Clauson shrugged. "Could be. He tells you he wants you to see the compound because it's…" Clauson traced a finger down the letter. "… 'special. It consoles.' But he refuses to tell you how. He says he's afraid he might give you expectations that won't be fulfilled."
"I thought about that all the time I was driving here." Grady's throat tightened. "Obviously Brian, Betsy, and those ten people who died in the traffic accident considered the compound a refuge. A private club away from the world. A beautiful setting where they could support each other. Brian might have felt that if, in his letter, he praised the compound too much, I'd be disappointed because the place didn't matter as much as the company did. At the same time, the compound is special. It truly is beautiful. So he gave it to me. Maybe Brian felt guilty because he'd never included me in the group. Maybe he hoped that I'd start a group of my own. Who knows? He was under stress. He wasn't totally coherent."
"So what are you going to do about it?"
"About…"
"The compound. You said you don't want it. Are you really so repelled that you don't intend to go back, that you'll sell the place?"
Grady glanced down. He didn't speak for several moments. "I don't know. If he'd given me something else – let's say a watchword I throw it away because I didn't want to be reminded? Or would I cherish it?"
Two days later, Ida Roth helped Grady choose. Not that she intended to. At the cemetery.
Grady had hoped to be one of the pallbearers, but Ida had failed to ask him. Grady had tried to get in touch with her at her home and at the tavern, but he'd never been able to succeed. Sweating from the morning's heat and humidity, he was reminded of the heat and humidity a year ago when he'd arrived at this same cemetery, carrying the urns of his wife and son into the mausoleum. About to turn from the coffins and walk back to his car, he felt a presence behind him, an angry presence, although how he sensed the presence, he didn't know. But the anger was eerily palpable, and he froze when Ida growled behind him, "You won't get away with this…"
Grady pivoted. The glare in Ida's wrinkle-rimmed eyes was perplexing. He'd tried to get close to her before and after the funeral, but she'd avoided him. At the graves, he'd done his best to make eye contact, frustrated at the stubbornness with which she'd looked away.
Now, though, her gaze was disturbingly direct. "Bastard." Her gaunt face, framed by her tugged-back hair, looked even more skeletal.
Grady winced. "Why are you calling me that, Ida? I haven't done anything against you. I miss them. I'm here to mourn them. Why are you – "
"Don't play games with me!"
"What are you talking about?"
"The compound! Brian's attorney told me about the will! It wasn't enough that my damned brother had so much self-pity he let the tavern go to hell. It wasn't enough that since he shot himself I've been scrambling to balance the tavern's accounts so his creditors don't take over the place. No, I have to find out that while he mortgaged the tavern which I inherited, the camp in the woods which you inherited is paid off, free and clear! I don't know how you tricked him. I can't imagine how you used your dead wife and kid to fool him into giving you the compound. But you can bet on this. If it takes my last breath, I'll fight you in court. Brian swore he'd take care of me! By God, I intend to make sure he keeps his word. You don't deserve anything! You weren't there when his twins died. You weren't there to hold his hand. You came later. So count on this. If it's the last thing I do, I'll own that camp. I'm tempted to have the buildings crushed, the swimming pool filled in, and everything covered with salt. But damn it, I need the money. So instead I'll have the will revoked and sell the place! I'll get the money I deserve! And you, you bastard, won't get anything!"
Grady felt heat shoot through his body. Ida's unforgivable accusation that he'd used his grief for his dead wife and son to manipulate Brian into willing him the compound made him so furious that he trembled. "Fine, Ida. Whatever you want to do." He shook more fiercely. "Or try to do. But listen carefully. Because there's something you don't realize. Until this minute, I intended to give up the compound and transfer my title to you. I believed you deserved it. But you made a mistake. You shouldn't have mentioned… Jesus, no, I've suddenly changed my mind. That compound's mine. I didn't want it. But now I do. To spite you, Ida. For the insult to my wife and son, you'll rot in hell. And I'll rot in hell before you ever set foot on that camp again."
Grady tore the yellow NO ADMITTANCE – POLICE CRIME SCENE tape from the chainlink fence at the compound's entrance. Using the key Clauson had given him, he unlocked the gate, thrust it open, and bitterly entered the camp.
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.