David Morrell: Black Evening

The hollow between the mountains was oppressively silent as he flicked sweat from his brow and strode with furious determination toward the swimming pool, through the wooden gate, to the concrete border and the white chalk outlines of where the corpses had lain. A few flies still buzzed over the vestiges of blood, bone, and brain. Watching them, Grady swallowed bile, then straightened with indignant resolve.

Fine, he thought. I can clean this up. I can deal with the memories. The main thing is, I intend to keep what Brian gave me.

Ida won't have it.

In outrage, Grady spun from the chalk outlines, left the pool area, ignored the barbecue pit, and approached the cinderblock bunk-house. Despite his preoccupation, he was vaguely aware that he repeated the sequence in which Lieutenant Clauson had taken him from building to building. He glanced inside the bunkhouse, gave even less attention to the cookstove in the separate kitchen, and approached the smallest building, the one that he'd described to Clauson as a shrine.

Inside, the gloom and silence were oppressive. The slate floor should have made his footsteps echo. Instead it seemed to muffle them, just as the oak-paneled walls seemed to absorb the intruding sounds of his entrance. He uneasily studied the church pew before the fireplace. He raised his intense gaze toward the photographs of the eight dead, smiling children between the candle holders and the American flags above the mantel. Knees wavering, he approached the photographs. With reverence, he touched the images of Brian and Betsy's dead twin daughters.

So beautiful.

So full of life.

So soon destroyed.

God help them.

At last, Grady shifted his mournful eyes toward the poignant photograph of the ten-year-old, bespectacled, embarrassed-to-smile-because-of-the-braces-on-his-teeth boy who reminded Grady so much of his own, so profoundly missed son.

And again Grady heard the startling sound of a splash. He swung toward the open door. With a frown, he couldn't help recalling that the last time he'd been in here, he'd also heard a splash.

From the swimming pool. Or so Grady had been absolutely certain until he'd hurried outside and studied the policemen next to the swimming pool and realized that he'd been mistaken, that no one had fallen in, and yet the splash had been so vivid.

Just as now. With the difference that this time as Grady hurried from the shadowy shrine into the stark glare of the summer sun, he flinched at the sight of a young man – late teens, muscular, with short brown hair, wearing swimming goggles and a tiny, hip-hugging, nylon suit – stroking powerfully from the near end of the swimming pool, water rippling, muscles flexing, toward the opposite rim. The young man's speed was stunning, his surge amazing.

Grady faltered. How the hell? He hadn't heard a car approach. He couldn't imagine the young man hiking up the lane to the compound, taking off his clothes, putting on his swimming suit, and diving in unless the young man felt he belonged here, or unless the teenager assumed that no one would be here.

But the kid must have seen my cruiser outside the gate, Grady thought. Why didn't he yell to get my attention if he belonged here? Or go back down the lane if he didn't belong? There weren't any clothes by the pool. Where had the kid undressed? What in God's name was going on?

Scowling, Grady overcame his surprise and ran toward the swimming pool. "Hey!" he shouted. "What do you think you're doing? You don't have any right to be here! This place is mine! Get out of the pool! Get away from – "

Grady's voice broke as he rushed through the gate to the swimming pool. The young man kept thrusting his arms, kicking his legs, surging across the swimming pool, rebounding off the opposite end, reversing his impulse, stroking with determination.

Grady shouted more insistently. "Answer me! Stop, damn it! I'm a policeman! You're trespassing! Get out of the pool before I – "

But the swimmer kept stroking, rebounded off the near rim, and surged yet again toward the opposite edge. Grady was reminded of an Olympic athlete who strained to achieve a gold medal.

"I'm telling you one last time! Get out of the pool!" Grady yelled, his voice breaking. "You've got thirty seconds! After that, I radio for backup! We'll drag you out and – "

The swimmer ignored him, churning, flexing, stroking.

Grady had shouted so rapidly that he'd hyperventilated. He groped behind him, clutched a redwood chair, and leaned against it. His chest heaved. As his heart raced and his vision swirled, he struggled to keep his balance and focus on the magnificent swimmer.

Seconds passed. Minutes. Time lengthened. Paradoxically, it also seemed suspended. At last, the swimmer's strength began to falter. After a final weary lap, the young man gripped the far end of the swimming pool, breathed deeply, fumbled to prop his arms along the side, and squirmed onto the concrete deck. He stood with determination, dripped water, and plodded around the pool toward Grady.

"So you're finally ready to pay attention?" Grady heaved himself away from the redwood chair. "Are you ready to explain what the hell you're doing here?"

The swimmer approached, ignoring him.

Grady unclenched his fists and shoved his anger-hardened palms toward the swimmer's shoulders.

But Grady's palms – he shivered – passed through the swimmer.

At the same time, the swimmer passed through him . Like a subtle shift of air. Of cold air. And as Grady twisted, unnerved, watching the swimmer emerge from his side, then his swiveling chest, he felt as if he'd been possessed, consumed, then abandoned.

"Hey!" Grady managed to shout.

Abruptly the young man, his sinewy body dripping water, his cropped hair clinging to his drooping head, his taut frame sagging, vanished. The hot, humid air seemed to ripple. With equal abruptness, the air became still again. The swimmer was gone.

Grady's lungs felt empty. He fought to breathe. He fumbled toward the redwood chair. But the moment he touched its reassuring firmness, his sanity collapsed as did his body.

Impossible! a remnant of his logic screamed.

And as that inward scream echoed, he stared toward the concrete.

The wet footprints of the swimmer were no longer visible.

Grady sat in the chair for quite a while. At last, he mustered the strength to raise himself.

The young man had been a stranger.

And yet the young man had somehow looked unnervingly familiar.

No.

Grady wavered. Sweat streaming down his face, he obeyed an irresistible impulse and made his way toward the smallest building.

He entered the shrine's brooding confines, passed the church pew, clasped the mantel above the fireplace, raised his disbelieving gaze above the candles, and concentrated on a photograph to his right.

A young man in a military uniform.

A handsome youngster whom Clauson had said had been killed in Vietnam.

The same young man who'd been swimming with powerful strokes in the pool, who had passed coldly through Grady's body and had suddenly disappeared.

The bottle in the kitchen cupboard beckoned. With unsteady hands, Grady poured, gulped, grimaced, and shivered. He didn't recall his drive from the compound through the mountains into Bosworth.

I'm losing my mind, he thought, and tilted the bourbon over the glass.

But his anesthetic wasn't allowed to do its work.

The phone rang.

He grabbed it.

"Hello." His voice seemed to come from miles away.

"So you're finally home, you bastard," Ida said. "I just thought you'd like to know my lawyer agrees with me. My brother was obviously out of his mind. That will's invalid."

"Ida, I'm not in the mood to argue." Grady's head throbbed. "We'll let a judge decide."