"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.