Distant Blood jp-4

by Jeff Abbott

  “I heard Mendez and Mutt talking. Mutt told him that's exactly what Lolly would do to make it look like you killed her. Along with the cards. You can see how crazy she was…” His voice drifted off.

  Are you protecting a murderer – Pop? “The only thing crazy is that theory. Lolly didn't want me here for some reason, tried to frighten me away, and when that didn't work, poisoned herself with Jake's medication and tried to frame me for the crime? Listen to yourself, Pop. Mutt's influence might make Mendez buy this, but I don't. Why on earth would she-”

  His face set. “Don't ask so many questions. Don't-”

  “Fine, I won't.” I'd traveled that road before today and gotten nowhere fast. “So you think we can go soon?” Putting distance between us and Sangre Island felt like putting distance between us and Paul Goertz's death.

  “Let's hope. Uncle Mutt's calling a family meeting tonight, after he has himself a long chat with Philip. And Wendy.”

  I swallowed. I would not want to be in their shoes, facing Mutt's formidable wrath.

  Pop leaned against the shelves. He looked weary to the bone. I wanted to go and embrace him, tell him I knew about the family's dark past, but I didn't. He would have to tell me his secret, on his own terms. I could not ford that deep, harsh river for him. He opened his mouth, as if to speak, then closed it firm.

  “You probably need to talk to Gretchen, explain how things are between us. I need to go talk to Candace.”

  “Okay, son.” He came forward, and awkwardly embraced me in a bearish hug. The thump of his heart thrummed against my chest and his breath, scented with bourbon, was a warm stream against my ear. For all my famed wit and tongue, I had no words. He did.

  “I love you,” he murmured; he kissed the side of my cheek, and embraced me again. He released me after another moment and turned away. I watched him leave the den and felt, for one terrible moment, as if I'd stepped off the edge of a precipice. Gravity was not the only inexorable force in the world. Love's just as potent.

  I went upstairs to tell Candace I had a father. And to set in motion the most horrifying night of my life.

  19

  I didn't find Candace in her room. So I ambled down to Deborah's quarters, thinking she might be visiting my cousin. My cousin. It seemed even more real now that Pop was Pop. I felt light, almost giddy, as though a weight had been lifted from my aching back. The choice to love is frightening, but it's also energizing. I felt like a new man. In many ways, I was.

  Deborah, sitting on her bed, saw it in my face. She sat in a dim circle of light tossed by her bedside lamp, perusing a photo album. “You look happy. What's up?”

  It seemed wrong to share my good news before telling Candace, so I simply smiled and said, “I let my head soften a tad.”

  She glanced at me in puzzlement. “What?”

  “Stubbornness. I shed myself of some of it tonight.” I sat on the edge of the bed.

  “That's not always a smart move.” She closed the album and tossed it away from her, as if it reeked.

  “Deborah. What's going on here?”

  “What do you mean?” She evaded my stare, watching the lightning-now nearly continuous-as it illuminated the sky.

  “With you and this family.”

  She didn't respond for so long I thought she had not heard my softly uttered question. She slicked her lips with her tongue, still not looking at me. Finally she spoke. “I'm just a bad reminder, Jordan.”

  “Of what?”

  “An unfortunate time for this family.”

  “I'm sorry.”

  She laughed, a short, brittle, horrible sound. “You're a stranger, and you care more than they do. Think any of these people gave a shit about my mother? Oh, sure, they were sorry as hell she died. Terribly sad, terribly unfortunate, and wasn't she so pretty? They spoke all the right lines in the play of mourning. But I never felt they cared about my mom.” She paused. “Your mom's sick, right? Alzheimer's?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is it bad?”

  “Very.”

  “But she still draws breath,” Deborah murmured. “My mother's face was blown off. I shouldn't dwell on it, but I do. You can at least hold your mother, tell her you love her, touch her hair. I can only drop flowers on a cold grave.”

  My heart ached for her. I didn't know sorrow like Deborah's.

  “So the Goertzes were more worried about your dad?”

  “Worried? Embarrassed is more like it. Horrified at what was being written in the papers: Paul Goertz wanted for murder.” She licked her lips again and I saw the worn exhaustion in her face. “Ever have a murderer in your family?”

