David Morrell: Black Evening

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 -

But his impulse was canceled by the pile of envelopes and mailorder catalogues on the table. When he'd returned home last evening, he'd automatically grabbed his mail from the box outside while he'd fumbled for his key. He'd thrown the mail on the kitchen table, impatient to open the cupboard where he kept his bourbon. Now, having propped his elbows on the table, spreading the envelopes and catalogues, he found himself staring at a letter addressed to him, one of the few letters he'd received since Helen and John had died and Helen's relatives had stopped sending mail.

The instructions on the envelope – BENJAMIN GRADY, 112 CYPRESS STREET, BOSWORTH, PENNSYLVANIA, then the zip code – had been scrawled in black ink. No return address.

But Grady recognized the scrawl. He'd seen it often enough on compassionate cards that he'd received, not only in the days and weeks after Helen and John had died but as well in month after month as the painful year progressed. Encouraging messages. Continuing sympathy.

From Brian. The postmark on the envelope was four days ago. On Friday.

Grady grabbed the letter and tore it open.

Dear Ben , it began, and on top of the nightmare that had fractured Grady's drunken sleep, a further nightmare awaited him. Grady shuddered as he read the message from his wonderful, generous, stubbornly supportive friend, who no longer existed.

Dear Ben,

When you receive this, Betsy and I will be dead.

I deeply regret the sorrow and shock my actions will cause you. I don't know which will be worse, the shock initially, the sorrow persistently. Both are terrible burdens, and I apologize.

If our bodies are found before you read this letter… if the note I plan to write and place in my hand when I pull the trigger doesn't achieve my intention… if something goes wrong and you're not asked to come here… I want you to come here anyhow. Not to see the husks that contained our souls. Not to torment you with our undignified remains. But to make sure you see this place. It's special, Ben. It consoles .

I can't tell you how. What I mean is, I won't. You have to find out for yourself. If I raised your expectations and they weren't fulfilled, you'd feel guilty, convinced that you weren't worthy, and the last thing I want is to cause you more guilt.

Nonetheless that possibility has to be considered. It may be you won't be receptive to this place. I can't predict. For certain, my sister wasn't receptive. Others weren't receptive, either. So I chose carefully. My friends who died on Thursday were the few who understood the comfort that this place provided.

But now they're dead, and Betsy and I don't want to be alone again. Too much. Too awful much. I've been watching you carefully, Ben. I've been more and more worried about you. I have a suspicion that you drink yourself to sleep every night. I know that you hurt as much as Betsy and I do. But we've been lucky enough to find consolation, and 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. So I left the note that instructed the state police to bring you here. And now that – I presume – you've seen it, I need to tell you that after I drive into town to mail this letter, I'll make a sidetrip to visit my lawyer.

I intend to amend my will. 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 peace. You'll know what I mean if you're truly receptive, if you're as sensitive as I believe you are.