“I see.”
“Oh, they were a hardy lot and couldn’t be kept down. But there was the Great War, you know, and then a good many of the lads fought in Ireland after 1916. We recovered again, though, and after my return to the valley, things… well, things started to look up.”
“Then came World War II?”
The priest nodded and took a large gulp of his tea, now mostly brandy. “Exactly. Most disheartening, it was.”
“And then what?”
Father Harry looked at John, then waved his hand. “Then… there were… other problems.”
“Other problems?”
“Then came the lake. Eric Sutherland’s lake.” The old man’s voice was bitter and sad as he spoke the words. He poured himself another drink without asking.
“Tell me about Donal O’Coineen and his family,” Howell said, softly.
“Ah, Donal,” the priest said, smiling a little. “Donal was the best of us. If we’d all hung on like Donal… ” He let the phrase drop.
“What was he like?” Howell asked.
“A handsome lad; strong, industrious. He was always the hardest worker, the most successful. Married the prettiest girl, made the most money, had the most beautiful daughters.”
“Joyce and Kathleen?”
“Yes, yes,” the priest smiled, “and there’d have been more if there’d been the time.” The brandy seemed to be getting to him, now. God knew it was getting to Howell. “Joyce lost her sight when only a young thing. She was the artist of the family, the musician. Sweet, kind, virginal girl.”
Howell leaned forward. This was very important, somehow. “And Kathleen?”
A streak of pain flashed across the old priest’s face. Howell thought for a moment he was ill, but he continued. “She was the most beautiful creature I ever saw,” Father Harry said, softly. “A tiny thing, but strong, tough, even. There was something in her I could never…” His voice trailed off.
Howell searched for something to say to keep the old man’s train of thought going. “I understand Donal pulled her out of school when the pressure about the land got bad.”
The priest shot him a scornful glance. “Nothing to do with the land, sir. You see… ” He was fading again.
“Why did he take them out of school, then, if it wasn’t because of the fight over the land?”
“She was only twelve,” the old priest said. “It was awful. Her father loved her so.” He seemed on the verge of tears. “I thought it would kill him.”
“What happened to Kathleen? Did she die?”
“It might have been more merciful if she had,” Father Harry said. He was nodding now, with the brandy.
Howell struggled with his own load of brandy to keep the conversation going. The priest’s eyes were closing, now, his chin dropping to his chest. “Do you ever hear from them any more? Donal O’Coineen and his family?”
Father Harry’s eyes half opened for a moment. He looked confused. “Hear from them? Faith, lad, they’re under the lake these many years.“ Then his chin dropped onto his chest again, and he began to snore.
Howell stood up unsteadily and went into the living room. He could make no sense of all this. He dropped onto the sofa and laid his head back, just for a moment.
When he awoke, the sun was low in the sky, and the old priest was gone.
25
Bo Scully picked up the phone on his desk, consulted his notes, and dialed the eleven digits. The switchboard answered on the first ring.
“Neiman-Marcus, good morning.”
“May I speak with Mr. Murray in Credit, please?”
“One moment.” There was a click and ringing started.
It had been nearly two weeks since Bo had written to Murray, and he had heard nothing. Sutherland was giving him a very hard time.
“Credit.”
“Mr. Murray, please.”
“Who’s calling, please?”
“Sheriff Scully, Sutherland County, Georgia.”
“One moment.”
“Hello?”
“Mr. Murray, this is Sheriff Bo Scully. I talked with you a couple of weeks ago.”
“Yes, Sheriff. Did you get my letter?”
“No, sir, I didn’t; that’s why I’m calling.”
“Well, I sent you a copy of the credit application you asked for; it went out the day I got your letter, I believe.”
“Well, sir, I haven’t received it yet.”
“That’s the mails for you.”
“Yessir. I wonder if I could trouble you to just give me the information on the phone? You do have my written request.”
There was a deep sigh on the other end of the line. “Oh, all right. What was the name and account number again?”
“H. M. MacDonald.” Bo read him the number.
There was a shuffling of papers and some muttering, then, “Here we are, Sheriff. H. M. MacDonald, Address, 291 Cantey Place, NW, Atlanta 30327, phone (404) 999-7100, Employed by the Atlanta Constitution, Marietta Street, Atlanta…”
Bo missed the rest. He felt as if he had received an electric shock. He thanked the man and hung up. What the hell was going on, here? He’d been told a reporter was being sent to Sutherland, but he had seen no one except Howell, and he knew Howell was who he said he was, because his picture had been in the paper so often. There had been no strangers at Sutherland’s party; he’d known every soul there. What the hell was going on?
It made no sense to him whatever that a reporter would come to town and break into Eric Sutherland’s office without asking at least a few questions around town. He dialed information and got the number.
“Good morning, Atlanta Journal and Constitution. ”
“Mr. H. M. MacDonald, please.” He would hang up as soon as the man answered.
There was a pause and the noise of pages being turned. “I’m sorry, we have no one by that name. Are you calling the Constitution?”
“Yes. Are you sure there’s no H. M. MacDonald?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Any other MacDonald?”
“No, none at all.”
He thanked her, hung up, and dialed another Atlanta number.
“You know who this is?”
“Yes.”
“Is there a guy on the paper named H. M. MacDonald?
There was a moment’s silence. “No.”
“You sure? I have reason to think this may be the man you warned me about.”
“Positive. What makes you think so?”
“Just some recent information. I know he works there.”
“Could be in classified or some other department of the paper. But there’s no H. M. MacDonald on the editorial staff.”
“Thanks.” Bo hung up. He should have been relieved, but he wasn’t. A credit card turning up at Sutherland’s belonging to somebody who worked at the newspaper was just too much of a coincidence. He looked at the card. What could the initials stand for. Harold? Henry? What other names began with H?
He started to dial the Neiman’s number again but felt embarrassed. Murray was already impatient with him. He felt a wave of annoyance with himself, and, on an impulse, dialed MacDonald’s home number in Atlanta. The phone rang four times, and Bo was about to hang up, when there was a click on the line, followed by static. A voice distorted by bad sound quality, but somehow familiar, spoke to him.
“Hello, this is Heather MacDonald. I’m not around right now, and it might be awhile before I get my messages, but if you’ll leave your name and number at the tone, I’ll get back to you sooner or later, I promise.” There was an electronic beep, then silence. Bo sat, disbelieving, with the phone in his hand.
There was a shriek from outside his office, followed by Mike’s laughter and Scotty’s shout. “Jesus Christ, Mike, will you stop that! You scared the shit out of me! C’mon, grow up, will you?”
“Aw, come on, Scotty, a little goose is good for you now and then,” Mike called back.