by Jeff Abbott
He doesn't want me exploring this island. Annoyance tinged his words, more than if I was simply a pest.
“I guess I'll just find my own path. Thanks.” I pivoted to leave.
“This ain't no resort,” he answered rudely. “There's a kind of path that goes above the beach. Don't stray from it. Rattlesnakes and cottonmouths around here.” He smiled a bleak grin. “They got a real taste for college-boy flesh. Ain't nothin' a cottonmouth likes more than sinkin' their fangs into some idiot too overeddicated to know better than to stay away from what ain't his business.”
“Snakes? On an island?”
“Yeah, they'se some here. They're all over Matagorda Island, too. You be careful, serious, Jordan. The cotton-mouths like the sides of pools, ditches, anyplace they'se a little water. You set careful foot there, hear?”
“Yes.” I absolutely hate snakes and tried to keep the tremor from my voice.
“And the rattlers-you hear that buzz, you step light, yeah? They like thick clumps of weeds and grass where they little mouse friends live. You get bit, we got maybe just enough time to get you to Port O'Connor. Maybe.” He grinned, his gums looking discolored in the faint light of the greenhouse.
“Thanks for the warning,” I retorted, hurrying off before further horrors could be suggested. Rufus might be full of it, I decided. I had never heard of cottonmouths on offshore islands, but what did I know? Maybe he just wanted to put me off walking around the island, where no one could keep an eye on me.
Pure and simple, Rufus didn't want me snooping around Sangre Island. I resolved to find out why.
The path-and I use the term rather loosely-Rufus described was the one we'd taken up from the dock on the beach, little more than grass worn away, sand mixed with crushed shells. Littler dunes, engulfed in the fleeting beauty of colorful wildflowers and matted with hardier, twining plants, lay behind the main dune ridge. The flatlands behind the ridge were grassy and thick with shrubs. The wind was a constant companion, bowing all in its path.
I walked down the trail, well past the empty dock. When was Uncle Mutt due back? I felt with him gone, the family was hardly more than an unsupervised classroom, ready to erupt into anarchy.
The wind surged, cooling my skin and easing the smothering humidity. Long strands of cloud stretched across the formerly empty sky. My clothes had started adhering to my skin uncomfortably during my latest exchange with Aunt Sass and I pulled my T-shirt's fabric away from my back. I didn't let my eyes stray far from the path, just in case Rufus was correct about snakes. I hate snakes. Really and truly.
I pulled a pair of sunglasses from my shorts pocket and donned them. The path became entirely a figment as I reached a small bend out of sight from the house. The shore here was sandy, dotted with beached shells. I watched a small crab, pale, skitter from my approach and vanish into a burrow. With the house out of sight, and the only sound my own breathing and the hard whisper of the wind caressing Sangre, I could imagine myself miles away from any people. It might make a good place for sunning with Can-dace. But the idea of lounging in the bright summer air didn't seem appropriate with poor Aunt Lolly dead and with so much unresolved between Bob Don and me.
I peered and puttered for a while, then climbed up a slide of sand and high grass into the scrubby flatland. Sand kissed everything. I wandered for a while, listening to the distant caws and cries of the seagulls-and keeping my ears open for any rattling noises. Profusions of groundsel shrubs, small plants, saltgrass, and a rainbow of wildflowers covered the land. A colony of stubby, dark-barked huisache trees, not quite as tall as my head, swayed in the quickening breeze. Black mounds of sprawling Macartney rose-I'd been told it once served as living barbed wire on area islands-dotted the land. Its bloom seemed already past, and Bob Don had warned me about the briar's pesky thorns.
I breathed in the air of isolation. The island was rough in its beauty, but I could see why Mutt put up with all the difficulties of living here: having to import most of his potable water, horrendously expensive electrical service, the inconvenience of always being a boat ride away from civilization. The quiet, the beauty, were worth it all.
I walked through a thick motte of live oaks. The air felt moist and stifling. Mosquitoes swarmed and I slapped at my neck and legs repeatedly, cursing myself for not having the foresight to douse thoroughly with repellent. No help for it now; I pinched my lips together and forged ahead.
