Free Under the Lake by Stuart Woods

companionable about the man. “You married?”
    Scully shook his head. “Nah. Never got around to it. I was engaged once, to a girl in the valley, but she . . . it didn’t work out. I was just a kid, anyway.”
    “No more close calls?”
    The sheriff grinned. “Oh, sure. I found the perfect girl once, but, like the fellow says, she was looking for the perfect man.”
    “I wouldn’t think there would be much of a supply of single women in these parts.”
    “Oh, it’s not too bad. Fair number of divorcées. I’d have a shot at little Scotty in my office, if she wasn’t so close to home. You ought to give her a call, you know. Nice-looking girl. Smart, too; she’s done a lot to shape up the office.”
    “You said she was new?”
    “Came a little more than a month ago.”
    “Local girl?”
    “Nah, Atlanta. Said she wanted to get away from big-city life. She had real good references from a law firm—she was a legal secretary—and I just snapped her up. You don’t find many girls around here with that kind of experience.”
    “I guess not. Seems like a pretty good life up here, too. I can see why she might want to get away.” He couldn’t see at all, really. She was up here with a phony name and phony references, obviously up to something.
    “You better believe it’s a good life. Shoot, I can’t hardly believe it sometimes.”
    “How long you been sheriff?”
    “Since ’62. I got a deputy’s job when I came back from Korea. When old Sheriff Bob Mitchell hung it up, I ran. Got elected. Been getting elected ever since.”
    “Much crime up here?”
    “Not much. Not the way you’ve got it in Atlanta, anyway. Oh, we get our share of cuttings, and burglary’s happening a lot more often than it used to. We get a murder once or twice a year, usually a domestic situation.” He grinned. “We stay busy, but we don’t bust our asses.”
    They drove on along the smooth two-lane highway, the lake appearing from time to time through the trees on their left. “How big is the lake?” Howell asked.
    “Fifteen miles from Sutherland down to Taylor’s FishCamp at the other end, but I guess it’s not more than a mile and a half, two miles wide anywhere. Looks like a river in the narrower parts.” He pointed at a narrow place they were passing. Light reflecting from the water flashed through the pines. “You ought to get out on the water before it starts getting too cool. Denham’s got a boat out to the cabin, hasn’t he?”
    “Yeah, there’s a runabout under the house and a fifty-horsepower outboard stored down at Ed Parker’s. I’ll have to get it out.”
    They passed Taylor’s Fish Camp, a jumble of ramshackle cabins with a big main building. A sign out front said “Home Cooking.”
    “How’s the food?” Howell asked.
    “Best fried chicken in the state,” Scully replied. “Real good breakfast, too; homemade sausage and country ham. Closest thing we’ve got to a good restaurant around here. No booze, though, not even beer or wine. The Taylors don’t hold with it.”
    “I’ll have to give it a try.”
    They headed back along the south shore of the lake, not talking much, enjoying the sunshine on the water after the days of rain. At the outskirts of Sutherland they passed a convenience store, and Scully slowed slightly. There was only one car out front. He nodded. “Now, just have a look at that,” he said. “Fellow sitting in a car with the motor running; out-of-state plates. That say anything to you?” Before Howell could reply, Scully picked up the car radio microphone and pressed the transmit button. “Mike, this is the sheriff, who’s out and where?”
    A voice crackled back. “Car Two’s here. Everybody else is scattered around the county. Jimmy’s right here.”
    “Good. Jimmy, I’m out at Minnie Wilson’s store, and there’s a possible code eleven in progress. I’m going round the back. Get out here right quick, no siren. There’s a ’74 Chevy with Tennessee plates