Distant Blood

by Jeff Abbott

  His eyes were blue steel on mine and I realized, sickeningly, that I'd completely miscalculated. Bob Don meant business, and in the worst way. “This isn't Mirabeau. You are here by invitation, boy, and that invitation has just been revoked. As soon as Mutt gets back, you go. You leave here. If you don't, I knock you out and dump you on the boat back to the mainland myself. Whether or not you and I are still father and son—and the whole concept kinda seems a joke right now, since you won't show me a dog's consideration— will depend on what happens when I get back to Mirabeau.”

  Anger coursed into my face; I could feel the blush deepen my skin. Hurt forked my tongue into a weapon. “I haven't exactly behaved like the model son? I'm sorry to disappoint you. But that's inevitable when you stick me up on a pedestal so high I can't even see you or the ground. You haven't treated me like a son; you've treated me like a pathetic charity case, like I'm some mistake you've got to make up for.” Sass's cruel words rang in my ear. You're a mistake. “A mistake. Is that how you view me?”

  “Your mama was sharp-tongued, too, when she got riled,” he muttered.

  “And what's that shit?” I barked. “I'm sick of these little insights into my mother's character you seem compelled to offer me. Do you think I don't know her? I spent a hell of a lot more time with her than you ever did!”

  “That wasn't my choice. I loved her,” he said through gritted teeth.

  I shook my head. “It still amazes me she cheated on my father with you. I can't quite picture it. Maybe it wasn't the grand passion you've painted. Maybe it was two or three quickies in the toolshed. God knows there aren't any other witnesses to back you up. Maybe I am a mistake, then. Maybe my mother wasn't anything to you but a convenient piece of ass and all I am is you not having a rubber in your pocket when you got a bad itch to fu—”

  He stepped forward then, quickly, and slapped me across the face. The force of the blow was not hard, but I rocked back on my heels, my hands groping for the swing's chain. Shock and surprise lit his own eyes, and as I rubbed my stinging cheek I saw the hand he'd struck me with quaver.

  “Jordan—” he croaked.

  “You hit me,” I said, my voice shockingly mild.

  “No.” He shook his head. “I won't have you talk about your mama and me that way.”

  “I don't want to hear the same old litany, Bob Don. You made your feelings clear just now.” A sharp stabbing pain lanced my heart. Oh, what had I done?

  He stepped forward, remorse etched in his face. I wanted to hit him. I wanted to hold him. I wanted to turn away and pretend that this terrible exchange had never taken place. Instead I looked past his shoulder to see two boats roaring across Matagorda Bay toward Sangre Island.

  I STUMBLED UP THE STAIRS OF THE CREAKY house. I went to Candace's room and rapped quickly before stepping inside. Candace glanced up from her magazine. She didn't look so sickly; a bit of color had returned to her face. Her eyes widened at my expression.

  “Uncle Mutt's on his way back. With the police. If they need to talk to us, we'll talk. Otherwise, get your bags packed, we're going.”

  “Going? Going where?”

  “Back to Mirabeau. Bob Don's made it abundantly clear that we're no longer welcome here.”

  She dropped her magazine. “What are you ranting about? And what about Aunt Lolly's funeral?”

  I didn't bother to hide the anger heating my blood. “The man who provided the sperm to create me is no longer interested in my company. He doesn't trust me, and I can't be a son to him, Candace. He doesn't want us at Lolly's service. You thought he'd need us, he doesn't, believe me.”

  I tossed one of her carry-ons onto the bedspread and reached for her book bag. “Where's your stuff? We can be gone in an hour or so, if the cops don't need further statements from us.”

  “Wait a minute! Hold on, ace.” She took the other bag from my hands. “Tell me what's going on.”

  I started, sounding like a recalcitrant child disavowing his own blame in a schoolyard squabble. “He's all bent out of shape because he thinks I'm snooping around his precious family. And now it's become pretty obvious that he's not going to trust me with whatever haunts him here and I don't believe he ever loved my mother and I'm sick of him trying to tell me what kind of person she was and—” Hot shame silenced my torrent of words. I felt roiling nausea churn my guts. I turned from Candace and hurried into her bathroom. I knelt before the open toilet right before lunch made an encore appearance.

