Black Evening (42 page)

Grady slumped against the counter and wept, deep outbursts that squeezed his throat and made his shoulders convulse.

Abruptly the phone rang. Startled, he swung toward where it hung on the wall beside the back door.

It rang again.

Grady hadn't put on the answering machine yet. The way he felt, he didn't know whether to let the phone keep ringing. Brian and Betsy. Helen and John. All Grady wanted was to be left alone so he could mourn. But the call might be from his office. It might be important.

Wiping his cheeks, he straightened, brooded, and decided. The bourbon hadn't begun to take effect. He would still be able to talk without slurring his words. Whatever this call was about, he might as well take care of it while he was still able.

His hand trembled as he picked up the phone. "Hello?"

"Ben? It's Jeff Clauson. I'm sorry to bother you at home, but this is important. When I phoned your office, one of your men told me where you'd be."

"Something important? What is it?"

"I've got some names. Tell me if they're familiar. Jennings. Matson. Randall. Langley. Beck."

Grady concentrated. "I can't put any faces to them. No one I've met. At least they didn't impress me enough to make me remember them."

"I'm not surprised. They don't… they didn't… live in Bosworth. They all came from nearby towns, to the west, between here and Pittsburgh."

"So why are they important? I don't get the point."

"They all died last Thursday."

"What?"

"After we finished at Brian's camp, we drove back to headquarters. We kept talking about what had happened. One of my men who wasn't on our assignment jerked to attention at the mention of Brian and Betsy Roth. He'd heard those names before, he told me. Last Thursday. One of the worst traffic accidents he'd ever investigated. Ten people killed. All in one van. A driver of a semitruck had a tire blow, lost control, and rammed into them. The investigation revealed that the victims in the van had all been headed toward a Fourth of July celebration in the mountains. To a camp. And that's why I wanted to talk to you. The camp was owned by Brian and Betsy Roth."

Grady clutched the phone so hard that his hand cramped. "All ten of them were killed?"

"They met at one place, left their cars, and went in the van," Clauson said.

Another God-damned traffic accident! Grady thought. Just like Helen and John!

"So on a hunch, I made some calls," Clauson said. "To the relatives of the victims. What I learned was that Brian and Betsy got around. They didn't go to grief meetings just in Bosworth. They went to towns all around here. Remember, back at the camp, when I wondered about the photographs on the wall of the smallest building? You called it a shrine? Well, I had the notion that because two of the photographs showed Brian and Betsy's dead children, it could be there was a pattern and maybe the other photographs showed dead children, too."

"I remember."

"Well, I was right. Every one of the couples who were killed in that accident had lost children several years ago. Your description of that building was correct. That building
was
a shrine. According to relatives, the parents put up those photographs above the fireplace. They lit candles. They prayed. They — "

"What a nightmare," Grady said.

"You know about that nightmare more than I can ever imagine. All twelve of them. A private club devoted to sympathy. Maybe
that's
why Brian lost control. Maybe he murdered Betsy and then shot himself because he couldn't stand more grief."

"Maybe." Grady shuddered.

"The pictures of the older children, the two in military uniforms, those young men were killed in Vietnam. That's how far back it goes."

I have a feeling it lasts forever, Grady thought.

"The main thing is, now we've got an explanation," Clauson said. "Brian and Betsy were prepared for a weekend get-together. But it didn't work out that way. It turned out to be a weekend of brooding and depression and… With the two of them alone out there, Brian decided he couldn't go on. Too much sorrow. Too damned much. So he shot his wife. For all we know, he had her permission. And then he…"

"Shot himself." Grady exhaled.

"Does that make sense?"

"As much as we'll probably ever find out. God help them," Grady said.

"I realize this is hard for you to talk about," Clauson said.

"I can handle it. You did good, Jeff. I can't say I'm happy, but your theory holds together enough to set my mind to rest. I appreciate your call." Grady wanted to scream.

"I just thought you'd like to know."

"Sure."

"If there's anything more I hear, I'll call you back."

"Great. Fine. Do that."

