Distant Blood

by Jeff Abbott

  My shoulder blades itched as I worked, as though Sass's words had left a spike in my back. Just exactly how did I propose to bring this poisoner to justice without exposing Pop as a killer? Even though I knew he'd shot Paul in self-defense—or even by accident—the family had conspired to cover the death up as though it'd been the most heinous fratricide ever committed. What if the police and the courts viewed Pop's actions as homicide? By continuing to pry into the past, I might be sending my father to prison.

  I emptied the tomato soup—its tanginess nipping at my nose—into a pot and turned on the heat. The soup resembled sour, thick blood and again I fought back thoughts of Candace. Red. Reddish soup, reddish blood on her legs, on my hands. I remembered last Valentine's Day—the scattering of red rose petals on my bed, our laughter at my silly antics, which seemed so far away.

  I belonged by her side.

  I wondered: if I did nothing, would anyone act? Lolly was dead. Aubrey and Candace might die. And with a mad poisoner in the family, would any of us truly be safe?

  I was risking my father's freedom by proceeding with an investigation. But I was letting a murderer get away, scot-free, if I didn't intervene. I slathered butter on bread, stuck cheese in between, and began to grill the sandwiches, the heat from the stove offering a little comfort as the storm continued to rage.

  “Smells good,” a voice said behind me. I hadn't heard Tom come into the kitchen. He stood by the refrigerator and fished a can of cola from its depths. He glanced at the makeshift dinner I was preparing. “And very smart, too, Jordan. Cheese and bread and canned soup. Safe and difficult to tamper with.”

  “Have you given the subject of poisoning a lot of thought, Tom?” A cold anger threaded through my body as I watched him lounge against the refrigerator. He popped open his Coke and took a long draw.

  “Well, Gretchen came down and said Aubrey and Candace seemed to be improving—”

  “Candace was pregnant. She miscarried.”

  My words struck like a slap. His mouth gaped. “Jesus Christ, Jordan, I'm sorry. Holy hell.”

  I moved away from the stove and toward him. “You nearly beat Aubrey to a pulp today. And when you were putting Jake to bed tonight, he mentioned you'd been digging around the island. Is there some connection there, Tom?”

  He stiffened and his pale specter's eyes locked on mine. “I had nothing to do with Aubrey's poisoning.”

  “Then who did?” Only a chopping block, with a score of magnetically attached kitchen utensils dangling above it, separated us.

  “I don't know.”

  “Why were you pummeling Aubrey earlier today?”

  “It's a private matter between him and me.”

  I shook my head. “Wrong. No private matters left, Tom. Not after murder and attempted murder.” My skin felt white-hot as I stared at him. Why wouldn't he tell me the truth? “If you hurt Candace—if you killed my baby—there's no place on earth you'll be able to hide from me, Tom.”

  He tensed, his muscles straining like whipcord under his shirt. He was older than me, but tautly fit. “You and I have no quarrel.”

  “As long as I stay out of your business, right?”

  “Right.”

  “If Aubrey lives, do you think he'll continue to be quiet about your feud? Especially if he doesn't know who laced his juice?”

  Tom's face blanched. “Aubrey knows how to keep his silence.”

  “Rules change when someone tries to kill you. Or tries to kill someone you love.” My voice was barely a whisper, but my words seemed to thunder in my ears. I could feel the war drum of my own pulse, a maddening beat. A connection suddenly formed in my mind.

  “That shovel. What have you been digging for, Tom? Buried treasure? Or maybe buried bodies?”

  “I don't have to listen to this crap—” He began to turn away from me, and I whirled him back around with a strength I didn't know I had.

  “You shit. You knew. You're looking for Paul's body, aren't you?”

  Anger darkened his features and I stood there slack-jawed. He jerked his head toward the stove, where a plume of smoke billowed from the pan. “Your sandwiches are burning.”

  “Tell me. Tell me what you know—” I barely had time to utter the request before his fist came flying at me. I didn't react soon enough. He clubbed me on the side of the head and I fell, twinkling lights playing about my eyes and the odor of singed cheese in my nostrils.

  Tom leaned down toward me, his voice nearly soothing. “Little boys who don't know better get killed around here. I'm not your enemy. Put some ice on your cheek before it swells.” He turned to saunter out.

