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."
"You God-damned bet. I'll see you in court!"
"You're wasting your time. I intend to fight you on this."
"But I'll fight harder," Ida said. "You won't have a chance!"
Grady's ear throbbed when she slammed down the phone.
It rang again.
Of all the…
He jerked it to his ear. "Ida, I've had enough! Don't call me again! From now on, have your lawyer talk to mine!"
"Ben?" A man's voice sounded puzzled.
"Jeff? My God, I'm sorry! I didn't mean to shout. I thought it was…"
"You don't sound so good."
Grady trembled.
"It must have been a rough day," Clauson said.
"You have no idea."
"The reason I'm calling… Do you need company? Is there any way I can help?"
Grady slumped against the wall. "No. But I appreciate your concern. It's good to know someone cares. I think I can manage. On second thought, wait, there is something."
"Tell me."
"When you phoned me the other night, when you told me about the traffic accident, about the friends of Brian and Betsy who'd been killed…"
Clauson exhaled. "I remember."
"The names of the victims. I was too upset to write them down. Who were they?"
"Why on earth would you want to know that?"
"I can't explain right now."
Clauson hesitated. "Just a minute." He made fumbling noises as if sorting through a file. "Jennings. Matson. Randall. Langley. Beck."
"I need their addresses and phone numbers," Grady said.
Clauson supplied them, adding, mystified, "I don't understand why you want this information."
"Which parents lost their sons in Vietnam?"
"Langley and Beck. But why do you…"
"Thanks. I really appreciate this. I'll talk to you later."
"I'm worried about you, Ben."
Grady hung up the phone.
Langley and Beck.
Grady studied the phone numbers. Both sets of parents had lived in towns between Bosworth and Pittsburgh. He pressed the numbers for the Langley residence.
No one answered.
That wasn't surprising. Since the Langleys had been old enough to have lost a son in Vietnam, their other children – if they had any – would be in their thirties or forties, with homes of their own. No one would be living there now.
Grady urgently pressed the other numbers. He heard a buzz. Then another buzz.
He rubbed his forehead.
A man's tired voice said, "Yes?"
"My name is Benjamin Grady. I'm the police chief of Bosworth. That's about forty miles east of – "
"I know where Bosworth is. What do you want? If this is about the accident, I don't feel up to talking about it again. You picked an inconvenient time. My wife and I have been trying to sort through my parents' effects, to settle their estate."