  “No. Well, not that I know of.” The lie came easily.

  She laughed again, jagged and full of weary sadness. “It's kind of like playing a board game. Rule one: Don't ever pass Go without being reminded your father's a killer. Rule two: Never speak of it to outsiders. You get really good at manufacturing colossal lies. Where's my dad? He travels a lot. Hong Kong, Paris, Berlin. Or he died of cancer, always an easy out.” She closed her eyes. “Rule three: Anyone who breaks the first two rules gets the whole wrath of the family down on them.”

  “And wrath is what? Bitchy comments from Lolly? A whack from Jake's cane? A lecture on loyalty from Mutt?”

  “You don't understand.” Deborah's voice was a tight wire of anger. “I'm afraid of them.”

  “Your own family? For God's sake, why?”

  “They-they-”she stumbled. To my shock, I saw fear in her face as dark and deep as a well. “Because-”

  A terrible realization nudged against my consciousness. And Deborah's words on the porch what seemed like an eternity ago: Brian used to be sure our father was alive somewhere…

  “What happened to your brother, Deborah?”

  Her lips tightened into a grieving line. “I told you. He died.”

  “When he was about twelve or so?”

  “Yes. We also don't talk about it much.” Her voice lowered to the barest of whispers.

  “He died in this house, though, didn't he?” I tried not to picture the shade I'd imagined in the attic.

  “Not… not in the house. He died down off the beach.”

  “Tell me.”

  “He… he went swimming. By himself, late at night, when we were all here for a family reunion. He got a cramp, or something. He got caught out in the surf. He drowned.” Deborah didn't look at me.

  I blinked, trying to blur away the image of the boy I'd seen in the attic.

  “How did you know? Who told you? Bob Don?” she asked.

  “No. Gretchen,” I answered automatically. Actually, I saw your dead brother. Wild, ain't it? I can't say he sends his best; he glared at me with bitter hatred. I took a long, shuddering breath. “I'm so sorry, Deborah.”

  Her hand clasped mine. “Why do you want to know about Brian?”

  The answer, lurking in my heart, was in my mouth before I could even give it form. “My family is a great one for reminiscing. For keeping the dead alive in our hearts, by sharing stories about them, talking about them, letting those who came after they were gone know about them. Ever read Katherine Anne Porter's story 'Old Mortality'? Talks about how dead relatives get built into these amazing legends. I loved that story, because it rang so true to my own family.” I shook my head. “But the Goertzes are strange. They're not like any other family I've ever seen. They don't talk about their dead. I've yet to hear one memory, one anecdote, about anyone in this family who's passed on. Did you all take a vow of silence?”

  “No. It's not entirely true. Tom and I care about my brother, still.”

  “Tom?”

  “I know you think he's a hair-trigger temper, but he's a good man at heart. He was always so good to Brian. Tom's sure-” And her voice broke, as though recognizing the betraying tone of confiding in me.

  I changed tactics. “There wasn't anything suspicious about Brian's death, was there?”

  Her eyes widened in shock. “Of course not. Of co
urse not! There couldn't be, it was only the family that was here-”

  “Just like last night? When Lolly dropped dead?” I grabbed Deborah's arms and pulled her close to me. “You don't believe your aunt committed suicide, do you? Or had a simple heart attack?”

  She averted her face from mine. “I don't know what to believe. She was a sick woman, you know that.”

  “Tell me about your brother. What was he like?”

  She broke away from me and fled to the window, leaning her head against the rattling pane. More thunder sounded, counterpoint to the building wind. “Please don't make me talk about Brian. Please.”

  I surrendered, realizing I'd rudely overstepped the bounds of decency in pressing her for information. “Deborah, I'm sorry. I don't mean to upset you.”

  “Well, you do.” She pivoted and glared at me. “Meaning well, though, I'm sure. You're awfully busy prying into your new family's past. Ever think you might be ignoring Candace?”

  I didn't answer her immediately. “Did Candace complain to you?”

  “Jordan. She's a wonderful girl and she loves you so. And I know you love her. Why don't you just take her and leave? The police can't possibly suspect you in Lolly's death-”

  “They might.”

