Distant Blood jp-4

by Jeff Abbott

  The stalwart Deputy Praisner no longer stood sentry there. Instead, I saw a bored-looking young female deputy tossing pebbles off the dock. The sunlight glittered against the gun in her holster.

  I sipped at my drink and considered the latest anthill I'd kicked over.

  Odd, the minutiae you unearth around the roots of the family tree. I'd never known that Gretchen was previously married, much less to Bob Don's own brother. The Goertz family Christmas must've been extra festive the year that Bob Don and Gretchen exchanged vows. Marrying your sister-in-law-the surest way to drive two brothers apart.

  I sucked on my lime, dumped its scraggly crescent back into the ice, and poured the rest of my soda over it. The sun felt warm on my face and the breeze was cool and fresh. I was at the coast-I should have been happy and relaxed. Instead I felt the pulsing rhythm of a nascent headache and a homesickness for my dull, plain family. No announcements of terminal illnesses at the dinner table, no gasping deaths on the dining-room floor, no drunken stepmothers sobbing out their sobriety. Only the gentle nagging of my sister about my latest misadventure, the repeated requests of my nephew to go horseback riding, the silent perambulations of my fading mother around the furniture at our new house, where she always seemed bound on some dear and secret journey. The Poteets were downright dull compared with the Goertzes. I preferred dull.

  “You stare out at the ocean any longer, you'll go mad,” a voice observed. My cousin Deborah leaned against the white wood of the porch and smiled thinly at me.

  “Madness fits here.” I spoke without thinking, hoping I hadn't offended her. She simply shrugged.

  “Aunt Lolly.” She sighed. “I can't quite believe that she's gone. I keep expecting her to round that corner, chirping at Sweetie to come cuddle in her lap. Or hollering at me for some imagined crime.” Deborah stared out at the ocean, watching the great, mothering waves sliding across the sands.

  I said nothing, enjoying the companionable silence and the whoosh of wind and water. I waited for her to talk; I guessed she wanted to voice her burdens. Her fingers drummed a regular beat against the wooden rail of the porch, a metronome for her nerves.

  “I don't want you to get the wrong idea about Lolly and me.” Deborah kept her gaze firmly on the expanse of water.

  “I take it y'all didn't get along.”

  She hung her head over the porch railing. “Oh, it's so complicated.”

  “Hey, I'm the illegitimate kid. I'm the personification of complicated.”

  It garnered a tense laugh from her. “You know Lolly took me in when my mother died.” She made no reference to her father.

  “Yes.”

  “Well”-Deborah ran a hand through her thick, dark hair and seemed to cast about for the right words-”that wasn't my decision. Had I my druthers, I'd have gone to live with Uncle Mutt. I've adored him since I was little. But he didn't want a child underfoot then; he was the fast and easy bachelor. So Uncle Mutt, in his grand role as patriarch, dispatched me to live with Aunt Lolly. It was kind of an arranged marriage, y'know? Neither of us were very thrilled.”

  I thought about how badly Gretchen wanted a child. “Bob Don and Gretchen didn't offer to take you in?”

  “No. Aunt Gretchen was… still drinking.” Deborah shook her head. “She wouldn't have wanted kids anyway.”

  The child of her ex-husband. I could understand why. Gretchen, Bob Don, his brother Paul-untangling that web would take time if I relied on Gretchen and Bob Don to speak up.

  “Why was Lolly not a good match for you?”

  “Because family propriety matters so to Lolly-perhaps more than it should.” She still referred to her aunt in present tense and I wasn't heartless enough to correct her. “Brian and I weren't anything more than stains on the Goertz name to her.”

  “Brian?” I asked.

  Her jaw worked for a moment, reining in strong emotion. “My brother. My little brother. He's dead, too.”

  “Oh, Deborah, I'm so sorry.”

  Her eyes filmed with tears, but she quickly blinked them away. “You'd have liked him real well, Jordan.”

  “I'm so sorry,” I repeated. I make for a lousy comforter.

  “Don't listen to the lies they tell,” she stormed with sudden fury. “Because they do lie.”

  “Who's they?”

  “This whole goddamned family.” Anger reddened her face and she grasped my hand, her trimmed nails digging furrows in my skin. “They'll tell you my dad murdered my mother and then went off and killed himself. But he didn't. He didn't.”