  When I'd quit retching, I spat the sourness out of my mouth. I clenched my eyes closed and leaned against the porcelain bowl. There are not many moments in a man's life when the quiet, comfortable fabric of his existence unravels in a long, painful thread. I'd had my share: the damp-smelling funeral parlor where my grandfather lay in the quiet of his coffin and I had my first look at human death; the dark, rainy morning the doctors told me with their fixed expressions of professional disappointment that Daddy was dying and they could do nothing; the faultlessly beautiful night in Boston when the phone call came from Sister that my mother had been diagnosed with Alzheimer's; the vengeful, drunken slur of Gretchen's words when she told me I was Bob Don's bastard. I felt the wrenching tug at my heart that this was another such moment. I'd laid open the anger, frustration, and pain I'd nursed so carefully, treasured so well, against Bob Don and my poor mother. I'd suggested their love—and I should have known better of them both—was nothing but physical pleasure, Bob Don was a callow cad, and my mother—my beloved, smart, funny, unpredictable, kindhearted mother—no better than an easy lay.

  If I had decided to be mad, it was in the sense of insane.

  I spat again into the toilet. Candace had followed me and, without speaking, rinsed a washcloth and applied it to the warm spot where neck met back.

  “You've been urping, too,” I said by way of casual conversation. “Maybe I've caught whatever you've got.”

  She rubbed the cool comfort of the cloth against my neck and splayed her fingers into the short hair on the back of my head. “I don't think so. Can you tell me what happened, honey?”

  I retold the tale, not shying away from my own culpa-bility in the stupid exchange. Candace listened, and when I was done, she rubbed her eyes with her fingertips.

  “Oh, Jordy. Please don't do this to him and to yourself.”

  “Do what?”

  “If I have ever doubted you and Bob Don are blood kin, that doubt has to be gone. Y'all are so much alike it's not remotely funny.”

  “Great. Now you, too. Listen, I don't want to hear a lot of psychobabble about this, Candace. Can't you just tell me I'm right and agree with me, for once, that Bob Don and I do not a family make?”

  “Loving you doesn't mean sharing your brainwave pattern,” she answered, not unkindly. She mopped at my lips with the wet washcloth. “Maybe we should all breathe a sigh of relief this finally happened.”

  “What?”

  “You're arguing. It might be healthy. Like I said before, you and Bob Don acting like a real father and son is long overdue.”

  I stood and went to the sink. I ran water into my cupped hand, slurped it into my mouth, and rinsed the ick from my gullet. I spat back into the sink and stood to look at the woman I loved.

  “One of your most annoying traits, Candace,” I said with a calm I didn't feel, “is that you always talk like you're some special seer. Like God pointed you and you alone to the flowchart of my life. That you know what everyone ought to be doing or thinking or saying to each other. And that if folks don't follow your advice, you can peer into that crystal ball you keep stashed away from the rest of us and foresee the onrushing doom. God, I'm tired of that!”

  “Jordan, don't yell at me.”

  The calm tone of her voice grated like fingernails raking a chalkboard. “I will yell, thanks. I will yell my throat raw if I feel like it. I have spent the past year trying to get used to the idea of a car salesman that I never liked much being my father. Of my mother being an adulteress. Of living the rest
of my life in a little town that I love, but that offers me very few career choices. And watching my mother slide down into dementia. You know, those aren't fun things, Candace. Disney hasn't designed a ride around those little activities quite yet. And now I've gotten to meet my new family. And what a fucking thrill that's been!”

  She was silent.

  “I don't like to whine. Truly I don't. But I am tired, sweetheart.” My voice dropped and my head felt light. “I am tired of feeling like I've got to adopt Bob Don just because maybe he didn't wear a rubber thirty years ago—”

  “Jordan!”

  “—and because you keep telling me I need to give him a chance. No, I don't. There is no law, legal or moral, that says I have to give him the time of day. I don't need another father. I buried my father already. I would just as soon leave now, like he wants. I'm tired of being treated like a pariah here. I'm tired of feeling like I must apologize for who or what I am. And I'm so mad at him, at my mother, I can't even think straight. I said rotten things to him—and a part of me meant it.”

  “Are you done?” Her words were soft. I felt my fury begin to subside.

