Black Evening

The Shrine

Grady was in the mausoleum when the beep from his pager disrupted his sobbing.

The mausoleum was spacious and bright, with shiny marble slabs that concealed the niches into which coffins had been placed. In an alcove near the tall, wide windows that flanked the main entrance, glinting squares of glass permitted mourners to stare within much smaller niches and view the bronze urns that contained the ashes of their loved ones. Plastic, bronze-colored letters and numbers that formed the names of the deceased as well as their birth and death dates were glued upon the squares of glass, and it was toward two of those panes, toward the urns behind them, that Grady directed his attention, although his vision was blurred by tears.

He'd chosen cremation for his wife and ten-year-old son, partly because they'd already been burned – in a fiery car crash with a drunken driver – but more because he couldn't bear the thought of his cherished wife and child decomposing in a coffin in a niche in the mausoleum or, worse, outside in the cemetery, beneath the ground, where rain or the deep cold of winter would make him cringe because of their discomfort, even though the remaining rational part of Grady's mind acknowledged that it didn't matter to his fiercely missed family, who now felt nothing because they were dead.

But it mattered to him, just as it mattered that each Monday afternoon he made a ritual of driving out here to the mausoleum, of sitting on a padded bench across from the wall of glassed-in urns, and of talking to Helen and John about what had happened to him since the previous Monday, about how he prayed that they were happy, and most of all, about how much he missed them.

They'd been dead for a year now, and a year was supposed to be a long time, but he couldn't believe the speed with which it had gone. His pain remained as great as the day he'd been told they were dead, his emptiness as extreme. Friends at first had been understanding, but after three months, and especially after six, most of those friends had begun to show polite impatience, making well-intentioned speeches about the need for Grady to put the past behind him, to adjust to his loss, to rebuild his life. So Grady had hidden his emotions and pretended to take their advice, his burden made greater by social necessity. The fact was, he came to realize, that no one who hadn't suffered what he had could possibly understand that three months or six months or a year meant nothing.

Grady's weekly visits to the mausoleum became a secret, their half-hour concealed within his Monday routine. Sometimes he brought his wife and son flowers and sometimes an emblem of the season: a pumpkin at Halloween, a Styrofoam snowball in winter, or a fresh maple leaf in the spring. But on this occasion, just after the Fourth of July weekend, he'd brought a miniature flag, and unable to control the strangled sound of his voice, he explained to Helen and John about the splendor of the fireworks that he'd witnessed and that they'd used to enjoy while eating hot dogs at the city's annual picnic in the sloped, wooded park near the river on Independence Day.

"If only you could have seen the skyrockets," Grady murmured. "I don't know how to describe… Their colors were so…"

The beep from the pager on his gunbelt interrupted his halting monologue. He frowned.

The pager was one of many innovations that he'd introduced to the police force he commanded. After all, his officers frequently had to leave their squad cars, responding to an assignment or merely sitting in a restaurant on a coffee break, but while away from their radios, they needed to know whether headquarters was desperate to contact them.

Its persistent beep made Grady stiffen. He wiped his tears, braced his shoulders, said goodbye to his wife and son, and stood with effort, reluctantly leaving the mausoleum, locking its door behind him. That was important. Helen and John, their remains, needed to be protected, and the cemetery's caretaker had been as inventive as Grady had been about the pager, arranging for every mourner to have a key, so that only those who had a right could enter.

Outside, the July afternoon was bright, hot, humid, and horribly reminiscent of the sultry afternoon a year ago when Grady had come here, accompanied by friends and a priest, to inter the precious urns.

He shook his head to clear his mind and stifle his tortured emotions, then approached the black-and-white cruiser, where he leaned inside to grab the two-way radio microphone.

"Grady here, Dinah. What's the problem?" He released the transmit button on the microphone.

Dinah's staccato response surprised him. "Public-service dispatch."

Grady frowned. "On my way. Five minutes."

Uneasy, he drove from the cemetery. "Public-service dispatch" meant that whatever Dinah needed to tell him was so sensitive that she didn't want a civilian with a police-band radio to overhear the conversation. Grady would have to use a telephone to get in touch with her. After parking at a gas station across from the cemetery, he entered a booth beside an ice machine, thrust coins in the telephone's slot, and jabbed numbers.

"Bosworth police," Dinah said.

"Dinah, it's me. What's so important that – "

"You're not going to like this," the deep-voiced female dispatcher said.

"It's never good news when you page me. Public-service dispatch? Why?"

"We've got a combination one-eighty-seven and ten-fifty-six."

Grady winced. Those numbers meant a murder-suicide. "You're right." His voice dropped. "I don't like it."

"It gets worse. It's not in our jurisdiction. The state police are handling it, but they want you on the scene."

"I don't understand. Why would that be worse if it isn't in our jurisdiction?"

"Chief, I…"

"Say it."

"I don't want to."

"Say it, Dinah."

"… You know the victims."

For a moment, Grady had trouble breathing. He clutched the phone harder. "Who?"

"Brian and Betsy Roth."

Shit, Grady thought. Shit. Shit. Shit. Brian and Betsy had been the friends he'd depended upon after all his other friends had distanced themselves when his grief persisted.

Now one of them had killed the other?

And after that, the executioner had committed suicide?

Grady's pulse sped, making his mind swirl. "Who did what to…"

The husky-throated female dispatcher said, "Brian did. A forty-five semiautomatic."

Christ. Oh, Jesus Christ, Grady thought.

The puzzling directions Grady received took him not to Brian and Betsy's home, where he'd assumed the killings would have occurred, but instead through and past the outskirts of Bosworth into the mountains west of town. Pennsylvania mountains: low, thickly wooded, rounded at their peaks. Between them, primitive roads led into hidden hollows. In a turmoil, confused, Grady wouldn't have known which lane to take if it hadn't been for the state-police car blocking one entrance. A square-jawed trooper dropped his cigarette, crushed it into the gravel with his shoe, and narrowed his eyes when Grady stopped his cruiser.

"I'm looking for Lieutenant Clauson," Grady said.

When the trooper heard Grady's name, he straightened. "And the lieutenant's waiting for you." With remarkable efficiency for so large a man, the trooper backed his car from the entrance to the lane, allowing Grady to drive his own car up the narrow draw.

Leaves brushed against Grady's side window. Just before the first sharp curve, Grady glanced toward his rearview mirror and saw the state-police car again block the entrance. At once, he jerked the steering wheel, veering left. Then, behind as well as ahead, he saw only forest.

The lane tilted ever more upward. It kept forcing Grady to zigzag and increased his anxiety as branches scraped the top of his car in addition to his windows. The dense shadows of the forest made him feel trapped.

