by Jeff Abbott
I went upstairs. Time to start investigating Philip Bedrich a little more closely.
I found a phone in Lolly's room and dialed Itasca Hue-bler's home number back in Mirabeau. Itasca's my main assistant at the library and possibly one of the great ferreters of information ever known to man. I could almost picture her scooping up her maroon phone receiver (she's a big Texas A amp;M supporter) and sandwiching it between her jaw and shoulder.
“Hello?”
“Itasca, it's Jordan.”
“Hey, sugar. How you enjoying your vacation?”
I didn't want to get into the sordid details of the weekend. Itasca was sweet, but she loved to gossip. “Fine, just fine. But I was wondering if you could see clear to doing me a favor.”
“I live for these moments, Jordy,” she teased. “What's up?”
“I'd like to check up on a fellow named Philip Bedrich. He's an investments counselor of some sort, and he's trying to get me to invest some money with him. I can't exactly do a little research on him while I'm here, because he's staying at the same house. Could you call the SEC, see if he's registered with them, and see if he's got any kind of record?”
I could hear her scribbling down the information, and I spelled Philip's name for her again. “All right,” she asserted, “I'll give 'em a call and see what I can see.”
I gave her the number where she could reach me, thanked her, and hung up. Poor Philip. Itasca was relentless.
I stood to leave and that's when I noticed the feathers caught in the wicker of Sweetie's bed basket. White down fluttered in the wooden weave surrounding his pillow. I leaned down and pulled the feathers away-there was the beginning of a tear on the pillow's side.
I'd heard cloth-or something similar-ripping when I'd hid in Lolly's closet-when Wendy had asserted Bob Don was in the room. But I hadn't been able to identify what had been disturbed.
I upended Sweetie's pillow. A long gash tore open the pillow's bottom, and the downy innards had been disturbed. I sat thinking for a long moment, then got up in search of Candace.
“Are you still mad at me?” I asked from her doorway.
She lay curled like a cat on her bedspread, her eyes half-lidded in sleep. The thought of her being in the proximity of a coldly conniving killer was enough to frost my blood. I didn't want us still bickering.
She smiled. “No, I'm not still mad at you.”
I sat down next to her on the bed. “I'm going crazy here. Arguing with Bob Don in the middle of all of this madness is rotten, and then having a spat with you-”
She touched a hand to my lips. “It'll all be over soon. I think the police suspect Philip. He just looks guilty.”
I ran a hand along her hip and she closed her eyes. I wanted the comfort of lovemaking, but I knew celibacy was the order of the evening. Instead I softly kissed her hair and she ran a gentle hand along my cheek.
“I love you,” I murmured, “and I'm sorry I was a jerk.”
“Jordan, I love you, too. Even when you're a jerk. I'll try not to dispense so much advice. Sometimes I tend to want to tell you what to do instead of just listening a little.”
I kissed her cheek again. It was warm, but not with fever. She smiled at me. “If you and I can mend fences, you and Bob Don should be able to.”
Tightness locked my throat. Gretchen had confided in me. I wanted to tell Candace what I'd learned about Bob Don, but I didn't dare. Not yet. There was no sense in putting her in harm's way. “Bob Don and I aren't setting new records for bonding. Why can't we just go on with our lives without hurting each other? God, I'm tired of this.” I moved to the window.
“If I give you advice now, are you going to explode?”
“No. I'm done with that.”
She leaned against my shoulder. “Try something for me. Put yourself in his shoes. He didn't want to abandon you. He did what he thought was right. And he did that knowing that your mother might never have told you the truth about him. He turned and walked away because he wanted to spare you all the pain.”
Outside, the storm throbbed like a colossal heart. I listened to its roar and beat. “But I couldn't have done that, Candace. I couldn't have just walked away from my child. Turn heel and flee. He watched me. He watched me grow up and never came close, never tried.” I swallowed and my eyes stung with repressed anger.
Candace pressed a palm against my back. Sorrow tinged her voice. “Because to try would have been to ruin your life. You were just a little boy. His distance was a gift to you then. Let him come close to you now.”
