The puzzling directions Grady received took him not to Brian and Betsy's home, where he'd assumed the killings would have occurred, but instead through and past the outskirts of Bosworth into the mountains west of town. Pennsylvania mountains: low, thickly wooded, rounded at their peaks. Between them, primitive roads led into hidden hollows. In a turmoil, confused, Grady wouldn't have known which lane to take if it hadn't been for the state-police car blocking one entrance. A square-jawed trooper dropped his cigarette, crushed it into the gravel with his shoe, and narrowed his eyes when Grady stopped his cruiser.
"I'm looking for Lieutenant Clauson," Grady said.
When the trooper heard Grady's name, he straightened. "And the lieutenant's waiting for you." With remarkable efficiency for so large a man, the trooper backed his car from the entrance to the lane, allowing Grady to drive his own car up the narrow draw.
Leaves brushed against Grady's side window. Just before the first sharp curve, Grady glanced toward his rearview mirror and saw the state-police car again block the entrance. At once, he jerked the steering wheel, veering left. Then, behind as well as ahead, he saw only forest.
The lane tilted ever more upward. It kept forcing Grady to zigzag and increased his anxiety as branches scraped the top of his car in addition to his windows. The dense shadows of the forest made him feel trapped.
Brian shot Betsy?
And then shot himself?
No!
Why?
I needed them.
I depended on…
I loved them!
What on earth had made them come out here? Why had they been in the woods?
The lane became level, straightened, and suddenly brought Grady from the forest to a sun-bathed plateau between two mountains, where an open gate in a chainlink fence revealed a spacious compound: several cinderblock buildings of various sizes on the left, a barbecue pit adjacent to them, and a swimming pool on the right.
Grady parked behind three state-police cars, an ambulance, a blue station wagon marked MEDICAL EXAMINER, and a red Jeep Cherokee that Grady recognized as belonging to Brian and Betsy. Several state troopers, along with two ambulance attendants and an overweight man in a gray suit, formed a cluster at the near rim of the swimming pool, their backs to Grady. But as Grady opened his door, one of the troopers turned, studied him, glanced back toward the rim of the pool, again studied Grady, and with a somber expression, approached him.
Lieutenant Clauson. Middle forties. Tall. Pronounced nose and cheekbones. Trim – Clauson's doctor had ordered him to lose weight, Grady remembered. Short, receding, sandy hair. On occasion, Clauson and Grady had worked together when a crime was committed in one jurisdiction and a suspect was apprehended in the other.
"Ben."
"Jeff."
"Did your dispatcher explain?" Clauson looked uneasy.
Grady nodded, grim. "Brian shot Betsy and then himself. Why the hell would he – "
"That's what we were hoping you could tell us."
Grady shivered despite the afternoon heat. "How would I know?"
"You and the Roths were friends. I hate to ask you to do this. Do you think you can… Would you…"
"Look at the bodies?"
"Yes." Clauson furrowed his brow, more uneasy. "If you wouldn't mind."
"Jeff, just because my wife and son died, I can still do my job. Even though Brian and Betsy were friends of mine, I can do whatever's necessary. I'm ready to help."
"I figured."
"Then why did you have to ask?"
"Because you're involved."
"What?"
"First things first," Clauson said. "You look at the bodies. I show you what your friend Brian had in his hand, clutched around the grip of the forty-five. And then we talk."
The stench of decay pinched Grady's nostrils. A waist-high wooden fence enclosed the swimming pool. Grady followed Clauson through an opening onto a concrete strip that bordered the pool. One of the policemen was taking photographs of something on the concrete while the overweight man in the gray suit suggested various angles. When the other policemen saw Clauson and Grady arrive, they parted to give them room, and Grady saw the bodies.
The shock made him sick. His friends lay facedown on the concrete, redwood deck chairs behind them, their heads toward the pool. Or what was left of their heads. The.45-caliber bullets had done massive damage. Behind Betsy's right ear and Brian's, the impact wound was a thick, black clot of blood. On the opposite side, at the top of each brow near the temple, the exit wound was a gaping hole from which blood, brain, bone, and hair had spattered the concrete. A repugnant swarm of flies buzzed over the gore. The.45 was next to Brian's right hand.
"Are you all right?" Clauson touched Grady's arm.
Grady swallowed. "I'll manage." Although he'd been the police chief of Bos worth for almost ten years, he'd seen few gunshot victims. After all, Bosworth was a modest-sized town. There wasn't much violent crime. Mostly the corpses he'd viewed had been due to car accidents. That thought suddenly reminded him of the accident in which his wife and son had died, and he felt grief upon grief: for his friends, for his family.
Determined to keep control, Grady sought refuge in forcing himself to muster professional habits, to try to be objective.
"These corpses" – Grady struggled to order his troubled thoughts – "have started to bloat. Even as hot as it's been, they wouldn't be this swollen… Unless… This didn't happen today."
Clauson nodded. "As close as we can tell, it was early yesterday."
The overweight man in the gray suit interrupted. "I'll know for sure when I do the autopsy."
The man was the county's medical examiner. He gestured for the trooper to stop taking photographs. "I think that's enough." He turned to the ambulance attendants. "You can move them now." He pivoted toward Clauson. "Provided you don't object."
Clauson thought about it and shrugged. "We've done as much as we can for now. Go ahead."
Feeling colder, Grady heard the zip of bodybags being opened. To distract himself, he stared toward the glistening blue water of the swimming pool while the attendants put on rubber gloves. He was grateful when Clauson spoke, further distracting him.
"Brian and Betsy were expected home yesterday evening," Clauson said. "When Brian's sister phoned and didn't get an answer, she figured they must have changed their plans and spent the night here. But when she called again in the morning and still didn't get an answer, and when it turned out that Brian hadn't opened the restaurant this morning, his sister got worried. This place doesn't have a phone, so she drove out here…"
"And found the bodies," Grady said, "and then phoned you."
Clauson nodded. In the background, the attendants strained to lift a bulging bodybag onto a gurney, then rolled it toward the ambulance.
Grady forced himself to continue. "It looks as if they were both sitting in these deck chairs, facing the pool. The impact of the bullets knocked them out of the chairs."
"That's how we figure it," Clauson said.
"Which tends to suggest they weren't arguing, at least not so bad that it made Brian angry enough to shoot Betsy and then shoot himself when he realized what he'd done." Grady's throat tightened. "People are usually on their feet when they're shouting at each other. But it's almost as if the two of them were just sitting here, enjoying the view. Then Brian goes to get the pistol, or else he's already got it on him. But why? Why would he decide to shoot her? And why would Betsy just sit there, assuming she knew Brian had the gun?"