Brian shot Betsy?

And then shot himself?

No!

Why?

I needed them.

I depended on…

I loved them!

What on earth had made them come out here? Why had they been in the woods?

The lane became level, straightened, and suddenly brought Grady from the forest to a sun-bathed plateau between two mountains, where an open gate in a chainlink fence revealed a spacious compound: several cinderblock buildings of various sizes on the left, a barbecue pit adjacent to them, and a swimming pool on the right.

Grady parked behind three state-police cars, an ambulance, a blue station wagon marked MEDICAL EXAMINER, and a red Jeep Cherokee that Grady recognized as belonging to Brian and Betsy. Several state troopers, along with two ambulance attendants and an overweight man in a gray suit, formed a cluster at the near rim of the swimming pool, their backs to Grady. But as Grady opened his door, one of the troopers turned, studied him, glanced back toward the rim of the pool, again studied Grady, and with a somber expression, approached him.

Lieutenant Clauson. Middle forties. Tall. Pronounced nose and cheekbones. Trim – Clauson's doctor had ordered him to lose weight, Grady remembered. Short, receding, sandy hair. On occasion, Clauson and Grady had worked together when a crime was committed in one jurisdiction and a suspect was apprehended in the other.

"Ben."

"Jeff."

"Did your dispatcher explain?" Clauson looked uneasy.

Grady nodded, grim. "Brian shot Betsy and then himself. Why the hell would he – "

"That's what we were hoping you could tell us."

Grady shivered despite the afternoon heat. "How would I know?"

"You and the Roths were friends. I hate to ask you to do this. Do you think you can… Would you…"

"Look at the bodies?"

"Yes." Clauson furrowed his brow, more uneasy. "If you wouldn't mind."

"Jeff, just because my wife and son died, I can still do my job. Even though Brian and Betsy were friends of mine, I can do whatever's necessary. I'm ready to help."

"I figured."

"Then why did you have to ask?"

"Because you're involved."

"What?"

"First things first," Clauson said. "You look at the bodies. I show you what your friend Brian had in his hand, clutched around the grip of the forty-five. And then we talk."

The stench of decay pinched Grady's nostrils. A waist-high wooden fence enclosed the swimming pool. Grady followed Clauson through an opening onto a concrete strip that bordered the pool. One of the policemen was taking photographs of something on the concrete while the overweight man in the gray suit suggested various angles. When the other policemen saw Clauson and Grady arrive, they parted to give them room, and Grady saw the bodies.

The shock made him sick. His friends lay facedown on the concrete, redwood deck chairs behind them, their heads toward the pool. Or what was left of their heads. The.45-caliber bullets had done massive damage. Behind Betsy's right ear and Brian's, the impact wound was a thick, black clot of blood. On the opposite side, at the top of each brow near the temple, the exit wound was a gaping hole from which blood, brain, bone, and hair had spattered the concrete. A repugnant swarm of flies buzzed over the gore. The.45 was next to Brian's right hand.

"Are you all right?" Clauson touched Grady's arm.

Grady swallowed. "I'll manage." Although he'd been the police chief of Bos worth for almost ten years, he'd seen few gunshot victims. After all, Bosworth was a modest-sized town. There wasn't much violent crime. Mostly the corpses he'd viewed had been due to car accidents. That thought suddenly reminded him of the accident in which his wife and son had died, and he felt grief upon grief: for his friends, for his family.

Determined to keep control, Grady sought refuge in forcing himself to muster professional habits, to try to be objective.

"These corpses" – Grady struggled to order his troubled thoughts – "have started to bloat. Even as hot as it's been, they wouldn't be this swollen… Unless… This didn't happen today."

Clauson nodded. "As close as we can tell, it was early yesterday."

The overweight man in the gray suit interrupted. "I'll know for sure when I do the autopsy."

The man was the county's medical examiner. He gestured for the trooper to stop taking photographs. "I think that's enough." He turned to the ambulance attendants. "You can move them now." He pivoted toward Clauson. "Provided you don't object."

Clauson thought about it and shrugged. "We've done as much as we can for now. Go ahead."

Feeling colder, Grady heard the zip of bodybags being opened. To distract himself, he stared toward the glistening blue water of the swimming pool while the attendants put on rubber gloves. He was grateful when Clauson spoke, further distracting him.

"Brian and Betsy were expected home yesterday evening," Clauson said. "When Brian's sister phoned and didn't get an answer, she figured they must have changed their plans and spent the night here. But when she called again in the morning and still didn't get an answer, and when it turned out that Brian hadn't opened the restaurant this morning, his sister got worried. This place doesn't have a phone, so she drove out here…"

"And found the bodies," Grady said, "and then phoned you."

Clauson nodded. In the background, the attendants strained to lift a bulging bodybag onto a gurney, then rolled it toward the ambulance.

Grady forced himself to continue. "It looks as if they were both sitting in these deck chairs, facing the pool. The impact of the bullets knocked them out of the chairs."

"That's how we figure it," Clauson said.

"Which tends to suggest they weren't arguing, at least not so bad that it made Brian angry enough to shoot Betsy and then shoot himself when he realized what he'd done." Grady's throat tightened. "People are usually on their feet when they're shouting at each other. But it's almost as if the two of them were just sitting here, enjoying the view. Then Brian goes to get the pistol, or else he's already got it on him. But why? Why would he decide to shoot her? And why would Betsy just sit there, assuming she knew Brian had the gun?"

"He planned it," Clauson said.

"Obviously, or else he wouldn't have had the gun."

"That's not the only reason I know Brian planned it." Clauson pointed downward. "Look at the gun."

Grady lowered his gaze toward the concrete, avoiding the black clots at the rim of the pool and the contrasting white chalk silhouettes of where the bodies had been. He concentrated on the weapon.

"Yes." He sighed. "I get the point." The slide on the.45 was all the way back, projecting behind the hammer. The only time a.45 did that, Grady knew, was when the magazine in the pistol's handle was empty. "Brian didn't load the magazine completely. He put in only two rounds."

"One for Betsy, one for himself," Clauson said. "So what does that tell you?"

"Brian thought about this carefully." Grady felt appalled. "He respected guns. He didn't load the magazine completely because he knew that otherwise the gun would selfcock after he fired the second shot, after he killed himself and the pistol dropped from his hand as he fell. He didn't want whoever found him to pick up a loaded gun and accidentally fire it, maybe killing the person who held it. He tried to do this as cleanly as possible."

