Beneath Cruel Waters

  PRaise for Beneath Cruel Waters

  “Brilliant, dark, compelling, and heartbreaking…Filled with unexpected

  twists and brutal truths, the novel will stay with you long after you finish it.

  Settle in for a new Colorado classic.”

  —David Heska Wanbli Weiden,

  Edgar and Anthony-nominated author of Winter Counts

  “A haunting, lyrical tale of family madness and the sins of the past

  from which we can never wash ourselves clean. Beneath Cruel Waters

  is a twisty, page-turning novel that asks profound questions—

  what are we willing to do for those we love? And what happens

  to our souls when love leads us to sin?”

  —Barbara Nickless,

  Wall Street Journal bestselling author of the Sydney Parnell crime novels

  “Beneath Cruel Waters is an intense, gripping,

  exceptionally written mystery thriller that everyone must read.

  Bassoff has always been one of the best, but this unputdownable

  novel catapults him to another level.”

  —Jason Starr,

  internationally bestselling author of The Next Time I Die

  “Jon Bassoff proves he’s not only a master of horror but can weave

  a chilling noir. A slow-burning tale of generational suffering that inches

  its way toward heartbreaking reveals for a family in

  desperate need of hope and deliverance.”

  —Aaron Philip Clark,

  author of Under Color of Law

  “A powerful family melodrama drenched in sadness

  and guilt with hints of redemption.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  Books by Jon Bassoff

  The Disassembled Man

  Corrosion

  Factory Town

  The Incurables

  The Blade This Time

  The Lantern Man

  The Drive-Thru Crematorium

  Captain Clive’s Dreamworld

  Beneath Cruel Waters

  Copyright © 2022 by Jon Bassoff

  E-book published in 2022 by Blackstone Publishing

  Cover design by Kathryn Galloway English

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion

  thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner

  whatsoever without the express written permission

  of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations

  in a book review.

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious.

  Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental

  and not intended by the author.

  Trade e-book ISBN 978-1-7999-3890-3

  Library e-book ISBN 978-1-7999-3889-7

  Fiction / Thrillers / Psychological

  CIP data for this book is available

  from the Library of Congress

  Blackstone Publishing

  31 Mistletoe Rd.

  Ashland, OR 97520

  www.BlackstonePublishing.com

  For Anna and Noah

  We were therefore buried with him through baptism into death in order that, just as Christ was raised from the dead through the glory of the Father, we too may live a new life.

  —Romans 6:4

  God gave Noah the rainbow sign

  No more water, but fire next time

  Pharaoh’s army got drowned

  Oh Mary don’t you weep

  —“Oh, Mary, Don’t You Weep”

  (traditional)

  PROLOGUE

  1984–2018

  Except for the lines of cottonwoods and willows nestled against the banks of the South Platte River, the landscape surrounding the town of Thompsonville, Colorado, was mainly desolation and starkness. Golden-brown buffalo grass, interrupted by a grain-field expanse, sloped gently to the west, while cloudless blue skies transformed into swirling grays and lightning storms before returning, just as abruptly, to that foreboding calm. Highway 53, its asphalt worn and splintered, stretched north and south, and parallel to it were some signs of life, or at least as much life as eastern Colorado could muster: railroad tracks and telephone poles and feed elevators and tire cemeteries. Away from the highway was the occasional dairy farm, maybe a horse ranch or two. And that was about it.

  Three miles east of the town stood an old brick grange, long since abandoned but still marked with a dirty sign that read “Liberty Hall: Service and Friendship.” On this evening, a broken-down Lincoln Continental, its windshield broken, its tires flat, was parked out front, as if it had been waiting for some community dance that would never materialize. Just past the grange there was a gathering of gnarled and leafless cottonwoods, and then, just past that, a dilapidated farmhouse, its white paint peeling to brown, its windows boarded-up, its porch sagging toward an eventual grave. Car parts and empty beer cans were strewn on a dirt lawn decorated with weeds. A Gadsden flag hung from the house—“Don’t Tread on Me”—snapping to attention in the cool evening breeze. The porch light was flickering.

  Inside the house, things didn’t look much better. A small television set rested in the corner of the living room, rabbit ears wrapped in tinfoil. The A-Team was on, but nobody was there to watch it. The only furniture was a wooden chair and a whiskey crate, which served as a makeshift table. On the crate there was unopened mail, a school photograph of a girl with pigtails, and a pocketknife. A narrow hallway led toward the kitchen, the wooden floor warped and filthy. In the middle of the kitchen there was a round metal table, and on the table was a package of Salems, an ashtray with a half dozen cigarettes crushed out, a bottle of Old Crow, mostly empty, and a juice glass with only a taste of whiskey remaining.

  Surrounding the table were three folding chairs, and sitting in one of the chairs was a man, probably in his early thirties, his head shaved and his jaw clenched. He wore a white T-shirt that was too small for his thick chest. Both of his arms were covered with tattoos, but the ink was fading. His most prominent tattoo was the one on his neck: a rose, blood dripping from its petals. He reached for a pack of cigarettes, pulled out a crooked one, and stuck it into the center of his mouth. He flicked open a flame and lit it. His eyes narrowed, and smoke trickled from his nostrils. For several minutes, he barely moved, only occasionally lifting his calloused hand to his mouth to suck down more smoke.