  Not hardly.

  I grabbed him before he'd taken four steps, whirled him hard once, and belted my fist across his smirking face. He staggered back and I pile-drived another punch into his gut. His breath whooshed out satisfyingly and his bone-pale eyes bulged in surprise.

  “Catch your breath,” I advised him, “and get ready to talk, Tom.”

  “You,” he managed, a dribble of blood oozing from his cut lip. “You shit. You made a mistake, buddy.” He launched himself at me, mowing me down in his embrace and tumbling us both against the kitchen's back door. Glass shattered, wood splintered, and as he collapsed heavily against me, every bone in my body cried in agony. Rain, roaring in from the broken door pane, splashed our faces.

  I lashed out a kick, catching him in the chest, and he cussed at me with his meager lung power. I scrambled past him, trying to get the advantage by not being pinned against the door. He clawed at my legs, his nails raking down my bare skin. I twisted away, but not quick enough; his pum-meling fists rained down on the back of my head, driving me to the floor. He smashed a hard blow between my shoulder blades—at a spot no doubt marked hit here for maximum pain—and my wind abandoned me. I tasted the grit of the floor, a nasty mix of dirt, salt, and grease.

  “Goddamn little idiot,” he huffed from above me. “You fucking think you know what you're doing. You don't.” I couldn't see Tom's face. I didn't dare look. I was too busy concentrating on inching my leg into position.

  “You don't want to delve deep here, okay? Otherwise, you end up like Aubrey—”

  Keep lecturing me, butthead.

  “—or maybe you end up like Brian—”

  Oh, shit.

  “—and I don't want to have to pound sense into you—”

  He didn't get the opportunity. I swung my leg hard, catching him in mid-sentence and off guard, my foot connecting decisively with the tenderest area of the knee. He hollered and collapsed like fallen timber, his body splaying out next to me. I sprang to my feet, my whole body a bruise, and I seized one of Wendy's heavy blades, held above the chopping block by a long magnetic strip. The handle felt smooth and firm in my hand as I tumbled down onto Tom's chest, my legs pinning down his arms and the cool of the blade hovering near his throat. His eyes widened.

  “Jordan—” he gasped.

  “Shut up for a minute,” I gasped back. “Just shut up.” I let the knife's tip pirouette near his flesh, barely skimming his Adam's apple.

  Tom shut up.

  I pushed down on his forehead with my left hand, my fingers tangling in his thick shock of hair. My voice was ragged, a stranger's rasp. “Now you listen. Secrets suck. Believe me, I know this. And secrets here have killed my baby and nearly killed the woman I love. So, Tom, you are going to tell me every secret I need to know.” I drew the knife lightly across his throat, tracing a wrinkle.

  “No—”

  “Tom. You are standing between me and the person who tried to kill Candace.” I whispered: “And between me and the person who killed my baby. It's not a place you want to be.”

  He clenched his eyes shut.

  A voice sounded from my throat, but not one I recognized as my own. “I'll cut you to the bone, Tom. No amount of plastic surgery will ever make your face right again. You tell me what I want to know.”

  A thick tear rolled from one of his eyes.

  I suddenly
wanted to cast the knife aside. I felt a violent surge of disgust thrum through my whole body. I had resorted to the basest violence, the most cowardly threats. A sick swell of nausea rolled through me, settling deep in my guts.

  “Please.” I coughed.

  “It's Mutt,” he breathed, a shuddery whisper. “Mutt poisoned them.”

  My breath froze in my throat. Thunder roared. “Why?”

  “Aubrey knows Paul died here on the island. Not suicide—”

  “How?” I demanded. “How does Aubrey know?”

  “Don't know,” Tom gasped. “Claims … he's got proof that Paul didn't commit suicide.”

  “What proof?”

  “Don't know—Aubrey won't tell me. I got so mad at him I tried to pummel it out of him—but you and Deborah stopped me.” His eyes rolled around, trying to see where I held the blade.

  I moved the knife fractionally back from Tom's throat. “And how did you know about Paul's death?”

  “Brian told … me he suspected Mutt had lied about Paul's suicide.”

  “When did Brian tell you?”

  “The day before he drowned.”

  “My God. That was fourteen years ago.”

  “Yes.”