  “Now you're manufacturing excuses. Are you staying for Bob Don's sake?”

  “In a matter of speaking,” I answered carefully. I turned to leave. “And if I stay, Deb, it's because, as strange as it seems to me, y'all are family now. And I've never abandoned family in crisis. Never.”

  She didn't say anything as I left.

  Candace wasn't in her room, and she wasn't waiting in mine either. Damn. I glanced at my closet and, against my will, a prickle of goose bumps raised themselves along my flesh.

  Something's up there.

  I took a steadying breath. Don't be ridiculous.

  “Counting clouds?” a voice boomed behind me, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. I turned to find Philip glaring at me, lounging against my doorway, his arms crossed casually across his chest.

  “No, just thinking.”

  “Thinking, Jordan? Like about how you can screw me over next?” His face darkened and he spoke so softly I could barely hear him over the gusts hammering against the house.

  “I'm not trying to screw you, Philip,” I retorted.

  “Oh, really? So you just manufacture these lies about me for idle amusement?”

  “I didn't lie about what I saw. Or what I heard.”

  His tone harshened, the old cadence of the schoolyard bully. “You don't want to fuck with me.”

  “Or what?” I shot back, feeling a creeping weariness set into my bones. “I'm not the least bit afraid of you, Philip. And if you've committed murder, I'm going to see you go down for it.”

  “Ah. The big detective,” he mocked. “I don't suppose it ever occurred to you that- if we had a copy of Bitter Money -I looked at it because I saw Lolly die and I recognized the symptoms of digitalis poisoning?”

  “I didn't know you were well-read.”

  “You can be snide with me all you want, Jordan. But I didn't murder my aunt, and I didn't plant those pills in your room.”

  “Even if you didn't kill Lolly, you're trying to steal from Mutt. You-”

  “Why don't you use that vaunted brain of yours? Let's say I did return the copy of that damn book so no one would see it. If you and Mutt hadn't been in the library, I wouldn't have had to be secretive. Think about it.”

  I opened my mouth and then shut it lest flies nest.

  “You suspected Lolly had been poisoned like the wife in Bitter Money, and Uncle Mutt killed his own sister?”

  “You're not the only one who might play Holmes.”

  “All right, Sherlock. Why would Mutt kill Lolly?” My eyes narrowed. “And why are you suddenly confiding in me?”

  “I would never make the mistake of confiding in you,” he snapped. “You jump to too many conclusions and you act way too impulsively. I'm just asking you, before you go off half-cocked again, to sit and watch the cars go by.”

  “Cars? You make no sense.”

  He grabbed my arm. He was surprisingly strong and yanked me closer to him. I tried to wrench my arm free, but Philip held me in a relentless grip.

  “I'm only warning you for Bob Don's sake. I don't think you're really worth sticking my neck out for, but I'm gonna. You're his kid and he loves you something fierce. So just listen to me. Stay out of this goddamned mess, stay as far away from Uncle Mutt as you can, and go home as soon as you're able.” His slow, languorous drawl had speeded to a brisk pace, kept low to a harsh whisper. His eyes were chips of cobalt in the dim light from my bedside lamp and his heavy face resembled smoothed, implacable marble.

  “Let go,” I said distinctly, not bothering to hiss as he had.

  He released his vise, and an expression of resignation crossed his face. I yanked my arm away.

  “Don't lay a hand on me again, Philip,” I said.

  “I won't. I won't bother to warn you again.”

  A nervous rap sounded from the door frame, and Aunt Sass stood there, watching us both. “Uncle Mutt's called a family gathering. Downstairs, in the library.”

  “With Professor Plum and the candlestick?” Philip joked. No one laughed. He turned without another word and brushed past her.

  She watched my face, her own expressionless. “Don't tell me Philip rattled you? I thought you lacked nerves. Or feelings.”

  “Of course not.” I started toward the door, not willing to suffer her company. She pushed a hand, hard with rings and nails, against my shoulder.

  “My brother claims you and he have settled your differences. Says y'all are truly father and son now.”