I rubbed my forehead with the heel of my hand. “And he doesn't want me again. He's made that clear.” Yet Gretchen wants me to save him. From his own family? I can't.
“He's a stubborn goat, same as you. Because he believes you don't want him as a dad. Now listen, Jordan. If you let him walk away-if you walk away-it's going to leave a terrible hole in your life. You and he both deserve better.”
“But I-”
She stilled me with a kiss. When she spoke her lips were soft against my own. “Don't judge him so harshly. It's hard to know what you would have done in his shoes.” She hugged me and her throat warmed against my own.
I held her, feeling the heat of her, the soft bellows of her lungs setting the pace for my own breathing.
“I told Gretchen that I love him.”
She hugged me tighter. “Then why don't you go talk to him again?” She caressed my face with her fingertip.
“Yes,” I said softly. “I think I will.” I stood, and paused at the foot of her bed. “Were you in your room late this afternoon? When the storm kicked back up?”
She shook her head. “No. I went down to the den and watched television with Deborah.”
So my prowler would have had access to the attic through Candace's room. And Candace provided an alibi for Deborah. I knew Sass was in the garden when I heard the footfalls. And I didn't believe Uncle Jake spry enough to navigate a trapdoor and steps; plus, there was no sign of his cane in the dust. At least three I could scratch off my most-likely-to-be-skulking-about list.
Maybe after I talked with Bob Don, I needed to go examine the shoe selection in this house and see who wore a particular tread.
I found Bob Don in the television room on the ground floor. The TV was tuned to the Weather Channel and the perky meteorologist described the rapidly moving tropical depression surging up toward Texas. Hurricane season had not kicked into gear, but we were due for an onslaught of rain and wind.
Rufus Beaulac lay slumped in the leather recliner I knew was Uncle Mutt's regular roost. A beer tottered in his loose grasp.
“Hi, Rufus,” I said. “Would you please excuse us? I'd like to talk to my father alone.”
Bob Don's head jerked up at the label I'd used. Rufus flashed a look of annoyance. “Just as I was gettin' comfortable.”
“Sorry.” I didn't budge.
Rufus roused himself from the recliner. He regarded Bob Don with a smirk. “No good drinkin' buddies round here since Gretch sobered up. Sass is a snob and the twins don't drink near enough.” A faint hint of malice colored his words, and I wondered for a moment if his had been the hand behind Gretchen's drunkenness.
“You go and get a head start, Rufe,” Bob Don said, “and maybe I'll join you in a few minutes. I could use another shot of bourbon in the worst way.”
Rufus regarded me with his murky hazel eyes and his scarred lip formed a crooked smile. “Later, boys.” He saluted, ambling out of the room. I shut the door behind him.
“I don't much like him,” I announced.
Bob Don kept staring at the television, watching a report on a forest fire in Oregon. “I don't think you much like anyone.”
I came and sat on the couch next to him, tendering a foot over the hard borders separating us. “That's not true.”
“Maybe not. You actually referred to me as your father. Rufus doesn't know the honor he's received.” Sardonic was not Bob Don's usual style of repartee and he stumbled over his own
words.
“You are my father,” I said softly.
“Accident of biology, just like you said.” He stared at the televised inferno.
“True of every child, though, isn't it?”
“Jordan-”
I tentatively touched his arm, and a cascade of images from the past year flooded past my eyes: Bob Don lying in the hospital after taking a bullet intended for me, his blue eyes bright with pain; Bob Don standing over my other daddy's grave, telling me in a soft voice to realize the good fortunes in my life; Bob Don pleading with me to give Gretchen a volunteer job at the library as he subtly tried to knit us into a family; the hurt look in his own eyes after he'd slapped me on the porch. I grabbed the remote from his hands and silenced the television.
“I made a rotten mistake. I felt so angry when I found out that you were my biological father and I wanted to punish you, I suppose, for being part of the conspiracy of silence.”