I found a small clearing near what I would have guessed was the island's center. It opened up from a precut path, lined with thickets of saltcedar trees, that would have been far easier to take than the way Rufus pointed me. Silly old toot. I saw an old, wrought-iron fence squaring off a section of land. Tombs stood cluttered within the fence's borders, most of them aboveground in the boxy marble style of interments I'd seen in Galveston and New Orleans. Wild spurts of grasses and small, pointed bursts of Spanish dagger separated the stone monuments. I unlatched the gate and opened it. The creak of its hinges sounded eerie in the hushed wind, almost like a human cry.
The first mounds were marked with a standard stone tombstone: HERE LIE TWO CONFEDERATE SOLDIERS, KNOWN ONLY TO GOD. NOVEMBER 1863. The marker appeared much more recent than the graves themselves, added at a later date. I wondered if these men died in the actions in Matagorda Bay when Union general Nathaniel Banks launched his major offensive against the Texas coast. Matagorda Bay had been in the thick of the fighting. Another memorial, this one a spire of Hill Country granite topped with a decorative anchor, was IN MEMORY OF THE CREW OF THE TEXAS SHIP RELIANT. LOST IN BATTLE, 1835. NO doubt the memorial owed its existence to Mutt's fascination with the past.
I found myself wondering how this island had stayed out of government hands, remaining in private fortunes. I'd heard of the federal government seizing islands in the Matagorda area, condemning the homes and kicking off families that had been there for generations. Too little to bother with? Not of strategic importance? I thought of the dead men in the sunken hull of the Reliant, off the coast. Had they thought this island mattered? Had they watched it as their boat cracked and sank, a refuge out of their reach as the Mexicans closed in, cannons roaring? I had studied Texas history as a boy and knew that neither side offered the other much clemency when captives fell into enemy hands. The massacres of Goliad and the Alamo did not encourage kindness toward the foe. The butchered boys on the beach of Sangre Island served merely as another reminder of the casual cruelty of war.
I strolled past other graves and tombs. Apparently someone had lived on Sangre since Texas became a republic, for there were additional memorials. One family, the Merciers, seemed to have held the island the longest. I squatted before their tombstones, running my fingers over their weathered inscriptions.
The back corner held Goertzes. A simple, elegant tomb, topped by an angel reaching toward heaven, was marked NORA JEAN GOERTZ. 1940-1972. Fresh wildflowers, newly picked, rested below the inscription. Next to it was another marble tomb, this one with a small statue of a boy, apparently caught wandering along a beach, barefoot, with a basket of shells in his hand, BRIAN RILEY GOERTZ. TOO BRIEF A TIME. 1970-1982. I ran my fingers along the inscription TOO BRIEF A TIME. Here also, fresh flowers lay against the engraved stone. I thought of the brightly smiling, bucktoothed boy in the photographs in Lolly's room.
In the corner, an even rectangle was neatly staked out, awaiting the shovel and the marble. Lolly's memorial. Rufus or Uncle Mutt must have come out and already marked out the plot. And perhaps left fresh flowers on Brian's and Nora's graves.
Voices drifted toward me, coming closer from down the path. I circled the tombs, feeling like a trespasser, keeping the stone blocks between me and the new visitors. The thick growth of saltcedars hid them from my view. I didn't decide to hide among the dead until I heard one of the voices was Philip's, ranting in hot anger.
13
I hunkered down in the dense grasses that divided two of the older tombs. I prayed there wasn't a fire-ant mound nearby, but none of the pes
ts had invaded the territory of the dead. I did manage to scrape my elbow good on a corner of Nora Goertz's tomb and winced at the sudden, sharp pain. I didn't have much time to inspect the wound. Philip's baritone carried toward me on the never-ending wind, another softer voice answering his. I lay flat in the tall grass, not daring to peer around the monument. My choices were few.
And what are you going to do if they spot you? Claim you're sunbathing? In a graveyard? I didn't have a clue. I decided not to fret until the problem presented itself.
I inched my face around the corner of the tomb and saw them stroll past the saltcedars: Philip huffing along, followed-surprisingly-by Wendy Tran. He appeared angry; she seemed fidgety. Even at this distance I could see her glance around nervously, as though expecting unwanted visitors.
