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.
Bo hung up the phone. Heather MacDonald. Scottish. Heather M. MacDonald. Heather Miller MacDonald. Scotty. Scotty Miller. Scotty. The voice was hers, static or no static.
Bo felt ill. He got up, went into the bathroom, closed the door and leaned on it. He ran some cold water and splashed it on his face. He sat down on the John seat and tried to think. He still felt sick; and angry, and stupid; and afraid. They weren’t after Sutherland. They were after Sheriff Bo Scully.
Bo rested his hot face in his cool hands and tried to think. How long had she been in the office? What had she seen? What could she know? Nothing, he tried to tell himself. Impossible for her to know anything. He had been too careful.
But he was still afraid. It had been a very long time since he had been this afraid.
Howell was pounding away on the word processor. He had, somehow, gotten inside the skin of Lurton Pitts, understood the man – or, at least, understood what he would want to read about himself. He had been cranking out a good twenty pages of autobiography a day since the first chapter had magically appeared on the monitor screen, and he was in full cry when the telephone rang.
“Hello?”
“It’s Leonie.”
“Well, hi, I’d been wondering what had happened to you. I wanted to call, but you asked me not to.”
“Yes, well, that would be awkward. It’s better if I call you.”
Howell glanced at his watch. “Why don’t you come over this afternoon? We could… have a swim.”
“No, I can’t. That’s not why I called.”
“Oh?”
“Mama wants to see you.”
“Oh. Is she better?”
“No, but she’s conscious, which she hasn’t been much, lately, and she’s been asking for you. Can you come over?”
“When?”
“Right now. I think this is important.”
“Of course. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“Make it five. I don’t know how long she’ll be awake.”
“Okay.” Howell hung up and reached for his car keys.
He covered the short distance in less than five minutes. He drove into the Kellys’ yard and got out of the car. Dermot was sitting in the porch swing, picking tentatively at a mandolin.
“Hey, John.”
“Hey, Dermot, how are you?”
“Real good.” Riley, the blind dog, bounded down the front porch steps with abandon and pranced around Howell, apparently happy to see him. “See” seemed to fit. Howell had a hard time thinking of the dog as blind.
Howell scratched the dog behind the ears. “Hello, Riley, how you doin‘?”
Leonie came out onto the porch. “Please come straight in, John. I don’t think we should waste any time.”
Howell followed her into the house, across the living room to Mama Kelly’s bedroom. It was much as before. The room was neatly kept, and the old woman waited, a beautiful quilt thrown over her bed. Her white hair was freshly combed, and she was wearing a finely made bed jacket over her nightgown. She held out her hand for Howell’s. She seemed terribly tired.
“Oh, John, I’m so glad you could come. I need to talk to you.” Her voice was weak.
Howell took her hand. “I’m glad to come, Mrs. Kelly. I want to thank you for helping me with my back. Ever since Leonie worked on it, it’s been really perfect.”
“I’m glad we could help you, John. Now, I want to say some things to you.”
He strained to hear her. “Yes ma’am?”
She took as deep a breath as she could manage. “You were brought here for a reason,” she said. “I’ve been expecting you for a long time.”
She had said this before. Howell nodded.
“You’ve come here to right a great wrong. I can’t help you much, but I’ll do what I can. You must be careful to keep your wits about you.”
Howell looked at Leonie. She put a finger to her lips.
“Events are coming to a head, now, and you must be ready. Please don’t drink so much.”
Howell said nothing.
Mama Kelly took several deep breaths and seemed to be gathering herself for more. “You have seen some strange things, and they have a meaning. But all is not what it seems to be. You must be very careful.“
“Do you mean the dream about the valley?”
“It may seem to be a dream, but it’s not – not exactly a dream. Little Kathleen is in danger, and you must help her. If you don’t help her, she may die. Do you understand?”
“No, ma’am, I’m sorry, I don’t. Kathleen is either dead or gone away, isn’t she?”
“All is not what it seems,” the old woman said again. “I wish I could help you more.” She closed her eyes and sighed.
Leonie beckoned to Howell to leave her, but when he tried, Mama Kelly clung to his hand.
Her eyes fluttered open. “Please remember that there is much here that will be hard for you to understand. You must try and understand. Your presence here has already done more good than you know. Believe me when I tell you that. But you must save little Kathleen. She is the future.”
She sighed again, and her grip on his hand relaxed. Howell moved away from her and followed Leonie into the living room.
“Do you know what she’s talking about?” he asked Leonie.
Leonie shrugged. “All I know is that she knows what she’s talking about.”
“She seems to think that Kathleen is still alive. Do you believe that? Or do you believe she’s under the lake?”
Leonie bit her lip and did not reply.
“Kathleen would be how old, now?”
Leonie sighed. “She was four years older than I was. That would make her thirty-six.”
Howell thought for a moment. He knew no woman of any description in Sutherland who was that age. “Leonie, do you think Kathleen could still be alive? Please tell me.”
Leonie shook her head. “I don’t know, John, but if Mama believes she is, that’s good enough for me.”
Howell took her hand. “Listen, it’s been a long time since I saw you. I miss you. Why don’t you come over this afternoon?”
She put a finger to her lips, and nodded toward the front porch. The creaking of the swing could be heard. “I’ll come when I can,” she said.
Howell thought, as he drove home, about what Mama Kelly had said. She didn’t make sense. Kathleen O’Coineen was dead, and her whole family with her. Howell wasn’t sure how he knew that, but he did.