull up to the cabin. He went to the door and opened it before Bo Scully could knock.