Black Evening (43 page)

"So what are you going to do about it?"

"About…"

"The compound. You said you don't want it. Are you really so repelled that you don't intend to go back, that you'll sell the place?"

Grady glanced down. He didn't speak for several moments. "I don't know. If he'd given me something else — let's say a watchword I throw it away because I didn't want to be reminded? Or would I cherish it?"

Two days later, Ida Roth helped Grady choose. Not that she intended to. At the cemetery.

Grady had hoped to be one of the pallbearers, but Ida had failed to ask him. Grady had tried to get in touch with her at her home and at the tavern, but he'd never been able to succeed. Sweating from the morning's heat and humidity, he was reminded of the heat and humidity a year ago when he'd arrived at this same cemetery, carrying the urns of his wife and son into the mausoleum. About to turn from the coffins and walk back to his car, he felt a presence behind him, an
angry
presence, although how he sensed the presence, he didn't know. But the anger was eerily palpable, and he froze when Ida growled behind him, "You won't get away with this.."

Grady pivoted. The glare in Ida's wrinkle-rimmed eyes was perplexing. He'd tried to get close to her before and after the funeral, but she'd avoided him. At the graves, he'd done his best to make eye contact, frustrated at the stubbornness with which she'd looked away.

Now, though, her gaze was disturbingly direct. "Bastard." Her gaunt face, framed by her tugged-back hair, looked even more skeletal.

Grady winced. "Why are you calling me that, Ida? I haven't done anything against you. I miss them. I'm here to mourn them. Why are you — "

"Don't play games with me!"

"What are you
talking
about?"

"The compound! Brian's attorney told me about the will! It wasn't enough that my damned brother had so much self-pity he let the tavern go to hell. It wasn't enough that since he shot himself I've been scrambling to balance the tavern's accounts so his creditors don't take over the place. No, I have to find out that while he mortgaged the tavern which
I
inherited, the camp in the woods which
you
inherited is paid off, free and clear! I don't know how you tricked him. I can't imagine how you used your dead wife and kid to fool him into giving you the compound. But you can bet on this. If it takes my last breath, I'll fight you in court. Brian swore he'd take care of me! By God, I intend to make sure he keeps his word. You don't deserve anything!
You
weren't there when his twins died.
You
weren't there to hold his hand. You came
later
. So count on this. If it's the last thing I do, I'll own that camp. I'm tempted to have the buildings crushed, the swimming pool filled in, and everything covered with salt. But damn it, I need the money. So instead I'll have the will revoked and sell the place! I'll get the money I deserve! And you, you bastard, won't get
anything!"

Grady felt heat shoot through his body. Ida's unforgivable accusation that he'd used his grief for his dead wife and son to manipulate Brian into willing him the compound made him so furious that he trembled. "Fine, Ida. Whatever you want to do." He shook more fiercely. "Or try to do. But listen carefully. Because there's something you don't realize. Until this minute, I intended to give up the compound and transfer my title to you. I believed you deserved it. But you made a mistake. You shouldn't have mentioned… Jesus, no, I've suddenly changed my mind. That compound's mine. I didn't want it. But now I do. To spite you, Ida. For the insult to my wife and son, you'll rot in hell. And
I'll
rot in hell before you ever set foot on that camp again."

Grady tore the yellow NO ADMITTANCE — POLICE CRIME SCENE tape from the chainlink fence at the compound's entrance. Using the key Clauson had given him, he unlocked the gate, thrust it open, and bitterly entered the camp.

The hollow between the mountains was oppressively silent as he flicked sweat from his brow and strode with furious determination toward the swimming pool, through the wooden gate, to the concrete border and the white chalk outlines of where the corpses had lain. A few flies still buzzed over the vestiges of blood, bone, and brain. Watching them, Grady swallowed bile, then straightened with indignant resolve.

Fine, he thought. I can clean this up. I can deal with the memories. The main thing is, I intend to keep what Brian gave me.

Ida won't have it.