  I took both her hands in mine. Her skin quivered against my touch. I saw now she was too mad to cry. Fury contorted her face into a vengeful grimace.

  “Do you want to tell me what happened? What's the truth?”

  She didn't look at me; she stared back out at the lapping bay as she talked. “My mother-when I was just six, and Brian was only two-was found shot to death. In my father's studio. Her face had been blown off.” She stifled a shudder. “My father went missing. Later we-I mean Uncle Mutt-found a note that my father had left. He said he'd shot my mother, then snuck out here to Sangre Island and walked into the ocean. He said he was sorry for what he'd done and couldn't live with himself anymore.”

  “Uncle Mutt found this note?”

  She nodded. “It was taped to the door of the house. The family had gathered here for my mother's funeral. He left the note-and then vanished.”

  “And you don't believe your father killed your mother?” I didn't mean for the question to sound so heartless, and I squeezed Deborah's hands in support.

  “Would you?” She looked at me with tearless eyes. “My father was an art teacher, Jordan. A sculptor. He worshiped my mother's face. She met him when she was one of his regular models. Sculptors don't destroy works of art. If he was going to kill her, it wouldn't be shooting her in the face.”

  Her reasoning seemed wishful to me. Why should an artist lurk on a higher moral plane? And I'd known painters who'd obliterated canvases with no hesitation. But to contradict her would be cruel. “I take it the rest of your family didn't agree with your reasoning.”

  “No.” Her voice cracked. “Do you know how that feels? They didn't want to talk about it. They didn't want to acknowledge that something as distasteful as a murder had happened in our family. Tight asses, all of them. But Bob Don was kind to me, and Tom-he was really kind to Brian. Aubrey was good to him, too.” She paused to draw a restoring breath. “The Goertzes personify the delightful combination of German immigrant stiffness and Old South propriety. You just don't have murderers in the family. It's simply not done. So everyone closed together in a tight circle and pretended it didn't happen. They pretended my parents didn't matter because they died in a distasteful way.” Bitterness scored her words. I couldn't speak; I watched her bottom lip quiver with anger.

  She continued: “Aunt Lolly considered Brian and me as nothing but pockmarks on the family skin. She had a warped sense of family honor. What Dad did-what she thought he did-was unforgivable. And Lolly definitely believed that the children were liable for the sins of the father.”

  “Was she just horrible to you and Brian?” I asked.

  Deborah shrugged. “She never laid a hand on either of us. But everything we did was wrong, a further embarrassment to the family name. As if Brian and I were defective, being the children of 'a woman who let herself get killed and a man too cowardly to face up to what he did.' “ Her voice mimicked Lolly's sugary tone. “Those are her words, not mine.”

  I thought of the sick mind that could punish children for an unproven act of a parent. I could imagine her hating me now, with precise clarity-the end result being a vicious cycle of mail sent my way. Don't punish the wayward bachelor. Punish his wayward sperm instead. Make the bastard pay for the crimes of the sire. Acrid dislike for Lolly surged in me. Who the hell was she to sit in judgment of me? Or poor Deborah?

  Had she treated others the way she'd treated the two of us? The sharp edge of her hate might ha
ve turned back on her. I saw her gasping, purpling face again and, coldly, could not muster much pity for her. I did not feel like an honorable man at that moment.

  “The police accepted this suicide note?” I ventured.

  “Yes. But Dad's body was never recovered, there was never a sense of closure.” She laughed, and it was a sickly, ragged sound. “Brian used to be sure that our father was alive somewhere, working to clear his name. Like The Fugitive.” She glanced out again toward the bay that had swallowed her father.

  “If it wasn't your dad-who would have had a motive to kill your mother?”

  Her mouth worked, as though restraining unbidden words from speech. “I don't know. Her name was Nora. Did you know that? You had an Aunt Nora.”

  I shook my head. “It's a lovely name.”

  Her mouth tightened. “I know my dad wasn't a murderer. Please don't listen to the others. They're wrong, wrong as can be.” She fostered a weak smile. “Your uncle Paul was a good man. I think you and he would have liked each other real well.” The pain of her loss was nearly tangible; I could imagine her reaching out and giving her sadness a loving stroke.