  The cigarette was almost down to the filter when the man’s head jerked to the right and his eye twitched. From the living room the sound of the front door creaking open and then footsteps on the hardwood floor. Still, he remained seated, unmoving.

  A moment later, a woman appeared, stopping in the doorframe. She was tall and thin and pretty. She had black hair, piled high on her head, and cornflower blue eyes. She wore lipstick but no other makeup. A white dress fell just below her calves. A red purse dangled from her shoulder. The man gazed at the woman, and his mouth curled into a grin.

  “And now she’s here,” he said, and his voice was harsh, as if he hadn’t used it in many months. “I kind of always figured you’d come back.”

  The woman didn’t answer, just remained in the doorway, her shoulders rising up and down, her lower lip trembling.

  “Come on, then,” he said. “Have a seat. Have a drink.”

  She shook her head, said, “I’m not thirsty.” She took a step forward, and then another. Her eyes were darting around, and her hand was rubbing up and down her purse.

  The man crushed out his cigarette and rose to his feet. “Fine. No drink. Then come give me a kiss.”

  “No,” she said, forcefully. “No.” After a moment’s hesitation, she reached into her purse. She pulled out a small pistol.

  The man nodded at her, said, “That for me?”

  She cocked the weapon and waved it vaguely in his direction. “You should have left us alone,” she said. “You shouldn’t have done what you did.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I didn’t do a damn thing. But I do know that you’re not gonna use that little pistol.”

  The woman laughed, and it was a high-pitched, desperate laugh. Without saying another word, she closed one eye and aimed the gun at his chest. Then she squeezed the trigger, once, twice, three times.

  The explosions echoed loudly in the kitchen. One of the bullets hit the man in the stomach, the other two in the chest. He slammed against the wall, groaning. He remained upright for a moment, as if trying to make up his mind whether to live or die, but life drained quickly, and he slid to the floor, blood smearing the wall behind him. For some time, he sat in that scarlet puddle, shoulders rising, breath rattling in his throat. Soon the rattling stopped, his eyes glazed over, and he was still.

  The woman stayed where she was, the gun still raised and still trembling in her hand. Finally, she lowered the weapon. With a deep sigh, she studied the man, the man that she had killed, and then took stock of the kitchen, perhaps making sure she hadn’t left any evidence behind.

  She placed the gun back into her purse, and now she pulled out something else: an old Polaroid camera. She got down on one knee and focused the camera on the dead man. She pressed the button, and the camera clicked and whirred. A photograph, still blank, lowered from the bottom. The woman held the photograph in front of her and shook it a few times. After a couple of minutes, the image became visible, first dull and ghostly and then vivid and grotesqu
e.

  “Dead,” she whispered. And then, once again, “Dead.”

  She placed the camera and photo into her purse. Then she turned and walked out of the kitchen, where blood was still spreading slowly across the floor. Her footsteps got softer and softer, and soon the front door opened and slammed shut. And then everything was quiet again, everything but the muffled screams coming from the television set. Time passed, but the man remained slumped against the wall, shirt soaked with blood, mouth parted, eyes bulging.

  Over the next couple of days, nothing happened. That is, nobody entered the old farmhouse behind Liberty Grange. The man’s body cooled and then stiffened. His skin blistered and turned green. His tongue protruded from his mouth and his eyes from their sockets. The stink overwhelmed the house.

  On the third day following the murder, midmorning, a fat woman wearing an oversized flower dress stepped out from her car and walked toward the house. With each step she took, she muttered about how there was shit everywhere on the lawn and about how she never should have let this motherfucker rent the house in the first place. “Nothing but trouble,” she said. “Nothing but a pain in my ass.” In one hand, she was holding a paper with the words “Eviction Notice” stamped across the top.

  She knocked on the front door a few times, her glasses falling to the tip of her nose, but there was no answer. She moved toward a window and pressed her face against the glass, trying to peer inside. The lights were all on, the TV flickering, but there was no movement.

  “I know you’re in there, Mr. Ray,” she said loud enough for only her to hear. “Not going to leave without my money.”

  Back to the front door. More knocking, but no footsteps from inside. She tried the door handle. It was unlocked. She stepped inside and stood in the doorframe. Her expression immediately turned to a grimace, and she pinched her nose. She took another few steps forward, cleared her throat.

  “Mr. Ray? Are you here? It’s your landlord, Janet Dovoavich. Hello?”

  The stench was overwhelming. Ms. Dovoavich covered her mouth with the crook of her arm. Still she moved forward—curious, perhaps, as to what the smell was. Curious, perhaps, as to who was dead. When she arrived in the kitchen and saw the corpse—blood-soaked and bloated, foam leaking from its mouth and nose—Ms. Dovoavich didn’t gasp, didn’t scream, didn’t make a sound at all, at least not right away. She dropped the eviction notice, and it fluttered to the floor. She backed up a few steps and steadied herself against the wall, her shoulders heaving up and down. Her gaze remained on the grotesque corpse, flies buzzing by its torso.