In outrage, Grady spun from the chalk outlines, left the pool area, ignored the barbecue pit, and approached the cinderblock bunk-house. Despite his preoccupation, he was vaguely aware that he repeated the sequence in which Lieutenant Clauson had taken him from building to building. He glanced inside the bunkhouse, gave even less attention to the cookstove in the separate kitchen, and approached the smallest building, the one that he'd described to Clauson as a shrine.

Inside, the gloom and silence were oppressive. The slate floor should have made his footsteps echo. Instead it seemed to muffle them, just as the oak-paneled walls seemed to absorb the intruding sounds of his entrance. He uneasily studied the church pew before the fireplace. He raised his intense gaze toward the photographs of the eight dead, smiling children between the candle holders and the American flags above the mantel. Knees wavering, he approached the photographs. With reverence, he touched the images of Brian and Betsy's dead twin daughters.

So beautiful.

So full of life.

So soon destroyed.

God help them.

At last, Grady shifted his mournful eyes toward the poignant photograph of the ten-year-old, bespectacled, embarrassed-to-smile-because-of-the-braces-on-his-teeth boy who reminded Grady so much of his own, so profoundly missed son.

And again Grady heard the startling sound of a splash. He swung toward the open door. With a frown, he couldn't help recalling that the last time he'd been in here, he'd also heard a splash.

From the swimming pool. Or so Grady had been absolutely certain until he'd hurried outside and studied the policemen next to the swimming pool and realized that he'd been mistaken, that no one had fallen in, and yet the splash had been so vivid.

Just as now. With the difference that this time as Grady hurried from the shadowy shrine into the stark glare of the summer sun, he flinched at the sight of a young man — late teens, muscular, with short brown hair, wearing swimming goggles and a tiny, hip-hugging, nylon suit — stroking powerfully from the near end of the swimming pool, water rippling, muscles flexing, toward the opposite rim. The young man's speed was stunning, his surge amazing.

Grady faltered. How the hell? He hadn't heard a car approach. He couldn't imagine the young man hiking up the lane to the compound, taking off his clothes, putting on his swimming suit, and diving in unless the young man felt he belonged here, or unless the teenager assumed that no one would be here.

But the kid must have seen my cruiser outside the gate, Grady thought. Why didn't he yell to get my attention if he belonged here? Or go back down the lane if he
didn't
belong? There weren't any clothes by the pool. Where had the kid undressed? What in God's name was going on?

Scowling, Grady overcame his surprise and ran toward the swimming pool. "Hey!" he shouted. "What do you think you're doing? You don't have any right to be here! This place is mine! Get out of the pool! Get away from — "

Grady's voice broke as he rushed through the gate to the swimming pool. The young man kept thrusting his arms, kicking his legs, surging across the swimming pool, rebounding off the opposite end, reversing his impulse, stroking with determination.

Grady shouted more insistently. "Answer me! Stop, damn it! I'm a policeman! You're trespassing! Get out of the pool before I — "

But the swimmer kept stroking, rebounded off the near rim, and surged yet again toward the opposite edge. Grady was reminded of an Olympic athlete who strained to achieve a gold medal.

"I'm telling you one last time! Get out of the pool!" Grady yelled, his voice breaking. "You've got thirty seconds! After that, I radio for backup! We'll drag you out and — "

The swimmer ignored him, churning, flexing, stroking.

Grady had shouted so rapidly that he'd hyperventilated. He groped behind him, clutched a redwood chair, and leaned against it. His chest heaved. As his heart raced and his vision swirled, he struggled to keep his balance and focus on the magnificent swimmer.

Seconds passed. Minutes. Time lengthened. Paradoxically, it also seemed suspended. At last, the swimmer's strength began to falter. After a final weary lap, the young man gripped the far end of the swimming pool, breathed deeply, fumbled to prop his arms along the side, and squirmed onto the concrete deck. He stood with determination, dripped water, and plodded around the pool toward Grady.

"So you're finally ready to pay attention?" Grady heaved himself away from the redwood chair. "Are you ready to explain what the hell you're doing here?"

The swimmer approached, ignoring him.

Grady unclenched his fists and shoved his anger-hardened palms toward the swimmer's shoulders.

But Grady's palms — he shivered — passed through the swimmer.

