by Jeff Abbott
His eyes were stones. “I've told you truth.”
“Maybe half of it. That's the best lie to tell.” I cracked the magazine open; it wasn't loaded. “I see it's a specialty of yours.” I crossed to the phone and tried it again. Still dead.
The shut doors of the study rattled and Pop blustered in, fright in his face. My heart froze. “Candace?”
“She's the same. I think she's resting a little easier.” He glanced from Mutt to me. “What's going on here?”
“Your son's ready to destroy our family.” Mutt spoke sharply.
“This family was destroyed long before I got here,” I answered. I stuck the unloaded gun in my pocket. Mutt wasn't the only one who could benefit from a prop. “Excuse me.”
I left them, heading up the stairs. To Philip's room.
THE LOWING SOUNDS OF MEN SINGING GREGO-rian chants surprised me as I leaned close to Philip's shut door. The voices rose as if a cathedral lay on the other side of the wood. Throats hummed in praise of God, baritones mixing with the cry of countertenors.
Funeral music for Philip was fine with me.
I knocked on the door. The music diminished in volume after a moment, and Philip bade me come in.
I swung the door open. He lay on his bed in a thin robe, hands on his chest in monkish repose. He barely glanced at me, then returned to considering the ceiling.
“Contemplating your sins?” I asked.
“No. I can't undo anything I've done. I just go on.” He blinked at me. “I hope you didn't beat up my brother too bad.”
“Neither one of us is worse for wear.” I closed the door behind me. I walked to the side of his bed, the vague sense of distaste I felt whenever I was near him rearing its head. A stack of tapes stood by a portable player. Palestrina, a Mozart mass, a collection of Gregorian chant, and a name I didn't recognize. I picked up the cassette. “Gesualdo. Tenebrae.”
“He was a murderer. Aside from being a talented composer.”
“Like drawn to like?”
He fixed his blue eyes on me. “I may be many things, but I'm not a killer. How are Candace and Aubrey doing?”
“Do you care?”
He watched my face. “Actually, I do. I think you're a pain, but Candace seems perfectly nice, if a bit too enthralled with you.”
“And no bad blood between you and Aubrey?”
“I don't care much for hypocrites, but I hope Aubrey's okay. I'm sorry it's taken their suffering to bring this family rightly to its knees.”
I sat on the bed and pulled Mutt's firearm from the back of my pants. Philip's eyes widened as I toyed with the gun.
“Candace lost a baby. I didn't even know she was pregnant.”
Philip jerked up to a sitting position. Genuine shock flushed his face. “Oh, my God. Oh, shit.” He swallowed. “Christ, Jordan. I'm so sorry.”
“Mutt's downstairs. He says you're the poisoner.”
I expected vehement denial, castigation of the accuser, and general bluster. None came. Philip stared at me, then started to laugh, a throttle of a giggle.
“That old shit. He's still trying to cover his bases.”
“Are you?”
“No, I'm not. I have no reason to hurt Lolly, Aubrey, or your girlfriend.”
“He claims you do.” I rubbed my fingers along the gun— unloaded, but Philip didn't know. He watched, fascinated, like a bird transfixed before a slithering cobra.
“Look, Jordan, I've never liked people like you—blond boys who have the world handed to them on a platter.”
“You don't even know me, Philip. You have no clue as to what my life is like. At least I never dealt drugs, got my own brother addicted, or stole money from my family.”
He raised a hand and an eyebrow. His gaze stayed on the gun, but then his eyes met mine in unexpected frankness. “Fine. You want to play priest in the confessional? Yeah, I sold drugs. I sold a lot of them. To college kids, to soulless lawyers, to bored housewives. Did I fuck up some lives? Sure. My own included.”
“Don't wait for me to weep for you. You never did jail time.”
“Only because,” he said, “Mutt found out. And he gave me a choice. Turn over all my drug money—all of it—to him, or he'd turn me in. He ain't no saint.”
I leaned back, doubt clouding my face. Philip laughed. “Mutt's a piece. He took the money I'd made for himself. But he got Tom straightened out. It was a fair trade.” He glanced down at the stack of spiritual tapes. “My life's better now. So's Tom. He and I aren't ever going to be close again, but we're okay.”
More hurt tinged this admission than he would ever openly admit; his heavy-jawed face creased and he bit at his lip pensively. I didn't speak for a moment and the tape of chant ended with a click, and it sounded like the doors of heaven shutting.
“You stole money from Mutt.”
Philip smiled again. “Wrong. I'm trying to prove he's stealing his own.”
“You must be on drugs again.”
“Hell, I never took that stuff.” He shrugged. “You deserve to know what's happened here, the game that Mutt's played out to its end.” He leaned forward, the sly, boyish smile of a secret to be shared cutting his face. “Mutt's not dying.”
“That's crazy.”
“Dead men don't pay taxes,” Philip said. “He's decided to vanish by going into his grave.”
“If he wanted to fake his death, he wouldn't claim to have cancer. He'd fake an accident or something and drop out of sight.”
Philip nodded. “So one would think. But not our Mutt. He—and the delightful Miss Wendy—are planning on taking what's left of his fortune, heading far away, and setting up house with new lives. New names.”
