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.