Under the Lake Read Online Free PDF Page B

into Sutherland anyway. In town, he found an attractive little shopping center with a large supermarket. He was puzzled by an extremely large display of electric heaters in the hardware department. Ten bags of groceries in the car, he stopped at the post office to tell them who and where he was, then at the telephone exchange to ask them to turn on the phone in the cabin. On his way back he stopped at a Sinclair station for gas.
    A wizened little man with snowy hair stopped fixing an inner tube and shuffled out to the car. “Fill ’er up with the high-test and check the oil and water, please,” Howell said, as he got out of the car to stretch. There was another man tilted back in a chair against the building, whittling.
    “Lotsa groceries there,” the white-haired man said as he started the gasoline pump. “You staying around?”
    “Yep, up at Denham White’s place on the lake, near the crossroads.”
    The man’s brow furrowed and he shook his head. “Better you than me, friend,” he said.
    “Huh?”
    “I know young Denham,” the man said, seeming not to want to pursue his first remark. “His daddy used to come up here and hunt with Mr. Sutherland. I used to run dogs for ’em. He’s under the lake now, Mr. White.”
    “Beg pardon?”
    “Under the lake.”
    The other man got up and walked over. “Passed on,” hesaid. “Local expression. I’m Ed Parker. You staying with us for a while, then?”
    “A few weeks.”
    “I’m Benny Pope,” the little man said. “Hope we’ll have your business while you’re here.” He looked at Ed Parker to see if he’d said the right thing.
    Parker smiled at him. “Benny’s my number one salesman,” he said.
    As Parker spoke, another car pulled into the station, and a man wearing a tan gabardine suit and a Stetson hat got out. “Fill ’er up, Benny,” he said, then turned and looked at Howell.
    “Aren’t you John Howell?” he asked.
    “That’s right.”
    “Recognized you from your picture in the paper. I’m Bo Scully. I used to read your stuff in the Constitution.” He stuck out his hand. “I liked it,” he grinned, “most of the time.”
    “Most of the time ain’t bad,” Howell laughed, taking the man’s hand. “That’s more often than my editors liked it.”
    “How come I don’t see your column anymore?”
    “Oh, I left the paper a couple of years ago. I’m staying out at Denham White’s place for a while, working on a book.”
    “Well, that’s a right nice place out there; nice view,” Scully said. “Say, I was just going across the street to Bubba’s for a cup of coffee. Join me? Benny’ll park the car for you.”
    Howell shrugged. “Sure. I could use a sandwich, too. Missed lunch.”
    “Bubba will feed you,” Scully said, starting across the street. He was a big man, six three or four, Howell reckoned,with the musculature of an ex-athlete, fading red hair with a touch of gray, and an open, freckled, Irish-looking face; probably in his mid-forties. Howell came up to his shoulder. Scully ushered him into the café. “Bubba, this is John Howell. You remember, the columnist for the Constitution!” Bubba waved from behind the counter. “Fix him one of your best cheeseburgers. How you like it, John?”
    “Medium is fine.” Howell heard a loud click and looked toward the back of the place where a couple of men were moving around a pool table. Howell had followed up stories in a hundred places like this in little towns across the South. It smelled of chili and stale cigarette smoke. The church-going people of the town would think it was a fairly disreputable place, but a man could get a cold beer here, and Howell liked it.
    “Medium, Bubba, and two cups . . . could you use a beer, John?”
    “Sure.”
    “A beer and a cup of coffee. I’m working this afternoon.” He showed Howell to a booth. “So, what sort of book brings you up this way?”
    Howell told him what he had told Sutherland.
    “A novel, huh? Guess you don’t