Grady forcefully shook his head from side to side. Cleanly? What a poor choice of word. But that was the way Brian had thought. Brian had always worried that an animal he shot might be only wounded, might escape to the forest and suffer for hours, maybe days, before it finally died. In that sense, the way Brian had arranged to kill his wife and then himself was definitely clean. Two shots placed efficiently at the soft spot behind each victim's ear. A direct route to the brain. Instantaneous, non-painful death. At least in theory. Only the victims knew if their death was truly painless, and they couldn't very well talk about it.

Grady frowned so severely that his head ached. Massaging his temples, thinking of the bullets that had plowed through Betsy's skull and then Brian's, he studied Clauson. "Usually someone does this because of marriage problems. Jealousy. One of the partners having an affair. But as far as I know, Brian and Betsy had a faithful relationship."

"You can bet I'll make sure," Clauson said.

"So will I. The only other reason I can think of is that Betsy might have had a fatal illness, something they kept hidden because they didn't want to worry their friends. When the disease got worse, when Betsy couldn't bear the pain, Brian – with Betsy's permission – stopped the pain, and then, because Brian couldn't stand the agony of living without Betsy, he…"

"That's something else I'll check for when I do the autopsy," the medical examiner said.

"And I'll talk to her doctor," Clauson said, determined.

Grady's sadness fought with his confusion. "So how does this involve me? You told me it was something about his hand. Something he clutched."

Clauson looked reluctant. "I'm afraid there's no good way to do this. I'm sorry. I'll just have to show you. Brian left a note."

"I was going to ask if he did. I need answers."

Clauson pulled a plastic bag from a pocket in his shirt. The bag contained a piece of paper.

Grady murmured, "If Brian left a note, there's no question. Combined with the way he loaded the forty-five, there's no doubt he made careful plans. Perhaps along with…" Grady shuddered. "I've got the terrible feeling Betsy agreed."

"That thought occurred to me," Clauson said. "But there's no way we'll ever know. He had this piece of paper clutched around the grip of the pistol. When the forty-five dropped from his hand, the note stuck to his fingers."

Grady studied it and shivered.

The note was printed boldly in black ink.

TELL BEN GRADY. BRING HIM HERE.

That was all.

And it was too much.

"Bring me here? Why?"

"That's why I said we had to talk." Clauson bit his lip. "Come on, let's get away from where this happened. I think it's time for a stroll."

They emerged from the swimming pool area and crossed a stretch of gravel, their footsteps crunching as they passed the barbecue pit as well as two redwood picnic tables and approached the largest of the cinderblock buildings. It was thirty feet long and half as wide. A metal chimney projected from the nearest wall and rose above the roof. There were three dusty windows.

"Bring you here." Clauson echoed Brian's note. "That can mean different things. To see the bodies, or to see the compound. I didn't know Brian well, but my impression is, he wasn't cruel. I can't imagine why he'd have wanted you to see what he'd done. It makes me wonder if…"

Grady anticipated the rest of the question. "I've never been here. In fact, I didn't know this place existed. Even with the directions you relayed through my office, I had trouble finding the lane."

"And yet you and the Roths were close."

"Only recently – within the last year. I met them at a meeting of The Compassionate Friends."

"What's…"

"An organization for parents who've lost a child. The theory is that only a parent in grief can understand what another parent in grief is going through. So the grieving parents have a meeting once a month. They begin the meeting by explaining how each child died. There's usually a speaker, a psychiatrist or some other type of specialist who recommends various ways of coping. Then the meeting becomes a discussion. The parents who've suffered the longest try to help those who still can't believe what happened. You're given phone numbers of people to call if you don't think you can stand the pain any longer. The people you talk to try their best to encourage you not to give in to despair. They remind you to take care of your health, not to rely on alcohol or stay in bed all day, instead to eat, to maintain your strength, to get out of the house, to walk, to find positive ways to fill your time, community service, that sort of thing."

Clauson rubbed the back of his neck. "You make me feel embarrassed."

"Oh?"

"When your wife and son were killed, I went to the funeral. I came around to your house once. But after that… Well, I didn't know what to say, or I told myself I didn't want to bother you. I suppose I figured you'd prefer to be left alone."

Grady shrugged, hollow. "That's a common reaction. There's no need to apologize. Unless you've lost a wife and child of your own, it's impossible to understand the pain."

"I pray to God I never have to go through it."

"Believe me, my prayers go with you."

They reached the largest cinderblock building.

"The lab crew already dusted for prints." Clauson opened the door, and Grady peered in. There were sleeping bags on cots along each wall, two long pine tables, benches, some cupboards, and a wood-burning stove.

"Obviously more people than Brian and Betsy used this place," Clauson said. "Have you any idea who?"

"I told you I've never been here."

Clauson closed the door and proceeded toward a smaller cinderblock building next to it.

This time, when Clauson unlatched and opened the door, Grady saw a wood-burning cook stove with cans and boxes of food as well as pots, pans, bowls, plates, and eating utensils on shelves along the walls.

"I assume," Clauson said, "that the barbecue pit was for summer, and this was for rainy days, or fall, or maybe winter."

Grady nodded. "There were twelve cots in the other building. I noticed rain slickers and winter coats on pegs. Whoever they were, they came here often. All year round. So what? It's a beautiful location. A summer getaway. A hunting camp in the fall. A place for Brian, Betsy, and their friends to have weekend parties, even in winter, as long as the snow didn't block the lane."

"Yeah, a beautiful location." Clauson shut the door to the kitchen, directing Grady toward the final and smallest structure. "This was the only building that was locked. Brian had the key on a ring along with his car keys. I found the key in his pants pocket."

When Clauson opened the door, Grady frowned.

The floors in the other buildings had been made from wooden planks, except for fire bricks beneath the stoves. But this floor was smooth, gray slate. In place of the cinderblock walls in the other buildings, the walls in here had oak paneling. Instead of a stove, a handsome stone fireplace had a shielded slab of wood for a mantle, an American flag on each side, and framed, glistening photographs of eight smiling youngsters – male and female – positioned in a straight line above the flags. The age of the youngsters ranged, Grady estimated, from six to nineteen, and one image of a boy – blond, with braces on his teeth, with spectacles that made him look uncomfortable despite his determined smile – reminded Grady distressingly of his own, so longed-for son.

He took in more details: a church pew in front of the photographs above the fireplace, ceramic candle holders on the mantel, and… He stepped closer, troubled when he realized that two of the smiling faces in the photographs – lovely, freckled, red-headed girls, early teens – were almost identical. Twins. Another pattern he noticed, his brow furrowing, was that the oldest males in the photographs, two of them, late teens, had extremely short haircuts and wore military uniforms.

"So what do you make of it?" Clauson asked.

