Black Evening

by David Morrell

  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 converg
ed. 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 spli
t 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.