He turned reddened eyes toward me. “Don't blame your mother. She did what she thought best-”
“She did what she wanted. She wanted to save her marriage. She wanted to protect my sister. She wanted you out of her life. I don't blame her any more than I blame you. I don't want to blame anyone anymore. I just want-” My voice broke, and he waited in the sudden silence.
“I just want you to be a father to me. And a friend.” The words came in a rush, as though I'd been holding them in my mouth for months, sampling their unusual taste.
He didn't throw his arms around me. He didn't whoop for joy. “Why now? Why the change?”
I couldn't admit to him that I knew he'd killed his brother. Not now. Perhaps not ever. I took one of his hands in mine; his was large and warm and every finger was cal-lused from the hard work he did on his property on the weekends, ridding himself of the stress of the car dealership. And no doubt, the stress I'd inflicted on him over the past months.
“Because I need a dad. And I need to be your son.”
“But you already had a father. You told me you didn't need another.” His voice was hushed. I couldn't blame him for not accepting my turnaround immediately. I'd dithered and railed too long for him to risk the hurt of me changing my mind.
“Candace has pointed out to me that I've tended to put my father on a pedestal. One does that with the dead sometimes.” But not in this family, I silently added. “Daddy wasn't perfect. If he was, he would've saved some money so that we weren't in such dire straits when Mama got so sick.” I shrugged. “He was a good man, but he wasn't an ideal man. Only I made him that way.”
Bob Don was silent, staring at my hand clasping his. His pale face might've been carved of ivory.
The memory rose to my lips before I could stop it. “When I was twelve, I stopped confiding in Daddy. I'd come home from school one afternoon and told him”-I smiled a little at my folly-”that whenever I looked at my English teacher-she was a beautiful young woman named Pamela Guenther-my pants hurt because they got too tight because my talleywhacker got hard.” Bob Don didn't smile, but I thought I saw a brief, flitting bit of mirth in his eyes. I continued: “Daddy took all this quite seriously and sat me down and gave me the sex talk. He was very kind and factual and told me I had nothing to be ashamed of.
“That night, Daddy and his poker buddies had their weekly game at our house. They played out on our enclosed porch when the weather was nice, and it was a beautiful night. I'd come down to say good night before going to bed, and Mama asked me to take the men a tray of beers. So I did.
“I came out and began setting the beers down and-they could hardly keep their laughter in. I'd set the last beer in front of Royce Collins and he said, 'Hey, Jordy, your pants hurtin' you these days?' I froze. And then Bertram Wells asked me, 'You gonna be the teacher's pet, Jordy?' They all exploded in laughter. Daddy couldn't even look at me. Lucas Behr informed me that if I put grease on Captain Tal-leywhacker and stayed out of school, maybe my pants wouldn't hurt me so bad. And they all laughed again, and the sound drifted past our porch screens and across the whole neighborhood.” I stopped for a moment. Bob Don squeezed my hand tightly.
“I'd never felt such deep humiliation in my life. I laughed along, because that's what you do to be one of the guys, backing away from them with the tray. I wanted to kill Daddy for breaking our confidence. He saw something in my eyes and just stared down at his hand of cards. The others laughed and wished me a good night. I'm sure they didn't mean harm; it was their way of acknowledging me as a growing man. But I'd told Daddy a secret I wanted him to keep, and he hadn't kept his mouth shut for a whole five hours. Maybe I was a hypersensitive kid. But it hurt, all the same, and Daddy should have known how I'd react. That night, lying in bed, I decided the only people I could ever entirely trust again were Mama and my best friend Trey.”
And y 'all are both lost to me now, Mama in sickness, Trey in death. When maybe I need you the most. Why did God take you both from me? I stared at the floor, not wanting to look at Bob Don. “Pretty silly to get upset about, right?”
“No, it's not,” Bob Don answered softly. “I'd have been embarrassed, too. And you were a sensitive kid. Everyone knew that. Never could abide much teasing.”
My words came in a gush: “I mean, in the whole scheme of my life, that one night doesn't matter. I still loved Daddy, I still do. He was a wonderful father. But he was as capable of hurting me as anyone else.”