"It's almost like…" Grady felt pressure in his chest. "Like a chapel. No religious objects, but it feels like a chapel all the same. Some kind of shrine. Those twin girls. I've seen them before. The photographs, I mean. Brian and Betsy had copies in their wallets and showed them to me a couple of times when they invited me over for dinner. They also had larger, framed copies on a wall in their living room. These are Brian and Betsy's daughters." Grady's stomach hardened. "They died ten years ago when a roller coaster jumped its tracks at a midway near Pittsburgh. Brian and Betsy never forgave themselves for letting their daughters go on the ride. Guilt. That's something else grieving parents suffer. A lot of guilt."

Grady stepped even closer to the photographs, concentrating on the blond, vibrant, ten-year-old boy with glasses and braces that reminded him so painfully of his son. The likeness wasn't exactly the same, but it was poignantly evocative.

Guilt, he thought. Yes, guilt. What if I hadn't been working late that night? What if I'd been home and Helen and John hadn't decided to go out for pizza and a movie? That drunk driver wouldn't have hit their car. They'd still be alive, and it's all my fault because I decided to catch up on a stack of reports that could just as easily have waited until the morning. But no, I had to be conscientious, and because of that, I indirectly killed my wife and son. Not showing it, Grady cringed. From a deep, black, torture chamber of his mind, he wailed silently in unbearable torment.

Behind him, Clauson said something, but Grady didn't register what it was.

Clauson spoke louder. "Ben?"

Without removing his intense gaze from the photograph of the young, blond boy, Grady murmured, "What?"

"Do you recognize any of the other faces?"

"No."

"This is just a hunch, but maybe there's a pattern."

"Pattern?"

"Well, since those two girls are dead, do you suppose… Could it be that all the kids in these photographs are dead?"

Grady's heart lurched. Abruptly he whirled toward the sound of a splash.

"What's the matter?" Clauson asked.

"That splash." Grady moved toward the door. "Someone fell into the pool."

"Splash? I didn't hear anything."

Grady's eyes felt stabbed by sunlight as he left the shadows of the tiny building. He stared toward the state policemen at the concrete rim of the swimming pool. The medical examiner was getting into his station wagon. The ambulance was pulling away.

But the pool looked undisturbed, and if anyone had fallen in, the troopers didn't seem to care. They merely kept talking among themselves and didn't pay attention.

"What do you mean?" Clauson asked. "There wasn't any splash. You can see for yourself. No one fell into the pool."

Grady shook his head in bewilderment. "But I would have sworn."

Disoriented, he did his best to answer more questions and finally left the compound an hour later, shortly after five, just as Clauson and his men were preparing to lock the buildings and the gate to the area, then secure a yellow NO ADMITTANCE – POLICE CRIME SCENE tape across the fence and the gate.

Troubled, numb with shock, aching with sorrow, he trembled. He used his two-way radio to contact his office while he drove along the winding road through the looming mountains back to Bosworth. He had a duty to perform, but he couldn't let that duty interfere with his other duties. The office had to know where he'd be.

With Brian Roth's sister. The deaths of his wife and son – the rules he'd learned from attending the grief meetings of The Compassionate Friends – had taught him that you had to do your best to offer consolation. Compassion was the greatest virtue.

But when he finally stopped at Ida Roth's home, a modest trailer in a row of other trailers on the outskirts of Bosworth, he didn't get an answer after he knocked on her flimsy metal door. Of course, Grady thought. The undertaker. The cemetery. The double funeral. Ida has terrible arrangements to make. She'll be in a daze. I wish I'd been able to get here in time to help her.

To Grady's surprise, the woman next door came over and told him where Ida had gone. But his surprise wasn't caused by the gossipy woman's knowledge of Ida's schedule. What surprised him was Ida's destination. He thanked the neighbor, avoided her questions, and drove to where he'd been directed.

Five minutes away to the restaurant-tavern that Brian and Betsy had owned and where Grady found Ida Roth sternly directing waitresses while she guarded the cash register behind the bar.

The customers, mostly factory workers who regularly stopped by for a couple of beers after their shift was over, eyed Grady's uniform as he sat at the counter. Whenever he came in to say hello, he was usually off-duty and in civilian clothes. For him to be wearing his uniform made this visit official, the narrowed eyes that studied him seemed to say, and the somberness of those narrowed eyes suggested as well that word had gotten around about what had happened to Brian and Betsy.

Grady took off his policeman's cap, wished that the jukebox playing Roy Orbison's "Only the Lonely" weren't so loud -

– and who the hell had been morbid enough to choose that tune? -

– then studied Ida's gaunt, determined features.

Brian's only and older sibling, she was in her early fifties, but she looked sixty, partly because her hair was completely gray and she combed it back severely into a bun, thus emphasizing the wrinkles in her forehead and around her eyes, and partly as well because her persistent nervousness made her so thin that her cheeks looked hollow, but mostly because her pursed lips made her expression constantly dour.

"Ida," Grady said, "when some people tell you this, you've got every right to feel bitter. The automatic reaction is to think 'bullshit, get out of here, leave me alone.' But you know that I've been where you are now, a year ago when my wife and son were killed. You know that I'm an expert in what I'm talking about, that these aren't empty words. I understand what you're feeling. With all my heart, I'm sorry about Brian and Betsy."

Ida glowered, jerked her face toward a waitress, blurted "Table five's still waiting for that pitcher of beer," and scowled at Grady while pressing her hand on the cash register. "Sorry? Let me tell you something. Brian shut me out after his children died. We visited. We spent time together. But things between us were never the same. For the past ten years, it's been like we weren't blood kin. Like" – Ida's facial expression became skeletal – "like there was some kind of barrier between us. I resented that, being made to feel like a stranger. I tried all I could to be friendly to him. As far as I'm concerned, a part of Brian died a long time ago. What he did to Betsy and himself was wrong. But it might be the best thing that could have happened."

"I don't understand." Grady leaned closer, trying hard to ignore Roy Orbison's mournful song and the stares from the silent, intense factory workers.

"It's no secret," Ida said. "You know. The whole town knows. My husband divorced me eight years ago. After we were married, I kept having miscarriages, so we never had children. It aged me. How I hate that young secretary he ran off with. All I got from the settlement, from the greedy lawyers, from the God-damned divorce judge, is the rickety trailer I'm forced to shiver in when the weather gets cold. You're sorry? Well, let me tell you, right now as much as I hurt, I'm not sorry. Brian had it all, and I had nothing! When he shut me out… The best thing he ever did for me was to shoot himself. Now this tavern's mine. Finally I've got something."

Grady felt shocked. "Ida, you don't mean that."

"The hell I don't! Brian treated me like an outcast. I earned this tavern. I deserve it. When they open the will" – Ida's stern expression became calculating – "if there's any justice… Brian promised me. In spite of the distance he kept from me, he said he'd take care of me. This tavern's mine. And I bet you could use a drink." She stiffened her hand on the cash register.