At the same time, the swimmer passed through
him
. Like a subtle shift of air. Of
cold
air. And as Grady twisted, unnerved, watching the swimmer emerge from his side, then his swiveling chest, he felt as if he'd been possessed, consumed, then abandoned.

"Hey!" Grady managed to shout.

Abruptly the young man, his sinewy body dripping water, his cropped hair clinging to his drooping head, his taut frame sagging, vanished. The hot, humid air seemed to ripple. With equal abruptness, the air became still again. The swimmer was gone.

Grady's lungs felt empty. He fought to breathe. He fumbled toward the redwood chair. But the moment he touched its reassuring firmness, his sanity collapsed as did his body.

Impossible! a remnant of his logic screamed.

And as that inward scream echoed, he stared toward the concrete.

The wet footprints of the swimmer were no longer visible.

Grady sat in the chair for quite a while. At last, he mustered the strength to raise himself.

The young man had been a stranger.

And yet the young man had somehow looked unnervingly familiar.

No.

Grady wavered. Sweat streaming down his face, he obeyed an irresistible impulse and made his way toward the smallest building.

He entered the shrine's brooding confines, passed the church pew, clasped the mantel above the fireplace, raised his disbelieving gaze above the candles, and concentrated on a photograph to his right.

A young man in a military uniform.

A handsome youngster whom Clauson had said had been killed in Vietnam.

The
same
young man who'd been swimming with powerful strokes in the pool, who had passed coldly through Grady's body and had suddenly disappeared.

The bottle in the kitchen cupboard beckoned. With unsteady hands, Grady poured, gulped, grimaced, and shivered. He didn't recall his drive from the compound through the mountains into Bosworth.

I'm losing my mind, he thought, and tilted the bourbon over the glass.

But his anesthetic wasn't allowed to do its work.

The phone rang.

He grabbed it.

"Hello." His voice seemed to come from miles away.

"So you're finally home, you bastard," Ida said. "I just thought you'd like to know my lawyer agrees with me. My brother was obviously out of his mind. That will's invalid."

"Ida, I'm not in the mood to argue." Grady's head throbbed. "We'll let a judge decide."

"You God-damned bet. I'll see you in court!"

"You're wasting your time. I intend to fight you on this."

"But I'll fight
harder
," Ida said. "You won't have a chance!"

Grady's ear throbbed when she slammed down the phone.

It rang again.

Of all the…

He jerked it to his ear. "Ida, I've had enough! Don't call me again! From now on, have your lawyer talk to mine!"

"Ben?" A man's voice sounded puzzled.

"
Jeff
? My God, I'm sorry! I didn't mean to shout. I thought it was…"

"You don't sound so good."

Grady trembled.

"It must have been a rough day," Clauson said.

"You have no idea."

"The reason I'm calling… Do you need company? Is there any way I can help?"

Grady slumped against the wall. "No. But I appreciate your concern. It's good to know someone cares. I think I can manage. On second thought, wait, there is something."

"Tell me."

"When you phoned me the other night, when you told me about the traffic accident, about the friends of Brian and Betsy who'd been killed…"

Clauson exhaled. "I remember."

"The names of the victims. I was too upset to write them down. Who were they?"

"Why on earth would you want to know that?"

"I can't explain right now."

Clauson hesitated. "Just a minute." He made fumbling noises as if sorting through a file. "Jennings. Matson. Randall. Langley. Beck."

"I need their addresses and phone numbers," Grady said.

Clauson supplied them, adding, mystified, "I don't understand why you want this information."

"Which parents lost their sons in Vietnam?"

"Langley and Beck. But why do you…"

"Thanks. I really appreciate this. I'll talk to you later."

"I'm worried about you, Ben."

Grady hung up the phone.

Langley and Beck.

Grady studied the phone numbers. Both sets of parents had lived in towns between Bosworth and Pittsburgh. He pressed the numbers for the Langley residence.

No one answered.

That wasn't surprising. Since the Langleys had been old enough to have lost a son in Vietnam, their other children — if they had any — would be in their thirties or forties, with homes of their own. No one would be living there now.