Black Evening

"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 di

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.