"Ben?"

"What?"

"I don't want to make a mistake a second time. If you need someone to talk to, call me."

"Sure, Jeff. If I need to. Count on it."

"I mean what I said."

"Of course. And
I
mean what
I
said. If I need to talk to you, I will."

"That's all I wanted to hear."

Grady hung up the phone, pushed away from the wall, and crossed the kitchen.

Toward the bourbon.

The next morning, early, at four, Grady coughed and struggled from his bed. The alcohol had allowed him to sleep, but as its effects dwindled, he regained consciousness prematurely, long before he wanted to confront his existence. His head throbbed. His knees wavered. Stumbling into the bathroom, he swallowed several aspirins, palmed water into his mouth, and realized that he still wore his uniform, that he hadn't removed his clothes before he fell across his bed.

Tell Ben Grady. Bring him here
. The dismaying note remained as vivid in Grady's memory as when he'd jerked his anguished gaze from the corpses and read the words on the plastic-enclosed piece of paper that Clauson had handed to him. TELL BEN GRADY. BRING HIM HERE.

Why
? Grady thought. Everything Jeff told me last night — the ten people killed in the van, the motive for Brian's depression — made sense. Brian had reached the end of his endurance. What
doesn't
make sense is Brian's insistence that I be contacted, that I drive to the camp, that I see the bullet holes.

Grady's mind revolted. Chest heaving, he leaned over the sink, turned on the cold water, and repeatedly splashed his clammy face. He staggered to the kitchen and slumped at the table, where the light he'd switched on hurt his eyes. Alka-Seltzer, he thought. I need —

But his impulse was canceled by the pile of envelopes and mailorder catalogues on the table. When he'd returned home last evening, he'd automatically grabbed his mail from the box outside while he'd fumbled for his key. He'd thrown the mail on the kitchen table, impatient to open the cupboard where he kept his bourbon. Now, having propped his elbows on the table, spreading the envelopes and catalogues, he found himself staring at a letter addressed to him, one of the few letters he'd received since Helen and John had died and Helen's relatives had stopped sending mail.

The instructions on the envelope — BENJAMIN GRADY, 112 CYPRESS STREET, BOSWORTH, PENNSYLVANIA, then the zip code — had been scrawled in black ink. No return address.

But Grady recognized the scrawl. He'd seen it often enough on compassionate cards that he'd received, not only in the days and weeks after Helen and John had died but as well in month after month as the painful year progressed. Encouraging messages. Continuing sympathy.

From Brian. The postmark on the envelope was four days ago. On Friday.

Grady grabbed the letter and tore it open.

Dear Ben
, it began, and on top of the nightmare that had fractured Grady's drunken sleep, a further nightmare awaited him. Grady shuddered as he read the message from his wonderful, generous, stubbornly supportive friend, who no longer existed.

 

Dear Ben,

 

When you receive this, Betsy and I will be dead.

 

I deeply regret the sorrow and shock my actions will cause you. I don't know which will be worse, the shock initially, the sorrow persistently. Both are terrible burdens, and I apologize.

 

If our bodies are found before you read this letter… if the note I plan to write and place in my hand when I pull the trigger doesn't achieve my intention… if something goes wrong and you're not asked to come here... I
want
you to come here
anyhow.
Not to see the husks that contained our souls. Not to torment you with our undignified remains. But to make sure you see this place. It's special, Ben. It consoles
.

 

I can't tell you how. What I mean is, I won't. You have to find out for yourself. If I raised your expectations and they weren't fulfilled, you'd feel guilty, convinced that you weren't worthy, and the last thing I want is to cause you more guilt.

 

Nonetheless that possibility has to be considered. It may be you won't be receptive to this place. I can't predict. For certain, my sister wasn't receptive. Others weren't receptive, either. So I chose carefully. My friends who died on Thursday were the few who understood the comfort that this place provided.