  I stood and leaned against the towel rack, feeling more tired than I believed possible. “No. Yes. I don't know. Please, can't we just get out of here?”

  “Fine, we'll leave.” She turned soundlessly away and began packing. She folded shirts and walking shorts with cold precision, not looking at me. Finally she spoke: “I have to say you surprise me—I never thought you'd run away.”

  “There's a difference between running away and acknowledging you've had enough,” I answered. She didn't look at me, briskly packing her belongings.

  I had never spoken so harshly to her before. But I felt the sudden weight of weariness that I'd tried to ignore for months crash down on me. My relationship with Bob Don seemed finished, and with an icy idleness, I wondered if the same could be said for Candace. The thought jolted me and I forced it toward the back of my mind. I helped her in piling clothes into her bag. Neither of us spoke.

  We didn't get a chance to finish stuffing the luggage.

  Aubrey knocked on the door and opened it, barely waiting for an answer.

  “Y'all gotta come downstairs. Mutt and the police are here.” He ran a trembling hand across the sheen of new sweat on his forehead. “They got the autopsy results.”

  “It was a heart attack,” Uncle Mutt said in a low, soft voice. “Lolly had a heart attack.”

  Silence greeted this announcement. I sat on the couch, sandwiched between Candace and Deborah. The air in the study felt old and heavy, like air from a tomb recently opened. My hand wandered to Candace's and I took hers in mine. Sweat slicked her palms.

  Sass and Aubrey sat on the other couch, with Bob Don and Gretchen. Sass stood. She held hands with her son.

  “Uncle Mutt. At least it was quick.” Her voice quavered. “The poor dear didn't suffer much.” As I listened to Sass speak I watched Bob Don. He would not look at me, instead concentrating on comforting Gretchen. She pressed her face into her fists and didn't respond to her husband's touch.

  “When will we have her … body back for the service?” Sass asked.

  Tricia Yarbrough, the justice of the peace who'd visited us before, and Victor Mendez exchanged glances. Finally Judge Yarbrough spoke. “Not quite yet, Cecilia. I've ordered further toxicology tests on Lolly's body.”

  Ice trenched Mutt's voice. “That's ridiculous, Tricia. The coroner said heart attack, what else is there to know?”

  “The coroner also said Lolly had no signs of heart disease. There's no reason for her heart to have given out the way it did.”

  “Sometimes these things just happen …” Sass ventured.

  Mendez cleared his throat. “Judge Yarbrough thought there was sufficient reason to call for the additional toxicology tests. Considering Mrs. Throckmorton's heart was healthy—and there was digitalis-based medication missing from the house.”

  Mutt stared hard at the authorities. “I hope you're not implying my sister took her own life. She would never do such a thing.”

  Tricia Yarbrough pursed her lips. “I'm sorry, Emmett. Truly I am. But I have no choice. We've got to know what killed her.”

  “And if Aunt Lolly had no cause to commit suicide?” I piped up. Glares arrowed in on me.

  “For God's sake, the woman was half-crazy,” Deborah said matter-of-factly. “I'm sorry to be so blunt, Uncle Mutt. But Lolly wasn't balanced. She had no business taking care of Uncle Jake and being entrusted with potentially dangerous medications.”

  “Lolly was eccentric, not crazy. There's a real big difference, Deb,” Mutt boomed. “My sister would not take her own life.”

  “If they find digitalis, and she didn't commit suicide, Uncle Mutt, that's not going to leave many attractive alternatives,” I said.

  “Stay out of this, Jordan,” Mutt said. “You don't know what you're talking about.”

  “She was threatening me,” I said. Candace's hand tightened against mine. I glanced at Victor Mendez, who stood near the study door. I explained quickly to the family about the malicious cards I'd received, and told Mutt that I'd found another vicious note in Lolly's closet. “I'm sorry, Uncle Mutt. But you can't tell me sending those cards was the act of a balanced mind.”

  “Holy hell,” Uncle Jake murmured. Uncle Mutt's face reddened with ire.

  “No. Lolly would not do such a thing. She would not. Someone planted that card in her closet, Jordan.”

  A hush fell over the room. “Why?” Sass finally asked. “Why would someone frame Lolly for scaring Jordan?”

