“Great. So what industries do you have locally?”
“Well, like I said, there’s the new hair curler factory, and there’s a brassiere factory, and we’ve got a big plant that manufactures plywood, too.”
“That’s it? With the cheap power, I’d have thought you’d be crawling with industry.”
“Like I said, Mr. Sutherland makes those decisions. He only lets new business in when he’s ready to develop a new section of town, and he’s pretty choosy about what he lets in. Last year one of the girlie magazines wanted to open up a big printing plant down here, but Mr. Sutherland wouldn’t have it. He’s got a puritan streak, he has, although he’ll take a drink. Throws a big party out at his place every fall and serves booze. We’re a wet town, too; man can get a drink – not a mixed drink, mind you, but a bottle.”
Thank God for small mercies, Howell thought. “How long has the lake been here?” Howell asked.
“They started the dam after World War II, as soon as they could get materials again. Filled it up in’52.”
“Looks older than that.”
“It does, doesn’t it? But we’ve got clear mountain water feeding it, you know, not your muddy Chattahoochee. I think the mountains help, too. It was a deep little valley before the lake.”
“What was in the valley before?”
“Just farms, a few houses, a country school, a church. The town of Sutherland hardly existed. It’s mostly been built since, because of the lake. The lake has been a grand thing for us. We’re grateful to it every day, I can tell you.”
“Did Sutherland have any problems putting the land together when he built the dam?” Scully’s reaction made Howell think he had hit a nerve.
Scully looked down into his coffee and took a deep breath. “Oh, there’s always a few malcontents in a case like that, I guess. Folks were well compensated for their land, though. Got better’n market value.” He looked up at Howell. “Don’t let anybody tell you different.”
Howell wondered if they had been compensated at anything like the rate that Eric Sutherland had been for the use to which he had put their land. Since Scully seemed uncomfortable with the subject, Howell changed it. “You look like you might have played some football, Bo.”
“Oh, yeah,” the big man replied, smiling again. “I played in high school, and I played two years down at Georgia for old Wally Butts. Made all-conference my sophomore year.”
“What happened? Get hurt?”
“Flunked out.” He grinned ruefully. “Not even Wally Butts could save me. That was in ‘50. Korea was happening. They were about to draft me, anyway, so I joined the Marines.”
“Action?”
“Oh, sure. There was plenty of that to go around.”
“You came out in one piece, though.”
“Well, I got my Purple Heart. Didn’t pay too dearly for it, though. I’ll tell you the truth, it was worth it to get out of there. Police action, my ass. They should’ve sent cops.” Scully glanced at his watch and made to get up.
Howell suddenly didn’t want him to go. He needed the company, the conversation; he didn’t want to go back to that cabin and be alone. “What do you do with yourself, Bo?” he asked, willing the man to stay a little longer.
“Oh, I’m the sheriff,” Bo Scully said, laughing and getting to his feet. “Better keep your nose clean, boy, or I’ll put you under the jail.” He punched Howell playfully on the shoulder. “Well, I’ve got half the county to cover. I’ll see you around, I ‘spect. Bubba, put John’s lunch on my tab.” Then he was gone.
Howell sat there, trying to raise enough energy to move. He wondered if Eric Sutherland ran the sheriff like he ran everything else. Eric Sutherland seemed like the sort of man who, if you got in his way, would put you not just under the jail, but, as Benny Pope would have put it, under the lake.
Howell went back to collect his car. As he paid for his gas, he asked Benny Pope about the firewood. “Sure,” Benny said. “I’ll run out there on Sunday, if that’s soon enough. I don’t get off here until seven on weekdays, and I ain’t about to get caught out at the cove after dark.”
Howell was about to ask why not when Benny almost snapped to attention. “Afternoon to you, Father,” he said over Howell’s shoulder. Howell turned to see a peculiar sight in a small Georgia town; a Catholic priest, and a very old one, at that.
“God bless you, my son,” the priest said to Benny, making the sign of the cross, then he continued walking down the street, a little unsteadily, Howell thought. Surely there couldn’t be enough Catholics in Sutherland to warrant a full-time priest, and enough for him to worry about to get him looped this early in the day, he thought as he got back into the car.
It had been clouding up all afternoon, and before he could get back to the cabin it began to rain heavily. He got soaked trying to unload the groceries during a lull in the thunderstorm. That night, he ate a can of spaghetti, staring disconsolately into a fire of his only three logs, and washed his dinner down with a bottle of California burgundy. He sat, listening to the rain on the roof. He felt not just cold, but as if he would never be warm again. He had relentlessly painted himself into this corner, leaving first his work, then his wife and home. He had used up what life had given him, spent his good fortune in a profligate way. He had not been able to preserve anything that was important to him, not even his self respect; he had sold that to Lurton Pitts cheaply. Now he had imprisoned himself here in this shabby place, and he knew no one was coming to get him out. He got well into a bottle of Jack Daniel’s before passing out on the sofa, alone with his terrible self-pity.
In the middle of the night Howell jerked awake, ran to the bathroom and retched until he was too weak to rise from his knees. He sprawled on the linoleum floor, his cheek pressed against the cold porcelain of the toilet, still drunk, still sick, and shivering with cold. He tried not to think. That was the trick, he said to himself, struggling to his feet and leaning heavily against the wall, no thinking.
He shuffled out of the bathroom, through the living room, toward the kitchen. Don’t think about the girls you’ve screwed, don’t think about your wife; don’t think about the work and the glory; don’t think back, don’t think forward; don’t think about God or what’s waiting; don’t think at all. He noticed vaguely that it was still raining outside. Don’t think about the rain. He made it to the kitchen and flipped the light switch. Nothing happened. Power failure. He ripped back the curtain and found the cold steel, found the box of fire and lead. He bruised a shoulder on the kitchen door jamb in the darkness, dropped the shotgun, picked it up again, got to the living room.
He sat down on the back of the sofa, facing the lake, and fumbled for the shells. Don’t hesitate, don’t think; one move after the other; no pauses. He got two shells into their chambers. Would it take two? Don’t think about it, keep moving right along. He turned the gun around, rested the stock on the floor, and put the barrels into his mouth. Steely, oily taste. He couldn’t reach the triggers and still keep the barrels where they would do the most good. He kicked off a shoe, ripped off a sock, and felt for the triggers with his big toe, trying twice and failing. His legs were too weak; his foot trembled uncontrollably whenever he lifted it from the floor.
He went to the desk and got a pencil, good old number two, yellow job, schoolboy’s friend. Don’t think about school, childhood; he wedged the pencil between his toes, put the barrels back into his mouth, got the toe-held pencil through the trigger guard, and pushed. The pencil slipped sideways, couldn’t be held by the toes. There was a flash of lightning, illuminating everything, making the barrels gleam, huge sticks of licorice protruding from his mouth. Finally, he got the pencil back into the trigger guard, froze it there for a moment, lifted his other foot to the pencil and pushed it against the triggers, hard, with both feet.