They stopped at the gate to the cemetery. Philip mopped his glistening forehead with a raggedy handkerchief. Wendy stopped and crossed her arms. She said something I couldn't hear and looked back over her shoulder. I ducked my head behind the tomb. I couldn't see them, and they, I hoped, hadn't seen me.
“I'm not gonna keep you long,” Philip said. “Lunch'll wait. You got the money?”
“Of course not. I need more time, Philip.” Her voice sounded tight and controlled. I wondered if she was quite as placid as she acted in the comfort of her kitchen.
“I don't have much time myself, darlin'. I can't be waiting on you to work your magic if it's gonna take all weekend.”
“Philip. Mutt's not here today. I can't get the cash from him if he's gone arranging his sister's funeral. No one planned for Lolly to die.”
“Maybe someone did.” Philip spoke so softly that I could barely hear him. Sweat stung my eyes, blood stuck dirt to my elbow, and a mosquito roosted on my bare calf for lunch; but I didn't dare move. I could feel the thud of my heart against the earth.
Wendy didn't answer immediately, and for one sinking moment I thought I'd been spotted. “That's a horrible thing to say. Poor Lolly.”
“Yeah, right.” Philip snorted.
“She was your aunt.”
“Yeah, and what was she to you, sunshine? Just an old lady who wouldn't get out of your way.”
Silence held sway again and I wondered if Wendy had left, insulted at Philip's implication. When she spoke, her voice was as cool as the stone of the tombs. “You just talk to hear the sound of your own voice, Philip.”
“You cooked the food, sunshine. She died at the dinner table. Don't they always look hard at the chef?”
“She had a heart attack. That's it.” Wendy's voice rose.
“Yeah, she had a heart attack and Uncle Jake's heart medication is missing.”
Obviously I wasn't the only one pondering that fact. Wendy rushed into the momentary hush. “For God's sake. Jake used it all up. You know how he snivels for his pills.” The mosquito cocktailing on my blood was joined by an after-work gang of his fellow bugs. I bit my lip and kept myself still. If I moved overmuch, or made too much noise, I would be detected-by two people calmly discussing the possibility of murder. I allowed myself one slow, open-mouthed breath. The smell of the island-the salt of the air, the mixed perfumes of wildflowers, the hint of pollen, the subtle rank of my own sweat-filled my nose. I willed myself not to sneeze.
“You ain't exactly been weeping and wailing since Lolly died,” Philip said.
“And I suppose you wanted to come out here to dig her grave with your own grieving hands?” Wendy paused and I watched an ant wobble curiously toward my face. I tried not to imagine a diamondback slithering through the grasses and encountering my body like a big speed bump that would have to be surmounted.
Philip didn't answer Wendy, and she continued: “Play nice, Philip. Do you want me to help you or not?”
“Oh, sunshine, it's definitely in your best interest to help me out. Hate to see an eclipse happen to my sunshine, you know that's bad luck.”
I waited for another one of Wendy's characteristic pauses to greet this statement, but she wasted no time: “Don't even think of threatening me, Philip. You don't have the money to write that check-so to speak.” She laughed, a long, brittle giggle. I had never heard her laugh before and her coldness chilled my skin, even in the humid heat. “I've got to go fix lunch for the family. I'll let you know when I've gotten the money. Until then, leave me alone and let me do my job.”
“Wendy-do it well. You'll be amply rewarded.” Philip sounded as though the words tasted bad in his mouth.
“You needn't worry. But I don't want you talking to me again unless it's to ask what's for dinner. I'm sure that won't arouse anyone's suspicions.”
“Oh. And is anyone suspicious?” His voice held a nasty tone.
Another Wendy lull held, then I heard: “I found Jordan snooping in Lolly's closet this morning. Him I find suspicious generally.”
“What the hell was he doing there?”
“Being a sneak. I don't like the way he's ingratiating himself with Mutt.”
“Goddamn luck, Jordan would resemble the old coot. And I caught the bastard buttering up Mutt last night in the library. Uncle dear's taken a liking to him. Jordan's nothing but a smug little shit. I can't have him interfering, sunshine.”
“Well, nothing you can do about him.”
“The hell I can't,” Philip rumbled. Four words to halt your breathing, trust me.