  “I don't know!” Mutt snapped. He ran a hand through his hair, grief painting its rictus on his handsome face. “This ain't happening. It was a heart attack, for God's sake! She didn't kill herself and she wasn't murdered.”

  “Uncle Mutt, please, be reasonable,” Philip said. He began to pace back and forth before the windows as he spoke, like a lawyer delivering eloquent summation. “We have to quit kidding ourselves that Lolly was entirely sane. She very well might have ended her own life.”

  Mutt sank into a chair by our couch. Deborah reached out to embrace him. He leaned against her and she wrapped her arms around his shoulders. His face reflected his misery. “I don't understand. Why would she try to frighten Jordan away from our reunion? She said she was excited about meeting him. And why, why kill herself?”

  Philip knelt before Mutt. “I'm so, so sorry, Uncle Mutt.”

  I couldn't remain silent. “Philip,” I managed to croak. “Why don't you explain what I saw last night when you and Mutt and I were in the library.”

  Tricia Yarbrough and Victor Mendez had remained silent during this exchange. I'd felt their eyes wander from face to face, lingering a moment, perhaps weighing us each on some internal measure of guilt and complicity. Now I felt Mendez's dark eyes rivet on me as I tried to find my voice again.

  Philip stared at me. “Excuse me? I don't know what to explain because I don't know what you saw.”

  “I saw you replace a book on the shelves. A copy of Bitter Money.” I blinked at Mutt and Mendez and my voice strengthened. “It was a best-seller several years ago—an account of the Maggie Mason murder case. Her husband poisoned her with digitalis-based medication.”

  Mutt bolted to his feet, grabbing Philip by his shirtfront. “What? Any truth in this, Philip?”

  Philip paid Mutt no heed; rather, he fixed a saucy smile at me over his uncle's shoulder. “I have no idea what Jordan's talking about, Uncle Mutt.”

  I stood, releasing Candace's hand, and went to the shelf where I'd seen Philip return the book. My heart sank as I saw the slot was empty; the book mat had been next to Bitter Money leaned into the space like a weary companion.

  “The book is gone,” I said, feeling my spirits sink.

  “If it were ever there,” Philip snorted.

  “And why would he lie, Mr. Bedrich?” Victor Mendez finally spoke. I was used to far more vocal police officers, but Mendez s
eemed the sort to observe and analyze, not interfere.

  Philip tried to shrug, but Mutt kept his shoulders in a steely grip. “Answer the man, Philip,” Mutt demanded.

  “I don't know why Jordan's fabricating this tale. We don't know him at all. He's a stranger.”

  Bob Don spoke: “I can assure you all Jordan is no liar.” Throughout this tribute Bob Don kept his gaze firmly on Victor Mendez. Gretchen glanced toward me with red-rimmed eyes.

  “I didn't slip any book back on the shelf. The idea is ridiculous.” Philip patted Mutt's hand, as if begging for release. Mutt eased his grip and Philip took a step backward. “If I was going to borrow the idea of poisoning Aunt Lolly, I wouldn't return the book. I'm not stupid. I'd destroy it, like I would any evidence against me.”

  “You sound like a seasoned professional at this,” Can-dace said. I suppose I hadn't alienated her entirely if she could still spring to my defense. “And as you point out, Philip, the book is missing.”

  “You might not want to destroy the book, if Uncle Mutt or someone else who spends time in this study would notice that it was gone,” I said. I wanted to search the shelves for the copy of Bitter Money, pulling volumes off in a frenzy. But I didn't. I forced myself to a calmness I hadn't had with Bob Don or Candace.

  “Mr. Goertz? Would you notice if a particular book was gone from here?” Mendez asked. He stared at Philip, who decided to quit glaring at me and now studied the pattern on the antique rug. The glibness faded from his face.

  “Hell. Uncle Jake and Lolly read more true crime than I ever did. I don't recall the particular book that Jordan mentions. I might not notice. But Uncle Jake might.” Mutt leaned toward Jake. “Uncle Jake? You know this book Jordan speaks of?”

  Jake sat enthroned in a deep leather chair that looked ready to swallow him. He glared at Philip with undisguised loathing. “Yes, we had a copy of Bitter Money. I clearly remember reading it and Lolly read it as well. I don't believe we ever got rid of the book. It should still be here.”