  What had Tom said to me after he'd walloped me? Little boys who don't know better get killed around here.

  “Brian—” I murmured. “It wasn't an accident, was it? Oh, God, they killed him. They killed that little boy. Only twelve years old. Just like they killed his father.”

  “Not they,” Tom managed to speak. “Just Mutt. And Aubrey's protecting him. Or at least he was.”

  “You're sure it was Mutt?”

  “Can't prove it. Would love to. Before he gets away with it.”

  “He won't. There's no statute of limitations on murder.” I threw the knife away; it clattered across the floor. I stared down at Tom with a deep and abiding shame for what I'd done.

  “Except death. And I want to nail the bastard before this brain cancer kills him.” Tom rubbed at his throat and eyed me with new respect. “They teach you to punch like that in library school?”

  “I never went,” I answered. I stood, staggering away from him. The grilled-cheese sandwiches were blackened lumps in the ruined pan and I hurled them, pan and all, into the sink. The soup had boiled over, leaving a noxious bubbling mass. It, too, went into the sink.

  “You and I should be on the same side,” I said to him. He'd pulled himself to his feet. “Why do you want to fight everyone?”

  “How am I supposed to know whose side you're on?” he grumbled.

  “Oh, for Christ's sake.” I wanted to throttle him. “Do you think I want to protect Mutt if he poisoned Candace?” My head and back throbbed, aching from Tom's fists.

  “No. But you probably want to protect your daddy.” Tom lowered his voice. Oh, God. He knows, too.

  The kitchen door swung open. “What is that smell?” Wendy asked as she entered, followed by Philip. Both of them stopped and stared at the mess: a damaged back door, smoking pans in the sink, Tom bleeding from his mouth, my face a massive bruise.

  “What the hell—” Philip began.

  “Get out of here,” I yelled.

  “Tom? You okay?” Philip began, ogling me as if I were deranged.

  “Get out!” Tom hollered at his brother. Philip stumbled backward, and quickly escorted Wendy from the room. She shot me a look of stunned amazement before the door swung shut.

  I waited long seconds, hearing their footsteps retreat. “How do you know it's Mutt? How did he kill Brian? How did he poison Aubrey and Candace? And Lolly—”

  “Goddamn it. Do you think if I had the evidence, I wouldn't have turned him in already? I don't have anything but what Brian told me—that Mutt knew his daddy hadn't committed suicide and had buried him somewhere on the island. And that your daddy had helped.”

  “Why didn't you say anything after Brian died?”

  Tom sank to the floor. “Oh, God. I wanted to. But you don't break the code of silence.”

  “Tom, these people don't deserve loyalty like that. You're making yourself accessory to murder.” I didn't know the legal ramifications, but that sounded accurate. And I wanted to scare him.

  The tactic failed. “You think it was loyalty. Hell, no. I just didn't want to end up dead like Brian. And I couldn't prove he hadn't drowned. He liked to go for midnight swims when he could sneak out of the house. Mutt and Lolly'd both tan his hide if they caught him at it.” He broke into gasping sobs. “God, he was a great kid. Fuckers.”

  I leaned down next to him, the battle in me spent. “So why'd you change your mind?”

  He looked at me with his pale eyes, unfocused and veiled with unshed tears. “Oh, Christ, Brian comes to me in my dreams. He comes to me and tells me to look for his daddy's body. Here on the island. And he drags his fingers across my face, and when I wake up I can smell the dead rot of the sea.” He blinked and stared away from me. “It's driving me completely nuts. So I go and I dig. And I ain't found shit. Crazy, right?”

  “No. It's not. It's not crazy at all.” Two days ago I would have recommended a therapist for Tom. But that was before I'd seen the dark-throated boy in the blackness of the attic. I lowered my voice to a hoarse whisper. “What if I told you I've got the evidence Aubrey claimed to have?”

  Tom's eyes widened. “You do? What?”

  The jewelry of Paul's I'd found stashed in the attic was my only trump card, and I wasn't quite ready to trust Tom enough to toss it on the table. I hesitated and he saw the fear shine in my eyes.

  “What the hell,” Uncle Mutt's voice boomed from the dining-room door, “are you boys doing in here?” I whirled to see his mutilated hand pointing in accusation, the angry glare on his face, and the pistol he carried at his side, his fingers drumming restlessly against its dark skin.