"Thanks, Ida. I'd like to, but I can't. I'm on duty." Grady lowered his gaze and dejectedly studied his hat. "Maybe another time."

"No time's better than now. This is happy hour. If you can't be happy, at least drown your sorrow. Call this a wake. It's two drinks for the price of one."

"Not while I'm in uniform. But please remember, I do share your grief."

Ida didn't listen, again barking orders toward a waitress.

Disturbed, Grady picked up his cap and stood from the stool at the bar. A professional instinct made him pause. "Ida."

"Can't you see I'm busy?"

"I apologize, but I need information. Where Brian… Where Betsy was… What do you know about where it happened?"

"Not a hell of a lot."

"But you must know something. You knew enough to go out there."

"There?" Ida thickened her voice. "There? I was there only once. But I felt so shut out… so unwelcome… so bitter… Believe me, I made a point of remembering how to get there."

"Go over that again. Why do you think he made you feel unwelcome?"

"That place was…" Ida furrowed her already severely pinched forehead. "His retreat. His wall against the world." Her scowl increased. "I remember when he bought that hollow. His children had been dead five months. The summer had turned to fall. It was hunting season. Brian's friends made an effort to try to distract him. 'Come on, let's hunt some rabbits, some grouse,' they told him. 'You can't just sit around all day.' He was practically dragged from his bedroom." While Ida continued to keep her left hand rigidly on the cash register, she pointed her right hand toward the ceiling above the tavern, indicating where Brian and Betsy had lived. "So Brian… he had no energy… if it weren't for me, the tavern would have gone to hell… he shuffled his feet and went along. And the next day, when he came back, I couldn't believe the change in him. He was filled with energy. He'd found some land he wanted to buy, he said. He was… Frantic? That doesn't describe it. He kept jabbering about a hollow in the mountains. He'd wandered into it. He absolutely had to own it."

Ida gave more commands to her waitresses and swung her dour gaze toward Grady. "I figured Brian must have had a nervous breakdown. I told him he couldn't afford a second property. But he wouldn't listen. He insisted he had to buy it. So despite my warning, he used this tavern as – what do they call it? – collateral. He convinced the bank to loan him money, found whoever owned that hollow, and bought the damned thing. That's the beginning of when he shut me out.

"The next thing I heard – it didn't come from him; it was gossip from customers in the tavern – was he'd arranged with a contractor to put in a swimming pool out there, some buildings, a barbecue pit, and… The next year when construction was finished, he invited me out there to see the grand opening.

"I admit the place looked impressive. I figured Brian was getting over his loss, adjusting to the deaths of his children. But after he, Betsy, and I and their friends – and my fucking, soon-to-be, ex-husband – had a barbecue, Brian took me aside. He pointed toward the woods, toward the pool, toward the buildings, and he asked me… I remember his voice was low, hushed, the way people talk in church.

"He asked me if I felt anything different, anything special, anything that reminded me of… anything that made me feel close to his dead children. I thought about it. I looked around. I tried to understand what he meant. Finally I said 'no.' The camp looked fine, I said. He was taking a risk with the bank. All the same, if he needed a place where he could get away and heal his sorrow, despite the financial risk, he'd probably done the right thing. 'Nothing about the swimming pool?' he asked. I told him I didn't understand what he meant, except that his children liked to swim. And with that, he ended the conversation. That was the last time he invited me out there. That was the real beginning of the distance between us. The barrier he put up. No matter that I saved his ass by taking care of the tavern back then, just as I'm taking care of it now."

Grady knew that he'd exceeded the limit of Ida's patience. He searched his troubled mind for a final question that might settle his confusion. "Do you know who owned that hollow, or why Brian suddenly felt compelled to buy it?"

"You might as well ask me who's going to win the lottery. He told me nothing. And I told you, I don't have time for this. Please. I'm trying my best not to be rude, but I've got customers. This is the busiest time of the day. Happy hour makes all these people hungry. I've got to make sure the kitchen's ready."

"Sure," Grady said. "I apologize for distracting you. I just wanted… I'm sorry, Ida. That's why I came here. To tell you how much I sympathize."

Ida glared toward a waitress. "Table eight still needs those onion rings."

Grady stepped back, ignored the stares of the factory workers, and left the tavern. As the screen door squeaked shut, as he trudged past pickup trucks toward his cruiser, he heard the customers break their silence and murmur almost loudly enough to obscure another mournful tune, this one by Buddy Holly: "I Guess It Doesn't Matter Anymore."

He radioed his office and told the dispatcher he was going home. Then he solemnly drove along sunset-crimsoned, wooded streets to the single-story house he'd shared with his wife and son.

The house.

It haunted him. Often he'd thought about selling it to get away from the memories that it evoked. But just as he hadn't disposed of Helen and John's possessions, their clothes, the souvenir mugs that Helen had liked to collect, the video games that John had been addicted to playing, so Grady hadn't been able to convince himself to dispose of the house. The memories tormented him, yes, but he couldn't bear to live without them.

At the same time, the house troubled him because it felt empty, because he hadn't maintained it since Helen and John had died, because he hadn't planted flowers this spring as Helen always had, because its interior was drab and dusty.

When he entered the kitchen, there wasn't any question what he'd do next. The same thing he always did when he came home, what he'd done every evening since the death of his family. He walked directly to a cupboard and pulled out a bottle of Jim Beam, poured two inches into a glass, added ice and water, and drank most of it in three swallows.

He closed his eyes and exhaled. There. The Compassionate Friends were emphatic in their advice that people in grief shouldn't seek refuge in alcohol. Brian and Betsy had emphasized that advice as well. There'd been no liquor bottles or beer cans at the camp, Grady had noticed. Whatever the cause of the murder-suicide, anger caused by drunkenness had not been one of them.

He'd pretended to follow The Compassionate Friends' advice. But at night, in the depths of his sorrow, he more and more had relied on bourbon to give him amnesia. Except that it didn't really dispel his memories. All it did was blur them, make them more bearable, stupify him enough that he could sleep. As soon as the bourbon impaired him enough to slur his speech, he would put on his answering machine, and if the phone rang, if the message was something important from his office, he would muster sufficient control to pick up the phone and say a few careful words that managed to hide how disabled he was. If necessary, he would mutter that he felt ill and order one of his men to take care of the emergency. Those were the only times Grady violated his code of professionalism. But just as he'd failed to maintain this house, so he knew and feared that one night he would make a mistake and inadvertently let outsiders know that he'd failed in other ways as well.