  “And I'm sure it galls you.” I kept my voice low. I wasn't about to let Sass steam me again.

  “Make sure it works out. Don't renege on your promise. I don't want to see my brother hurt any more.”

  “Yes. Your support is just the kind he needs.” I moved past her.

  “And be kind to Gretchen. No one wants her upset and drinking again,” Sass called to my back.

  I turned slowly. Her smugness was practically a low art form. I wanted to tell her I knew all about her family's filthy secret and see if she could squirm. But I held my silence as close as a lover. I didn't answer, just looked at her, and eventually she wriggled under my gaze, crossing her arms in discomfort.

  “Why do I believe Gretchen drunk and Bob Don unhappy truly wouldn't matter much to you?”

  “That's ridiculous.”

  “Do you think they don't deserve to be happy?” After all, he killed your other brother. Shouldn't he pay? But I kept my thoughts to myself.

  “I declare there's something wrong with you,” she muttered, pushing past me in her own retreat. I followed her down the stairs to the clan gathering.

  The study was funereally quiet. It looked like a room that belonged in a far more placid house. Books stood lined per-fectly on the shelves, patiently awaiting interested readers; a crystal vase of lilies stood on a side table, mournfully drooping in shallow water; the television was tuned to a sports channel, muted. Baseball players moved between the points of the great diamond, the crowd celebrating silently as the runners headed home. The collected Goertzes ignored the excitement on the screen.

  I found Candace sitting with Deborah on the couch. Tom stood moodily by the windows, close to the hammer of rain pounding the panes. He did not even look at me as I came in. Philip and Sass, my favorites, stood near the fireplace, heads leaning close together. Wendy roamed the room, bringing drinks. Aubrey stood on the opposite side of the room from Tom, watching the assemblage with guarded eyes. Jake sat in his customary chair, staring off into the air, his face creased with sadness. I wondered if he was finally beginning to mourn for Lolly.

  Pop and Gretchen stood near the television, talking in hushed tones. Gretchen caught my eye and gave me a shaky smile.

  Maybe everything was going to be okay.

>   Mutt strode into the study. His body seemed tensed and he darted a quick glance around the entire room, as if quickly tallying attendance. “Get settled, y'all.” He went to the television and switched off the baseball game. “Everyone get a drink, if you don't have one. Wendy'll get them.”

  Wendy paused in front of me, since nearly everyone else already had glasses in hand. “What do you want?” she asked.

  “Beer, please.” I watched her retrieve a cold bottle of Shiner Bock from the study's bar refrigerator. Aubrey, Gretchen, and Candace all declined alcohol. Aubrey poured tall glasses of cranberry juice for himself and Candace. Gretchen opted for a can of diet cola.

  “Everyone got their drink?” Mutt asked as Wendy handed me my beer.

  “This ain't no party, Mutt,” Uncle Jake huffed. “If you got a point, make it.”

  “I do,” he said, and he hoisted his own glass of bourbon in the air. “To Lolly. To her beloved memory.”

  Awkward silence filled the air, then a rush of voices murmured in unison, “To Lolly.” We all sipped at our drinks. I felt little enthusiasm for Mutt's toast; it seemed in odd taste, at best. Pop wouldn't catch my eyes; he was busy watching Gretchen, sitting next to him on an antique chaise.

  “And where have the police run off to?” Aubrey inquired. He sipped again at his juice and sent a challenging stare over the rim of his glass at his uncle.

  'They have not run off, Aubrey. They've left this family to mourn alone, as they should.” Mutt iced his answer with a chilling tone.

  “And without completing their investigation,” Philip quietly observed.

  “My sister's death is a terrible tragedy. There's nothing to investigate.” Mutt didn't act like he'd heard Philip's aside.

  “Cost you a pretty penny, didn't it?” Aubrey said. He took another hard swig of his juice and the look on his face suggested he'd consider spitting it at Mutt.

  I sipped my beer and watched Mutt's reaction. He shook his head sadly at Aubrey. “You perplex me, Aubrey. That's just the word for what you do. You nag this whole family to get in touch with their feelings, but as soon as we start expressing grief, you turn up your nose. Do we stink like shit to you?”