David Morrell: Black Evening

I've lost my mind.

I'm having a nervous breakdown.

He stared at his police car. His staff would be wondering where he was. They'd have tried to get in touch with him. He had to let them know that he was all right. More important, he had to think of an acceptable reason for not having gone to the office, for not having responded to their calls. He couldn't let them know how out of control he was.

But as he reached the cruiser, about to lean in and grab the two-way radio microphone, he stiffened, hearing the jolt of a vehicle as it struggled up the bumpy lane. Pivoting, he saw that the vehicle belonged to the state police, that it veered from the trees to stop beside his car, and that Jeff Clauson got out, glanced solemnly around, then proceeded somberly toward him.

"Ben."

"Jeff."

The exchange was awkward.

"You've got a lot of people worried about you," Clauson said.

"I'm afraid the situation's difficult. I was just about to – "

"Your uniform. What have you been doing, sleeping in a ditch?"

"It's hard to explain."

"I bet. All the same, why not give it a try?"

"How'd you know I'd be here?"

Clauson studied him. "Process of elimination. After a while, the more I thought about it, the more this seemed the most logical place."

"Why you ? How come you're out looking for me?"

"When your dispatcher kept failing to reach you, when she became concerned enough, she contacted all your friends. I'll say it again. You've got a lot of people worried about you, Ben. Why didn't you check in?"

"The truth is…"

"Sure. Why not? The truth would be refreshing."

"I…"

"Yes? Go on, Ben. The truth."

"I passed out."

"The note Brian left suggested you've been drinking a lot. But he's not the only one who noticed. When I phoned you at night, your voice was – "

"This morning had nothing to do with alcohol. I came up here before I was due at work so I could look around and decide if I was going to keep this place. Then everything caught up to me. I passed out. Over there by the pool."

Grady turned and pointed.

What he saw demanded that he use every remnant of his remaining willpower not to react. The area around the pool was crowded with people: six children including Brian's twins; the two young men who'd been killed in Vietnam; twelve adults, ten of whom Grady didn't recognize, although two were Brian and Betsy.

I'll bet the five couples I don't recognize are the people who died in that traffic accident last Thursday, Grady thought with a chill.

The group was having a barbecue, eating, talking, laughing, although the scene was weirdly silent, no sounds escaping from their mouths.

Grady's cheeks felt numb. His body shook. He managed not to whimper.

I really ought to be congratulated, he thought. I'm seeing ghosts, and I'm not gibbering.

Clauson looked toward the pool but showed no reaction.

Grady tensed with understanding. "Jeff, do you notice anything unusual?"

"What do you mean?"

Grady was amazed that he repeated almost exactly what Ida Roth had said that Brian had said when he'd brought her to the camp. "Do you feel anything different, anything special, anything that reminds you of… that makes you feel close to Brian and Betsy?"

"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.