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."
"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, carr
ying 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 fis
ts 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.
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