  “I'm sure we would have.” I smiled back at her. A sudden thickness sat in my chest. “I wish you could have known my dad. And my mom, before she got Alzheimer's.”

  “But you've got another dad now. Lucky boy,” she murmured.

  “I guess. Yes,” I managed to say. She saw the doubt in my eyes.

  “Oh, don't feel funny about it. Count yourself blessed. If Lolly could have been another mother to me after I lost mine-I would have given anything to have a relationship like that. I needed a mom, and a dad. You've got a second chance, Jordan. Bob Don's the kindest man I know. He was so good to me after my folks died…”

  “You sound like Candace,” I cajoled, trying to lighten the gloom that had enveloped us both.

  “I assume you and Candace mended fences,” Deborah offered after a long silence.

  “Yes, we did. We try not to stay mad at each other.”

  “Look, I've had so little luck in my life I always spot it in others. Know that you're fortunate. I like Candace. She's got a spark to her.” Deborah's voice was small.

  “She's a pistol,” I agreed.

  “She's lucky, too. Good-looking fellow like you.” I felt the easy weight of her arm against mine.

  I didn't blink and kept my eyes firmly focused on the crashing foam. Thoughts of Greek tragedy and four-fingered babies flashed through my mind and I admit to wondering, for the briefest of moments, exactly what the incest laws of Texas were. Not that I was about to wade into my own gene pool.

  My face, never a subtle instrument, betrayed me.

  “Oh, my Lord.” Deborah giggled. “You don't think I'm flirting with you, do you?” Her eyes were bright with mirth for the first time since we'd begun this rather sad conversation. I think, sad stories told, we both felt the need for human touch. We took refuge in teasing each other.

  I grinned, feeling utterly foolish. “Of course I didn't think that. It's just I'm not quite used to thinking of you as my cousin yet.”

  “Hmmm.” Her voice was a lascivious alto. “And what if I wasn't your cousin?”

  Okay, we were back on suspiciously come-hither territory-not my comfort zone with lovely women who share common ancestors.

  “Then I'm sure we'd be friends,” I ventured. Right answer. She rewarded me with a beautiful smile. Her heavy burden of sadness seemed vanished, at least for a few minutes. “Surely you don't talk this way with Aubrey.”

  “Aubrey? No. Aubrey is too wrapped up in his spirituality and holisticness and what all else to show much interest in romance.”

  “He's too busy solving everyone else's problems, I guess,” I said.

  “Odd that he's that way. He was such a wild boy. Thank God for Aunt Sass's sanity he straightened himself out.”

  “Aubrey? Wild?” The description didn't match my prudish cousin.

  “Oh, Jordan, I keep forgetting you're not exactly privy to all our soiled family linen.” She drew back slightly and a strand of hair whipped around her face. The shape of her eyes was very much like Bob Don's and for one peculiar moment I wanted to reach out and take her hand and ask, Tell me something I don't know about Bob Don. Tell me something only another Goertz would laugh at. Make me feel like I belong here. I want to know him better than I'm ready to admit. But I didn't speak.

  “I don't want to be seen as a gossip,” she said.

  I shook my head. “You're right. I don't know these people and I wish I did. Tell me. Tell me whatever you want about them.”

  She gazed out again at the sea. “Well, Aubrey's had a tough time. Stepfathers aplenty, none of whom ever gave a rat's ass about him. He turned bad as a kid-or maybe rancid is a better word. He ran away from home when he was fifteen and was gone for two whole years. Sass nearly went out of her mind. He showed up again at her house, skinny as a rail, high on dope, but wanting to come home and clean up his act.” She shook her head. “The men in this family tend to vanish at times. At least Aubrey came back. He never told me what happened to him.”

  “You really care about Aubrey, don't you?”

  She nodded. “After Brian died-I nearly had a breakdown. It was so hard to lose him, and Aunt Lolly was devastated, even though she'd never been real sweet to either of us. Aubrey took care of me. He was my best friend. Maybe that experience strengthened his interest in helping people. I hated it when he ran out on all of us. I hope you never have anyone you love walk out of your life that way, Jordan. It's God's own pain to deal with.”

