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 be
tween 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 —