At the moment, however, that fear didn't matter. Sorrow did, and Grady hurriedly poured another glass, this time adding less ice and water. He drank the refill almost as quickly. Brian and Betsy. Helen and John. No.

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."

"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.

Grady urgently pressed the other numbers. He heard a buzz. Then another buzz.

He rubbed his forehead.

A man's tired voice said, "Yes?"

"My name is Benjamin Grady. I'm the police chief of Bosworth. That's about forty miles east of – "

"I know where Bosworth is. What do you want? If this is about the accident, I don't feel up to talking about it again. You picked an inconvenient time. My wife and I have been trying to sort through my parents' effects, to settle their estate."

"This isn't about the accident."

"Then what is it about?"

"Your brother."

"Jesus, don't tell me something's happened to Bob!"

"No. I didn't mean… I'm referring to your brother who died in Vietnam."

"Jerry? I don't get it. Why after all this time would you want to know about him?"

"Was your brother a swimmer? A serious swimmer?"

"I haven't thought about that in…" The man swallowed thickly. "The coach in high school said Jerry could have been a champion. My brother used to train every day. Three hours minimum. He could have made the Olympics."

Grady felt as cold as when the swimmer had walked along the side of the pool and passed through him.

"What did you say your name was?" the voice demanded. "Grady? And you claim you're the police chief over in – What the hell is this? A sick joke?"

"No. If there'd been another way to… I'm sorry for intruding. What you've told me is important. Thank you."

Despite the rising sun, Grady needed his headlights to drive up the bumpy, zigzagging lane through the shadowy trees to the compound. Finally at the top, he stared toward an eerie mist that rose off the swimming pool, spreading around it. Faint sunlight revealed the pines and maples on the dusky ridges that flanked the compound, but the compound itself was completely enshrouded. Grady's headlights glinted off the thick, almost crystalline haze.

He got out of his police car and nearly bumped into the chainlink fence before he saw it. After fumbling to unlock the gate, he swung it open. The silence around him remained as oppressive as the day before, so much so that when he stepped onto gravel, the crunch startled him. The cold mist dampened his clothes and beaded on his hackled skin.

I ought to turn around and drive back to town, he thought. This is crazy. What am I doing here?

He wished that he'd brought a flashlight. As he moved through it, the mist became denser. It seemed unnatural. Too thick. Too…

Be careful, he warned himself. You're letting your imagination get control of you. Mist often rises from swimming pools at dawn. It's something to do with the change in temperature. There's nothing unusual about…

Grady faltered, suddenly realizing that without a visible object to aim toward, he might lose his bearings and wander in a circle. He felt disoriented. He braved another step and flinched as he bumped against the waist-high, wooden fence that bordered the swimming pool.

At the same time, he flinched for another reason. Because something passed from left to right before him beyond the fence: the shadow of what seemed to be a man. The shadow's motion caused the mist to swirl. Then the shadow disappeared. The mist became still again.

When Grady heard a splash from the pool, he stepped back. The splash was followed by the echoing strokes of a powerful swimmer. Grady froze, paralyzed by conflicting impulses.

To charge through the gate and confront the swimmer.

(But he'd done that yesterday, and he was terrified that the swimmer would again pass through him.)

To stay where he was and shout to demand an explanation.

(But he'd done that yesterday as well, with no effect, and anyway if Grady tried to shout, he was certain that the noise from his mouth would be a shriek.)

To pivot and scramble desperately from the pool, frantic to find his way back through the gloom to the cruiser.

(But)

Grady heard a further splash. Someone else diving into the water. With increasing dismay, he saw another shadow – no, two! – pass through the haze beyond the fence. A woman, it seemed. And a child.

Grady screamed, swung, and recoiled as a further shadow appeared in the mist, this one approaching from the direction of the bunkhouse.

"No!" He saw three more shadows – two women and a girl – approach from the haze-obscured kitchen. He lurched sideways to avoid them and found himself confronted by still another shadow, this one coming from the direction of the shrine. Grady's impetus was so forceful that he couldn't stop. He and the shadow converged. He lunged through the shadow, unbearably chilled, and despite the density of the mist, he managed to see the shadow's face. It was Brian Roth.

Grady's eyes fluttered. Something small inched across his brow, making his skin itch. A fly, he realized. He pawed it away, then opened his eyes completely. The stark sun was directly above him. He was on his back, sprawled on the gravel near the swimming pool.

As his consciousness focused, he managed to sit, peering around him, tense, expecting to be confronted by ghosts.

But all he saw was the silence-smothered compound.

He glanced at his watch. Almost noon? Dear Lord, I've been lying here for…

Brian!

No! I couldn't have seen him!

Terrified, he squirmed to his feet. His vision blurred, then focused again. In place of the dampness from the mist, his skin was now clammy from sweat, his stained uniform clinging to him. He managed to straighten, then scanned the otherwise deserted compound.

I've lost my mind.

I'm having a nervous breakdown.

He stared at his police car. His staff would be wondering where he was. They'd have tried to get in touch with him. He had to let them know that he was all right. More important, he had to think of an acceptable reason for not having gone to the office, for not having responded to their calls. He couldn't let them know how out of control he was.

But as he reached the cruiser, about to lean in and grab the two-way radio microphone, he stiffened, hearing the jolt of a vehicle as it struggled up the bumpy lane. Pivoting, he saw that the vehicle belonged to the state police, that it veered from the trees to stop beside his car, and that Jeff Clauson got out, glanced solemnly around, then proceeded somberly toward him.

"Ben."

"Jeff."

The exchange was awkward.

"You've got a lot of people worried about you," Clauson said.

"I'm afraid the situation's difficult. I was just about to – "

"Your uniform. What have you been doing, sleeping in a ditch?"

"It's hard to explain."

"I bet. All the same, why not give it a try?"

"How'd you know I'd be here?"

Clauson studied him. "Process of elimination. After a while, the more I thought about it, the more this seemed the most logical place."

"Why you? How come you're out looking for me?"

"When your dispatcher kept failing to reach you, when she became concerned enough, she contacted all your friends. I'll say it again. You've got a lot of people worried about you, Ben. Why didn't you check in?"

"The truth is…"

"Sure. Why not? The truth would be refreshing."

"I…"

"Yes? Go on, Ben. The truth."

"I passed out."

"The note Brian left suggested you've been drinking a lot. But he's not the only one who noticed. When I phoned you at night, your voice was – "

"This morning had nothing to do with alcohol. I came up here before I was due at work so I could look around and decide if I was going to keep this place. Then everything caught up to me. I passed out. Over there by the pool."

Grady turned and pointed.