 

But now they're dead, and Betsy and I don't want to be alone again. Too much. Too awful much. I've been watching you carefully, Ben. I've been more and more worried about you. I have a suspicion that you drink yourself to sleep every night. I know that you hurt as much as Betsy and I do. But we've been lucky enough to find consolation, and I'm afraid for you.

 

I had planned to bring you out here soon. I think you're ready. I think you'd be receptive. I think that this place would give you joy. So I left the note that instructed the state police to bring you here. And now that — I presume — you've seen it, I need to tell you that after I drive into town to mail this letter, I'll make a sidetrip to visit my lawyer.

 

I intend to amend my will. My final compassionate act on your behalf is to give you this compound. I hope that it will ease your suffering and provide you with peace. You'll know what I mean if you're truly receptive, if you're as sensitive as I believe you are.

 

Forgive me for the pain that our deaths will cause you. But our deaths are necessary. You have to accept my word on that. We anticipate. We're eager. What I'm about to do is not the result of despair.

 

I love you, Ben. I know that sounds strange. But it's true. I love you because we're partners in misfortune. Because you're decent and good. And in pain. Perhaps my gift to you will ease your pain. When you read this, Betsy and I will no longer be in pain. But in our final hours, we pray for you. We wish you consolation. God bless you, my friend. Be well.

 

Brian

 

Beneath Brian's signature, Betsy had added her own.

Grady moaned, his tears dripping onto the page, dissolving the ink on the final words, blurring the signatures of his sorely missed friends.

Jeff Clauson's frown deepened as he read the letter. He read it again, then again. At last, he leaned back from his desk and exhaled.

Grady sat across from him, brooding.

"Lord," Clauson said.

"I'm sorry for waking you," Grady said. "I waited as long as I could force myself, till after dawn, before phoning your home. Really, I thought you'd be up by then. I wanted to make sure you were going straight to your office instead of on an assignment. I assumed you'd want to see that letter right away."

Clauson looked puzzled. "See it right away? Of course. That isn't what I meant by a 'terrible way to start the morning.' I wasn't referring to me.
You
, Ben. I was sympathizing with
you
. Dear God, I'm surprised you waited till after dawn. In your place, I'd have called my friend… and that's what I hope you think I am… at once."

Grady shuddered.

"You don't look so good." Clauson stood and reached toward a beaker of coffee. "You'd better have another jolt of this." He refilled Grady's cup.

"Thanks." Grady's hands trembled as he raised the steaming cup. "The letter, Jeff. What do you make of it?"

Clauson debated with himself. "The most obvious thing is, Betsy's signature proves she agreed to Brian's plan. This wasn't a murder-suicide, but a double suicide. Betsy just needed a little help is all."

Grady stared down at his cup.

"The other obvious thing is, the letter has gaps. Brian insists it was necessary to leave the note at the compound, sending for you, but he doesn't explain why. Sure, he says he wants you to see the place. But after you found out he'd given it to you in his will, you'd have gone up to see it anyhow. There wasn't any need for you to be forced to look at the bodies."

"Unless…" Grady had trouble speaking. "Suppose I was so repelled that the last thing I wanted was to see where Brian shot Betsy and himself. What if I decided to sell the compound without ever going up there? The truth is, I
don't
want the compound. Brian might have been afraid of that, so he left the note to make sure I
did
go up there."

Clauson shrugged. "Could be. He tells you he wants you to see the compound because it's…" Clauson traced a finger down the letter. "… 'special. It consoles.' But he refuses to tell you how. He says he's afraid he might give you expectations that won't be fulfilled."

"I thought about that all the time I was driving here." Grady's throat tightened. "Obviously Brian, Betsy, and those ten people who died in the traffic accident considered the compound a refuge. A private club away from the world. A beautiful setting where they could support each other. Brian might have felt that if, in his letter, he praised the compound too much, I'd be disappointed because the place didn't matter as much as the company did. At the same time, the compound is special. It truly is beautiful. So he gave it to me. Maybe Brian felt guilty because he'd never included me in the group. Maybe he hoped that I'd start a group of my own. Who knows? He was under stress. He wasn't totally coherent."