Beneath Still Waters by Matthew J. Costello
By Matthew J. Costello
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Additional info for Beneath Still Waters
This was followed by an ad for the beer-drinker’s beer. But any beer is the beer-drinker’s beer. Oh, yeah. He downed his glass and let it come down hard on the bar to catch the bartender’s attention. ’Cause I’m having more than one. He dug out another ﬁve-dollar bill to lay on the bar to beneath still waters 33 keep his somber party going. The bartender, a dopey-looking string bean whose pants seemed to just about stay up, tapped the bar, signaling that this one was on the house. And Fred nodded.
Shit. I’m getting out of here. And he started swimming, real hard now, as hard as he could toward shore. But his legs didn’t move. The small, feathery touches around his legs, those “little pumpkin seeds,” had turned to something hard now, holding on to his legs, almost holding him like— He brought his right hand down to feel what he was caught in, to push it away, to free himself. His head kept bobbing slightly under the water. His hand traced a path down past his hip, past his thigh, trying to feel what in the world held him tight.
Tommy Fluhr went for a swim . . at the reservoir. ” Max knew Tommy Fluhr’s dad. They both were good for two martinis. No more, no less—at the Embassy Club. beneath still waters 43 “Something happened to him. Our best guess is he got a cramp and went under. ” Wiley started the car. No point sitting at the motel waiting for someone to come cruising by and spot him. He lodged the phone in his shoulder, backed the car to the left, and pulled it out of the lot. Gravel sprayed backward as he eased onto the road.