What he saw demanded that he use every remnant of his remaining willpower not to react. The area around the pool was crowded with people: six children including Brian's twins; the two young men who'd been killed in Vietnam; twelve adults, ten of whom Grady didn't recognize, although two were Brian and Betsy.

I'll bet the five couples I don't recognize are the people who died in that traffic accident last Thursday, Grady thought with a chill.

The group was having a barbecue, eating, talking, laughing, although the scene was weirdly silent, no sounds escaping from their mouths.

Grady's cheeks felt numb. His body shook. He managed not to whimper.

I really ought to be congratulated, he thought. I'm seeing ghosts, and I'm not gibbering.

Clauson looked toward the pool but showed no reaction.

Grady tensed with understanding. "Jeff, do you notice anything unusual?"

"What do you mean?"

Grady was amazed that he repeated almost exactly what Ida Roth had said that Brian had said when he'd brought her to the camp. "Do you feel anything different, anything special, anything that reminds you of… that makes you feel close to Brian and Betsy?"

"Not particularly." Clauson frowned. "Except of course the memory of finding their bodies here."

"Nothing at the swimming pool?"

"That's where the bodies were, of course." Clauson drew his fingers through his short, sandy hair. "Otherwise, no. I don't notice anything unusual about the pool."

"…I need help, Jeff."

"That's why I'm here. Haven't I been asking you repeatedly to let me help? Tell me what you need."

"A reason my staff will accept for my not checking in. An explanation that won't affect the way they look at me."

"You mean like there was something wrong with your radio? Or you had to leave town for an appointment that you thought you'd told them about?"

"Exactly."

"Sorry, Ben. I can't do it. The only explanation I'll help you with is the truth."

"And you keep saying you're my friend."

"That's right."

"So what kind of friend would – "

"A good one. Better than you realize. Ben, you've been fooling yourself. You claim your problems haven't interfered with your work. You're wrong. And I don't mean just the alcohol. Your nerves are on edge. You always look distracted. You have trouble concentrating. Everybody's noticed it. The best way I can help is to give you this advice. Take a month off. Get some counseling. Admit yourself to a substance-abuse clinic. Dry out. Accept reality. Your wife and son are dead. You have to adjust to that, to try harder to come to terms with your loss. You've got to find some peace."

"A month off? But my job is all I've got left!"

"I'm telling you this as a friend. Keep acting the way you've been, and you won't even have your job. I've been hearing rumors. You're close to being fired."

"What?" Grady couldn't believe what Clauson was saying. It seemed as impossible as the ghosts at the swimming pool, as the silent party that Clauson couldn't see but Grady did. "Jesus, no!"

"But if you go along with my recommendations… No, Ben. Don't keep looking at the swimming pool. Look at me. That's right. Good. If you go along with what I recommend, I'll do everything in my power to make sure your staff and the Bosworth town council understand what you've been going through. Face it. You're exhausted. Burned out. What you need is a rest. There's nothing disgraceful about that. As long as you don't try to hide your condition, as long as you admit your problem and try to correct it, people will sympathize. I swear to you I'll make sure they sympathize. You used to be a damned good cop, and you can be one again. If you do what I ask, I swear I'll use all the influence I've got to fix it so you keep your job."

"Thanks, Jeff. I really appreciate that. I'll try. I promise. I'll really try."

Grady sat in the mausoleum, blinking through his tears toward the niches that contained the urns of his beloved wife and son.

"I've got trouble," he told them, his voice so choked he could barely speak. "I'm seeing things. I'm drinking too much. I'm about to lose my job. And as far as my mind goes, well, hey, I lost that quite a while ago.

"If only you hadn't died. If only I hadn't decided to work late that night. If only you hadn't decided to go to that movie. If only that drunk hadn't hit you. If only…

"It's my fault. It's all my fault. I can't tell you how much I miss you. I'd give anything to have you back, to make our life perfect the way it used to be, a year ago, before…"

The pager on Grady's gunbelt beeped. He ignored it.

"Helen, when I come home, the house feels so empty I can't stand it. John, when I look in your room, when I touch the clothes in your closet, when I smell them, I feel as if my heart's going to split apart, that I'll die on the spot. I want both of you with me so much I…"

The pager kept beeping. Grady pulled it from his gunbelt, dropped it onto the floor, and stomped it with the heel of his shoe. He heard a crack and felt a satisfying crunch.

The pager became silent.

Good.

Grady blinked upward through his tears, continuing to address the urns.

"Perfect. Our life was perfect. But without you… I love you. I want you so much. I'd give anything to have you back, for the three of us to be together again."

At last he ran out of words. He just kept sitting, sobbing, staring at the niches, at the names of his wife and son, at their birth and death dates, imagining their ashes in the urns.

A thought came slowly. It rose as if from thick darkness, struggling to surface. It emerged from the turmoil of his subconscious and became an inward voice that repeated sentences from the puzzling letter that Brian had written.

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.

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 solace, with peace. You'll know what I mean if you're truly receptive, if you're as sensitive as I believe you are.

Grady nodded, stood, wiped his tears, kissed his fingers, placed them over the glass that enclosed the urns, and left the mausoleum, careful to lock its door behind him.

The compound was enshrouded again, this time by a cloud of dust that Grady's cruiser raised coming up the lane. He stopped the car, waited for the dust to clear, and wasn't at all surprised to see Brian and Betsy, their twin daughters, the other children, the young men who died in Vietnam, and the five couples who'd been killed in the accident.

Indeed he'd expected to see them, grateful that his hopes had not been disappointed. Some were in the pool. Others sat in redwood chairs beside the water. Others grilled steaks on the barbecue.

They were talking, laughing, and this time, even from inside the cruiser, Grady could hear them, not just the splashes but their voices, their mirth, even the spatter of grease that dripped from the steaks onto the smoking coals in the barbecue.

That had puzzled him: why he'd been able to hear the strokes of the swimmer but not the conversations of the ghosts whom he – but not Clauson – had seen this morning.

Now, though, he understood. It took a while to make contact. You had to acquire sensitivity. You had to become – how had Ben put it in his letter? – receptive. Each time you encountered them, they became more real until…

Grady reached for the paper bag beside him and got out of the cruiser. He unlocked the chainlink fence and approached the compound, smiling.

"Hi, Brian. Hello there, Betsy."

They didn't acknowledge him.

Well, that'll come, Grady thought. No problem. I just have to get more receptive.

He chose an empty chair by the swimming pool and settled into it, stretching out his legs, relaxing. It was evening. The sun was nearly down behind the mountains. The compound was bathed in a soothing crimson glow. The young man he'd first encountered, the potential champion swimmer who'd died in Vietnam, kept doing his laps. A delighted man and woman, gray-haired, in their sixties, kept blurting encouragement to him.