I waited until I was sure they'd left. No way I was venturing back down the path they'd come. I wasn't risking that they'd stop to confer or plot or argue-and I'd stumble up behind them, a falsely amiable mask set on my face. Burrs in my hair? Out doing headstands in the meadow. Grass stains up and down my entire body? Slid into home during the softball tournament being held on the other side of the island. I am not a skilled liar-usually-and I didn't want to manufacture a story.
Instead of returning the way that I came, I decided to support the fiction that I'd been exploring the whole island. So I continued my trek across Sangre, to the side closest to the mainland. Here the ground seemed a bit damper, with thickets of honey mesquites, bright freckles of lavender Texas vervain, fuzzy violet coast mistfiowers, and the yellowish-green spotted horsemint speckling the land. I held my arm away from my body-the scrape was messy and I didn't want to get blood on my clothes. I found a rough trail, probably worn by Rufus or Tom on their island perambulations, and headed back for the house.
I stumbled along the trail, found one shady spot to sit, and eased to the ground. I figured I couldn't beat Philip and Wendy back to the house, so I might as well saunter in late. I wouldn't want them to wonder if I was lurking near their private confab.
I forced myself toward calm. I closed my eyes. Wendy was chiseling money out of Uncle Mutt for Philip. I assumed she'd nab a percentage for her services. So the affectionate scene I'd witnessed between Wendy and Mutt in the kitchen was part of her ruse to wile away the cash from my uncle.
Poor Uncle Mutt. He'd been thoroughly duped. The look on his face as he'd cradled Wendy in his arms had been one of unmitigated bliss, reflection on a lifetime of remembered joys. He'd held Wendy as tenderly as if he were still a young man. And he didn't have much time left for the physical pleasures-
I blinked. Uncle Mutt was dying. If Philip needed money, why didn't he just ask? And why, if unwilling to ask, didn't he wait for the few months Uncle Mutt had left?
Either Philip suspected he wasn't likely to benefit from Uncle Mutt's will, or there was another time pressure on him for cash. Uncle Mutt had referred repeatedly to Philip's business ineptitude. I supposed that once again Philip had bottomed out and Uncle Mutt refused to line the coffers. I decided it was time, if possible, to learn more about Philip's business ventures. He was from Corpus Christi; I should start my inquiries there.
Dealing with my uncle was another matter. Uncle Mutt might easily believe Philip was up to no good, but would he accept Wendy's involvement in these machinations? I had no proof-and no idea how Wendy planned to pry the funds from Uncle Mutt's wallet. It depended on how much money
was at stake. A few hundred? A few thousand? A million? I blew out exasperated breath. My stomach rumbled. I stood and headed back toward the dock.
Time to see what Wendy had cooked up for lunch. I'd have preferred to know what she was concocting for my unsuspecting great-uncle.
I don't have a career in espionage awaiting me. I snuck in the front door, thinking Wendy would be occupied in the kitchen. Wrong. She spotted me entering the house. She was setting the table in the dining room and she raised a perfect eyebrow at me-me. with my dirtied clothes and bloodied arm.
“Good Lord. What happened to you?”
I shrugged. “I was exploring and I took a tumble down a dune. I scraped my arm on a shell or something. I'm okay.” As soon as I manufactured this fib I thought: Shouldn't you have a little more sand in your hair? And clothes? And in the wound?
Wendy didn't appear to notice my relatively sand-free state. She examined my arm critically. “We've got a first-aid kit in the kitchen. I'll clean that up for you, or I'll find Deborah. She'd probably be insulted if I didn't let her exercise her vocation.”
“I'll tend to it myself,” I blurted. This woman made me uneasy. Wendy was no cowering servant girl from a Victorian novel. The coldness of her laugh, the educated way in which she spoke, the assurance she showed in dealing with Philip-it was a combination that didn't lend itself to domestic duties. And I'd detected concern in her voice for my injury. Who was this woman?
Her perfect eyebrow arched again. “Unless you're limber enough to kiss your elbow, you can't tend to this. Here, sit down.” I waited while she fetched the first-aid kit. She cleaned the wound, tsking as she did so. “That's a big scrape, Jordan. You want to be careful and keep it disinfected.” I watched while she spread medication across the skinned arm and taped bandages to it. Her touch was surprisingly tender.
“Thanks,” I said as she finished. “I'll try not to be such a klutz.”