  “LOOKS LIKE Y'ALL BEEN TUSSLIN' SOME,” Mutt said, watching us both with stony eyes. “I thought I heard a crash, but I just figured it was the storm. Didn't expect to find you boys tearing up my kitchen. So what's the problem?”

  I inhaled restorative air. “No problem. Just a misunderstanding. It's all cleared up now.” I eyed his sidearm. “No need to break out the artillery, Uncle Mutt.”

  The kind, cajoling grin he'd shown me in our times alone—the times when I believed I'd bonded with this lost uncle—was gone. In its place was a hard smile, one that did not suffer fools or shine upon the unlucky. “Why you boys resorting to fisticuffs? Jordan, you got a bruise coming up on your face gonna be as purple as a plum.”

  “I'm fine. Like I said, it's a misunderstanding.”

  “It's my fault, Uncle Mutt,” Tom interjected. He straightened and sniffed, wiping the blood away from his mouth. “I'm real sorry.”

  “Shut up, Tom.” Mutt favored me with a pitying glance. His eyes glinted with amused malice. A shudder of horror ran up the back of my legs and I leaned against the counter. “You sure you okay, Jordan?” he asked.

  “I'm fine,” I answered. Tension made my mouth taste of old pennies.

  “You sure you not back on the powder, Tom? You look a tad hyper.” Mutt glanced at me, his smile broadening. “See, Jordan, ol' Tom likes to take a toot now and then. It's been an ongoing problem for a while. He done lost a job over it and I had to make a goddamned big donation to an aquarium in Florida to get him another job.”

  Tom didn't look at me. “I'm clean, Mutt. And I've been clean for years.”

  “So why you so excitable tonight?” Mutt asked. His tone, idly baleful, didn't make me believe he expected a serious answer.

  “Uncle Mutt, aren't you going to ask how Aubrey and Candace are?” I shaded my voice with a calmness I didn't feel.

  “Son, I was just up there checking on them. They're both holding on, God bless them.” The thought of Mutt near either Candace or Aubrey made my blood run hot. He didn't exactly gesture with the pistol, but it moved in his hand. “Why don't we head into the living room and have a nice chat? Jordan, you want some ice for
that bruise?”

  “No, thanks. I'm fine.” An ice bag sounded like heaven, but I wasn't about to let Mutt minister to my needs. Mutt stepped back from the door, and not looking at each other, Tom and I went back to the study. Each stride felt like a step further out on the plank.

  I'm making a deal with the devil, I decided as Mutt escorted Tom and me into the study. I thought the rest of the family would be massed here, waiting—but the room was empty, except for Uncle Jake. Apparently retrieved from his bed by all the commotion, he sat huddled under a robe and a quilt, his long fingers splayed out across his face as he dozed in the deep of the leather chair. His skin looked as frail and creased as old paper. Rufus stood by the window, watching the tempest paint its fearsome beauty across the night sky.

  “Where is everybody?” I asked.

  “Showing some sense of self-preservation,” Jake muttered from his cocoon of fabric. “I think everybody's headed off to their rooms to wait out the storm.”

  I noticed Mutt hadn't relinquished his firearm yet. I would have to be very, very careful in what I said. I didn't speak but went and sat on the couch, feeling soreness and exhaustion vie for control of my body.

  “Jordan, I promise you, soon as the phones are back up, we'll get help here. Or we'll get the boat out as soon as the storm lets up, whichever comes first.”

  “Thank you,” I managed to say. The words felt dead in my mouth.

  Mutt fidgeted. I kept my eyes on the gun.

  Jake snorted. “You're making me nervous waving a goddamned firearm around, Emmett. You don't need that thing.”

  “Uncle Jake.” Tom finally spoke. “For God's sake, someone tried to kill Aubrey and Candace—”

  “Oh, hell,” Jake answered. “Maybe they just got food poisoning. Wendy ain't the cleanest cook around.”

  “It's not food poisoning, Jake,” I answered. I hesitated for a second, then plunged on: “Candace was pregnant. She miscarried.”

  “Oh, my God,” Jake breathed, covering his face with his wrinkled hands.

  Mutt walked toward me, his face working. “Deborah didn't tell me. Oh, God, Jordan, I'm so sorry.”