Grady turned again to Brian and Betsy over by the barbecue. "Hey, how have you been? It's good to see you."

This time, Brian and Betsy responded, looking in his direction.

Yeah, all it takes is receptivity, Grady thought.

"Hi, Ben. Glad you could make it," Brian said.

"Me, too." Grady reached inside his paper bag and pulled out a bottle of bourbon. Untwisting its cap, he looked around for a glass, didn't find one, shrugged, and raised the bottle to his lips. He tilted his head back, feeling the year-long tension in his neck begin to dissipate. After the heat of the day, the evening was pleasantly cool. He tilted the bottle to his lips again and swallowed with satisfaction.

Receptivity, he thought. Yeah, that's the secret. All I have to do is be sensitive.

But as he drank and smiled and waited, the miracle that he'd come for didn't happen. He kept looking around, struggling to maintain his calm. Helen and John. Where were they? They're supposed to be here.

They have to be!

He swallowed more bourbon. "Hey, Brian?"

"What is it, Ben?"

"My wife and son. Where are they?"

"I'm afraid they can't be here yet," Brian said.

"Why not?" Grady frowned.

"There's something you have to do first."

"I don't understand."

"Think about it."

"I don't know what you mean. Help me, Brian."

"Think about the shrine."

And then everything was clear. "Thank you, Brian."

Grady set down the bottle, stood, and left the swimming pool, walking toward the shrine. Inside, candles were lit. He passed the church pew in the sanctuary and reverently studied the photographs above the mantel, the pictures that grief-destroyed parents had hung there, the heart-breaking images of the eight dead children.

Is that all it takes? Grady thought. Is that all I need to do?

He removed his wallet from his trousers, opened it, caressed the photographs of Helen and John that he always carried with him, and removed them from their protective, transparent, plastic sleeves. After kissing them, he set them on the mantel.

Now? he wondered, his heart pounding. Now?

But Brian and Betsy don't have their photographs up here, he thought. The couples who were killed in the accident, their photographs aren't here, either.

Maybe, though, Grady wondered. Maybe if you've been here long enough, it isn't necessary to put up photographs.

On the other hand, the children. They never had the chance to come here. They died before Brian built the shrine. For them, the photographs were necessary, just as photographs were necessary for…

Heart pounding faster, Grady turned and left the shrine, hurrying back to the swimming pool. He felt terrified that his loneliness wouldn't be broken, but at once he saw Helen and John waiting for him, and his chest hurt unbearably. Helen was holding out her arms. John was jumping up and down with excitement.

Grady ran.

Reached them.

Embraced them.

And felt his arms go through them just as their arms and bodies went through him.

"No!" he wailed. "I need to touch you!"

Then he realized. He had to give them time. In a little while, he'd be able to hold them. He spun to face them.

"I love you, Ben," Helen said.

Tears streamed down Grady's face.

"Dad, I've missed you," John said.

"And I love both of you, and I've missed you so much that – " Grady's voice broke. He sobbed harder. "It's so good to – "

Grady reached for them again, and this time, as his arms went through them, he felt as if he'd reached through a cloud. The sensation was subtle but unmistakably physical. It was happening. They'd soon be -

Grady's knees felt weak.

"Sweetheart, you'd better sit down," Helen said.

Grady nodded. "Yes. The strain's been… I think I could use a rest."

As he walked with his wife and son toward the swimming pool, Brian, Betsy, and the others nodded with approval.

"Dad, the kids in the pool are having so much fun. Can I take a swim?"

"Absolutely. Anything you want, son. Your mother and I will watch."

Grady sat in his chair by the pool. Helen sat close beside him, stroking his arm. The sensation was stronger. Soon. Soon he'd be able to hold her.

Betsy called to him, "Ben, would you like a steak?"

"Not right now, thanks. I'm not hungry. Maybe later."

"Any time. All you have to do is ask."

"I appreciate that, Betsy."

"Maybe another drink would improve your appetite."

"I bet it would." Grady raised the bottle to his lips. Helen stroked his arm, and now her touch was almost solid. John dove into the pool.

"Together," Helen said.

"Yes," Grady said. "At last."

It became the most wonderful evening of his life. In a while, Helen's touch was totally firm. Grady was able to hold her, to hug her, to kiss her. And John.

When the sun disappeared, a full moon lit the darkness, illuminating the festive specters.

There was just one problem. Before Grady had driven to the compound from the mausoleum, he'd made several stops in town. One had been to the liquor store. Another had been to the courthouse, to find out who'd owned the land that Brian had purchased to build the compound. Grady had hoped to be able to question whoever had owned the land and to find out if there was anything unusual about this area, anything – even an old campfire story – that might provide a hint, the start of an explanation for this miracle.

But the former owner had long ago moved away.

Several other stops had been to Brian Roth's former hunting companions. Grady had hoped that one of them might be able to describe what had happened to Brian the day they'd taken him hunting in this area. He'd hoped that they might have an explanation for Brian's sudden determination to buy this land.

But none of them even remembered that afternoon.

Grady's final stop had been to his attorney. Ida Roth's lawyer had already been in touch with him. Ida was determined to contest the will and make sure that Grady didn't inherit the property. Grady was shocked to hear his attorney say that Brian had clearly not been in his right mind if he'd amended his will while contemplating suicide. Brian's own attorney apparently agreed. The consensus was that Grady would lose his fight against Ida. The compound would be denied to him.

So as Grady sat beside his wife and son, watching his eerily moonlit companions near the pool, he kept drinking and brooding and telling himself that he couldn't bear to be separated from his family again.

But what was the alternative?

Grady hugged Helen and John. "You might want to take a walk."

"We'll stay," Helen said. "So you won't be afraid."

"You're sure?"

"Yes. I don't want you to feel alone."

Grady kissed her, drank more bourbon, then unholstered his revolver.

He understood now why Brian and Betsy had made this choice. How lonely they must have felt, seeing their dead children and eventually their dead companions. In their presence but not truly with them.

Grady cocked his revolver. The final speck of his sanity told him, your wife and son aren't real, you know. The others aren't, either. This is all your imagination.

Maybe, Grady thought. Maybe not.

But even if it is my imagination, when Ida gets control of the compound, I'll never have the chance to see Helen and John again. Even if I only imagine them.

It was an agonizing dilemma.

It required more thought.

So with his wife and son beside him, Grady held his revolver in one hand while he drank from his bottle with the other. The alcohol made him sleepy. The specters were beginning to fade. He'd soon have to make a choice, and he wondered what it would be. As the stupor from the bourbon overwhelmed him, which would feel heavier? Would the bottle drop from his hand first? Or would the revolver?