  Ms. Dovoavich’s mouth opened, and now she finally made a sound. It was a shriek of terror that might have lasted for a second. She remained in the kitchen for another moment or two, and then she stumbled away, through the hallway and out the front door.

  Less than thirty minutes later, the muted sounds of sirens could be heard, occasionally washed away by the wind. When they arrived, it was the whole cavalry. Police cars (two), ambulances (two), and a firetruck (one). The vehicles crowded onto the dirt road, and the men stepped out of vehicles and hurried across the lawn. Kaleidoscope lights flashed from the top of the vehicles, and radios buzzed.

  A pair of police officers were the first to enter the house. One of them had a thick black mustache and a pockmarked face. The other had red hair and looked too young to be a police officer. Upon entering, they both covered their mouths with the crooks of their arms, just like the old landlady had done. The man with the mustache looked at his partner and shook his head. They walked slowly through the house, observing minutia as police officers are taught to do. See the unopened mail on the whiskey cart? What about the photo of the girl? And this check, from the meatpacking plant, uncashed?

  When they got to the kitchen and peered inside, the redhead turned pale. He placed his hands on his knees and leaned forward as if he was going to be sick. He didn’t vomit, however. His partner ignored him, instead peering around the kitchen, at the floor, at the wall, at the ceiling.

  A few minutes later, two other men entered the house, one tall, one short, both in shirts and ties, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. They wore latex gloves on their hands and coverings on their shoes. When the tall one saw the body, he muttered, “Fuck,” and then moved closer and got down on his haunches. He said “Fuck” again.

  The short man said, “You know him, Lieutenant?”

  The lieutenant nodded his head. “I do. I paid him a visit not so long ago. Had a little talk with him. Gave him a warning. But I guess my warning didn’t stick.”

  “Enemy also paid him a visit, huh?”

  “Yeah, maybe. Or a real bad friend.”

  The short man grunted.

  After that, the lieutenant and the short man barely talked to each other. They spent the next thirty minutes speaking into tape recorders, writing down notes, and bagging evidence. Other officials—all men—entered the house. One of them dusted the walls and counters, searching for fingerprints. Another took photographs. But most of them were only there for a short time, peeking their heads into the kitchen and then leaving.

  Eventually, the coroner arrived. He was a hefty man with thick gray sideburns. The perspiration glistened on his forehead. A couple of his assistants, perhaps his sons, placed plastic over the body and then moved it to a stretcher. They counted to three and then lifted. Just like that, the body was gone.

  The lieutenant and his partner remained in the house for another hour or two, and then they left. They didn’t come back. The house was empty again.

  Over the next several weeks, a handful of people entered the house. One man, a locksmith, changed the locks on the door. Another group of workers, dressed in hazmat uniforms, cleaned the walls and floor of blood and skin and tissue. A woman and a man, carrying a transistor radio playing top forty music—“When Doves Cry,” “Dancing in the Dark,” “What’s Love Got to Do with It,” “Jump”—packed up the remaining items in the house, which weren’t all that many. Some dishes. Some clothes. Some towels. Some toiletries. A toolbox. It didn’t take them long, maybe an hour. And then they left.

  The house was quiet again. Nobody would come back, not for a long time.

  Months passed, and then years. A new president was elected and then another. Styles began to change. Leg warmers and neon colors turned to flannels and ripped jeans. At one point, there was a For Sale sign outside the property. It stayed up for three months and then came down. Nobody bought the house.

  The snowy winters and dry summers took their toll. The wood began to rot, causing the house to sway in the wind. Animals—rabbits, coyotes, owls, bats—found shelter there. People stayed away, except for the occasional teenagers who would sneak onto the property to drink or screw.

  And then, on the eve of the new millennium, as the snow fell in every direction and the temperature toppled below zero, an old man with a yellowing beard pushed through the front door and set up camp in what used to be the living room. He huddled inside his sleeping bag, a pink-and-yellow pompom hat pulled below his ears, and ate from a can of sardines. When he finished the sardines, he took a long chug from his bottle of Four Roses and wiped his whiskered lips with his gloved hand. Then he curled up in his bag and slept for twenty hours straight, snoring heavily, his body barely moving. When he finally woke, he sat up without stretching and reached for the bottle of whiskey again. This time he drank four, five, six, seven chugs before dropping the bottle and spilling whiskey across the floor. He lit a cheap cigar and smoked, all the while singing a song of nonsense. After ten minutes, he dropped the nub of the still-burning cigar and sang some more, his eyes bloodshot and wild.

  Soon the song ended and the conversation began, a conversation with somebody not there, somebody named Margaret. He was angry that she had cheated on him, angry that she had left him. The conversation lasted several minutes and didn’t stop until he noticed that the floor was on fire. Even then the old man didn’t move, although he stared, his eyes nearly bulging from their sockets. The shelves ignited and then the walls. Finally, he broke from his stupor and stumbled to his feet. As the room became engulfed in fire, his filthy face glowed like some devil.