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."

"This isn't about the accident."

"Then what is it about?"

"Your brother."

"Jesus, don't tell me something's happened to Bob!"

"No. I didn't mean… I'm referring to your brother who died in Vietnam."

"Jerry? I don't get it. Why after all this time would you want to know about him?"

"Was your brother a swimmer? A serious swimmer?"

"I haven't thought about that in…" The man swallowed thickly. "The coach in high school said Jerry could have been a champion. My brother used to train every day. Three hours minimum. He could have made the Olympics."

Grady felt as cold as when the swimmer had walked along the side of the pool and passed through him.

"What did you say your name was?" the voice demanded. "Grady? And you claim you're the police chief over in – What the hell is this? A sick joke?"

"No. If there'd been another way to… I'm sorry for intruding. What you've told me is important. Thank you."

Despite the rising sun, Grady needed his headlights to drive up the bumpy, zigzagging lane through the shadowy trees to the compound. Finally at the top, he stared toward an eerie mist that rose off the swimming pool, spreading around it. Faint sunlight revealed the pines and maples on the dusky ridges that flanked the compound, but the compound itself was completely enshrouded. Grady's headlights glinted off the thick, almost crystalline haze.

He got out of his police car and nearly bumped into the chainlink fence before he saw it. After fumbling to unlock the gate, he swung it open. The silence around him remained as oppressive as the day before, so much so that when he stepped onto gravel, the crunch startled him. The cold mist dampened his clothes and beaded on his hackled skin.

I ought to turn around and drive back to town, he thought. This is crazy. What am I doing here?

He wished that he'd brought a flashlight. As he moved through it, the mist became denser. It seemed unnatural. Too thick. Too…

Be careful, he warned himself. You're letting your imagination get control of you. Mist often rises from swimming pools at dawn. It's something to do with the change in temperature. There's nothing unusual about…

Grady faltered, suddenly realizing that without a visible object to aim toward, he might lose his bearings and wander in a circle. He felt disoriented. He braved another step and flinched as he bumped against the waist-high, wooden fence that bordered the swimming pool.

At the same time, he flinched for another reason. Because something passed from left to right before him beyond the fence: the shadow of what seemed to be a man. The shadow's motion caused the mist to swirl. Then the shadow disappeared. The mist became still again.

When Grady heard a splash from the pool, he stepped back. The splash was followed by the echoing strokes of a powerful swimmer. Grady froze, paralyzed by conflicting impulses.

To charge through the gate and confront the swimmer.

(But he'd done that yesterday, and he was terrified that the swimmer would again pass through him.)

To stay where he was and shout to demand an explanation.

(But he'd done that yesterday as well, with no effect, and anyway if Grady tried to shout, he was certain that the noise from his mouth would be a shriek.)

To pivot and scramble desperately from the pool, frantic to find his way back through the gloom to the cruiser.

(But)

Grady heard a further splash. Someone else diving into the water. With increasing dismay, he saw another shadow – no, two! – pass through the haze beyond the fence. A woman, it seemed. And a child.

Grady screamed, swung, and recoiled as a further shadow appeared in the mist, this one approaching from the direction of the bunkhouse.

"No!" He saw three more shadows – two women and a girl – approach from the haze-obscured kitchen. He lurched sideways to avoid them and found himself confronted by still another shadow, this one coming from the direction of the shrine. Grady's impetus was so forceful that he couldn't stop. He and the shadow converged. He lunged through the shadow, unbearably chilled, and despite the density of the mist, he managed to see the shadow's face. It was Brian Roth.

Grady's eyes fluttered. Something small inched across his brow, making his skin itch. A fly, he realized. He pawed it away, then opened his eyes completely. The stark sun was directly above him. He was on his back, sprawled on the gravel near the swimming pool.

As his consciousness focused, he managed to sit, peering around him, tense, expecting to be confronted by ghosts.

But all he saw was the silence-smothered compound.

He glanced at his watch. Almost noon? Dear Lord, I've been lying here for…

Brian!

No! I couldn't have seen him!

Terrified, he squirmed to his feet. His vision blurred, then focused again. In place of the dampness from the mist, his skin was now clammy from sweat, his stained uniform clinging to him. He managed to straighten, then scanned the otherwise deserted compound.