Bob Don reflected for a moment. “Your daddy loved you fiercely. Remember that most of all. But he was a man who did what he thought other people wanted him to do. That poker talk probably went around to sex and he didn't think telling that tale on you was breaking a confidence, he probably thought it was just adding to the conversation. Maybe he was proud of you for becoming a young man.”
I shrugged. “If I ever have a son, I'll never do that to him.”
Bob Don finally smiled. “No, you'll make a whole other mess of mistakes he'll complain about. All part of the package, Jordan.” I didn't answer right away and the quiet hung between us.
“By the way,” I said at last, “that cure Lucas Behr recommended-greasing up Mr. Happy. It doesn't work.”
Bob Don exploded in nervous laughter. “I'll keep that in mind,” he said, color rushing into his cheeks.
“And my pants still hurt me sometimes. Like when I look at Candace.” Bantering. I felt the connection between us take hold. I sent a silent wish toward heaven: I'm not betraying you, Daddy, by taking him into my heart. I know I'm not. Please don't hate me. I glanced at the man who gave me life.
“I'm sorry for the trash I talked earlier,” I whispered. “If I could take them back, I would. I believe you loved my mother. And I know she loved you, too. I'm sorry I suggested it was anything cheap.”
“That was your anger talking.”
“Yes,” I said. Other words failed me.
“I'm so sorry I slapped you. I'll never do it again.”
“That's true,” I agreed. I didn't know how to convey the surge in my heart./ have a father again. The jumble of feelings, of hurt and fright and giddiness I'd experienced in the past year smoothed into a warm, mellow sensation of acceptance. “I think when we get back to Mirabeau, I should let folks know that you're my father. I mean, some folks already know, but they don't speak of it. We can speak of it now.”
Tears braced in his eyes. “Okay.”
“I'll keep the name Poteet, if you don't mind.”
“Whatever you want, son.”
“Son,” I echoed. I glanced, almost shyly, at his face. There is no mark of Cain there. I can't believe this man killed his own brother, even in self-defense. And I'm not going to let anything, anything happen to him. “I suppose if you're going to call me son, I should call you something other than Bob Don.”
He opened his mouth, then shut it again.
“I'd feel a tad odd calling you Daddy,” I ventured. “What did you call your father?”
He smiled, almost as shyly as I had. “I called him Daddy.”
I laugh
ed. “Of course. Why is it Southerners are so unimaginative with nicknames for parents and so imaginative with nicknames for grandparents?” I thought of the photo of my great-grandfather I'd examined so closely in Lolly's room, seeing so much of his face in mine, and my odd intuition that I would've called him Pop-Pop. “Hey. What about Pop?”
“Ain't pop what Yankees call Cokes?”
“Well, yes,” I answered.
He rolled the word about in his mouth, as though tasting it. “Pop. Well, if that's what you want to call me, I guess I'll get used to it.”
I could tell the endearment wasn't entirely to his taste, and felt an unexpected relief he hadn't adopted it immediately in mindless gratitude-perhaps the days of putting me unreachably aloft were over. We could deal with each other as men now. “Well, why don't we try it out and see how it fits?”
“Okey doke,” he finally said, and then spoke for us both: “This kind of all feels funny, doesn't it?”
“Yes. It's a strange family to be joining.”
A momentary flash passed over his face, as though the mention of the rest of the Goertzes cast a dark shadow across this long-awaited moment. “Oh, God, son. Let's all just leave. Just go back to Mirabeau and pick up our lives. There's nothing for us here.”
“But the investigation-”
He snorted. “I don't care what that judge says, there ain't no reason to keep us here. Anyway, Lieutenant Mendez has left.”
“Left? Left us here?”
“Going soon, if he ain't already.” His voice sounded choked. “He seems certain that those toxicology tests are gonna turn up Jake's medicine, or something else. Seems Lolly sending you those cards convinced him that she took her own life, crazy like she was.”
“Crazy's not enough. Why would she kill herself?” He stood and leaned against the den's bookshelves. I didn't relent: “Someone planted a bag of digitalis pills in my clothes. So if the cops searched, it'd look like I had a stash of poison.”