  I didn't explain to her that I had known that very pain. My best friend Trey, a brother to me, had turned and walked out of my life years ago. He had left his wife and son behind-who also happened to be my sister and my nephew. I had hardly seen my friend again when he died at my feet, bloodied with bullets. There is no way to retrieve that lost time. The thought of Trey-of his death-still stung me.

  “Can I ask a tough question, Deborah?”

  Deborah nodded.

  “Do you know if Bob Don and your father were close?” I asked. I had a sudden, heavy feeling that maybe Bob Don and I shared a sad experience; that of our brothers having turned tail and disappeared from our lives, without a trace. Trey had not been my blood brother, but he'd been the closest substitute I had.

  “Close? They hated each other's guts.” Deborah tugged again at her lip. “Brotherly love was not their forte. At least that's what Uncle Mutt told me. I'm sure it was because they both loved Gretchen. But it shouldn't have been that way. They were just two wonderful men who just didn't understand each other.”

  “So what was the deal? Gretchen was married to your dad first, they divorced, then Bob Don married her? You've got to admit that's a little weird.”

  “Little weird is a phrase that's never done our family justice. The whole dirty story is-” and she was cut off by a scream from the direction of the greenhouse. It sounded horrible, fueled by a man's last breath. Deborah moved faster than I did, sprinting past me and off the porch. I followed. The scream cut off abruptly as I vaulted to the ground.

  12

  I rushed after Deborah. Another choked scream sounded from near the elaborate greenhouse I'd noticed on our arrival. I saw the deputy look up from her reverie on the beach, and I waved arms at her. She ran toward us. I passed Deborah and broke through the clumps of saltgrass and wildflowers near the greenhouse to find Tom Bedrich kneeling over Aubrey, one hand raised to administer a punch to Aubrey's already bloodied countenance.

  “Tom! Stop it!” Deborah hollered. She darted around me and seized Tom's arm.

  His lean face contorted in anger and for one moment I feared he'd strike her. I lurched forward and pulled her away.

  “He's trying to kill me!” Aubrey bellowed. “For God's sake, get him off me!”

  I yanked at Tom's muscled arm; he didn't want to surrender. 'Tom,” I said, keeping my voice even. “Let him go now. It's over.” I tightened my g
rip and pulled up, just to show I'm stronger and tougher than the garden-variety librarian.

  Tom finally stood, shoving Aubrey away as if he were rotting garbage. Aubrey scurried and sat down hard. Deborah knelt by her cousin, critically examining his contusions. She glared up at Tom. “You want to tell us what made y'all come to blows?”

  Tom's watery blue eyes didn't waver from Aubrey's face. “No.”

  The deputy-I could see BERTHOLD inscribed on her name tag-slowed to a jog, her hand on her holster. “What's the problem here, folks?”

  Tom hardly looked at her, staring down at the ground.

  Aubrey wiped blood from his nose and muttered something under his breath.

  “Well, gentlemen?” The deputy inched closer to Tom.

  “It's nothing. Just a family disagreement.”

  “Oh, you always throw punches during disagreements?” Ice edged the deputy's voice.

  “I'm not hurt,” Aubrey amended. “Look, ma'am, we were horsing around. It just got out of hand…” His voice drifted off and Tom didn't answer.

  “You want to press charges against this fellow?” Deputy Berthold jerked her head toward Tom.

  Aubrey shook his head. “No. Of course not. It was stupid of us to fight.” A gleam lit his eyes, though, that I didn't believe the deputy could see.

  “I don't want to hear about any more trouble.” Berthold frosted us all with her stare. I hadn't even done anything and I felt guilty. “I'll have to report this to Lieutenant Mendez. Anything odd happens here, he hears about it. You two going to behave now?”

  Both men nodded, like recalcitrant schoolboys. Berthold fixed them with a baneful eye, turned, and headed toward the house. Twice she looked back to glare.

  “Ooooh,” Aubrey muttered, “authority figure. Think she's got a dominatrix set at home?” He grinned at Tom and I saw a thin smear of blood along his teeth. Tom glanced away from his cousin in disgust.

  “You know, Tom,” Deborah said, helping Aubrey to his feet, “no one is remotely impressed with this silent he-man crap you've perfected to an art. A very cheap art. What the hell's the matter with you?”