“Why?”
“He wants to marry her without the family hovering, I guess. Or maybe he's just tired of Lolly and Jake being like warts on his ass.” He coughed, then stared hard into my eyes. “And I get the distinct feeling there's something bad in his life he'd like to forget and evade forever, but I don't know what it is.”
Paul's death. And Brian's. Dead men can't be prosecuted, either. Philip's eyes betrayed nothing more. Perhaps he didn't know about the cover-up involving Paul.
“And just how have you been planning to prove this?”
“I got Mutt—finally—to let me handle some of his financial affairs. He figured he could keep an eye on me. But eyes look both ways, don't they? He's been a little lazy about not passwording some of his computer files and I noticed key investments being sold off. Dumped into banks in the Caymans and Switzerland. Mutt's slowly moving offshore, so to speak.”
“Still not proof enough.”
“No, not on hard paper. But you tell me why he's got driver's licenses and passports—for names other than Emmett Goertz and Wendy Tran—in his safe.”
“Did you see those?”
He nodded. “He asked me to get some papers out of the safe and I grabbed the wrong envelope. He was in the John off the study, talking to me while he peed. I slipped out a Canadian passport made out for Edward Grimes, but with Emmett Goertz's picture on it. I stuck it all back in before he came out of the John. I'd nearly pissed myself.”
My throat felt dry. Who to believe? “So when is he planning on jumping ship?”
“Don't know. But he's announced he's got six months to live. So my countdown's started.” He coughed again. “He'll 'die,' and suddenly the family will discover there's nothing left. No money, no land, no stocks. Damned Uncle Mutt, they'll say, he done spent it all. And Mutt'll be off lying in a hammock in Jamaica, screwing Wendy and laughing his ass off at us all.”
“So why haven't you called the police yet?”
“I don't have proof. Has he committed a crime? And maybe I'd be happier if he vanished. I'm tired of dancing to his old tunes.”
I rubbed my eyes with my hands; suddenly I felt an unforgiving weariness pervade my whole body. “So why are you telling me? And what are you going to do next?”
“Can't do anything until the storm lets up and we
get the phones back. But I'm telling you this, because Mutt suspects I've been sniffing around. He wants to discredit me.”
“So why doesn't he announce your past crimes to the world himself?”
Philip shrugged. “Maybe he doesn't want the authorities looking too closely at me, or at any member of this family. And if he thinks Aubrey's going to ruin me with his book, he doesn't need to lift a finger. He'd be vanished by the time that book hits the shelves. The dirty work's done for him.”
“And your little tete-a-tetes with Wendy?”
Philip smiled. “I told Wendy I needed her to steal some money away from Mutt for me; or else I might have to rat on him.”
I blinked. “You're trying to blackmail him? You let him know that you know his scheme?” I didn't want to believe Philip—but as much as I hate to admit it, I was starting to accept his story.
Philip ruffled at the accusation. “Extorting from a criminal's not really a crime. It's a public service. Actually, I figured that he wouldn't give me enough credit to deduce his real plan. He'd believe I'd steal from him sooner or later, and he'd let it be sooner. I wouldn't be surprised if he tries to leave me holding the bag on some of his debts. Be just like the ornery cuss.”
Philip saw the dismay in my face. “Listen, Jordan. He likes you, he ain't ever liked me much. I'm sure it's a disappointment to you that he's the way he is. But truth is, he's a selfish SOB and he's always been one.”
“That book. You took the book on digitalis poisoning. I saw you replace it.”
“Do you think you're the only one who might try to investigate a crime?” I saw intelligence in his face, a look I'd previously dismissed as arrogance. I was the faulty, arrogant one. “Lolly never mentioned any sort of heart condition. And she'd been aching for Mutt's money from time immemorial. His announcement that he was dying would upset her—she did love him, after all—but it wouldn't induce a heart attack. She'd have shown the proper sorrow and probably bought a parakeet to pretend it was Mutt come back.” He coughed. “Damned old Lolly. Anyway, the way she died, it reminded me of the woman in Bitter Money. I swiped the book after dinner to compare symptoms, but I couldn't exactly parade it around the house, could I? My morning coffee might've had something in it aside from sugar and cream.”
“The book vanished—”
“I'm guessing Mutt did away with it. And the police frankly don't seem to care. His money tips the scales of balance round here. And Tricia Yarbrough's been sweet on him since forever. She won't want to believe he's a killer.”
“You're underestimating Judge Yarbrough. She won't relent on him, or anyone else she thinks killed Lolly. After all, she ordered the additional tests.”
Philip shrugged. “Then maybe it becomes more important than ever that he vanish. And sooner rather than later.”
“Your brother thinks Mutt is the poisoner,” I blurted.
Philip cocked a finger at me, and I realized I still held the unloaded gun. I tucked it back into my pants.
“Tom might be dead on. Lolly finds out that Mutt's faking his own demise and she threatens to expose him if he doesn't stay. He takes Jake's medicine and doses her wine with it. She dies from what looks like a heart attack. Even if the poison gets detected, he can always point to her eccentricities as evidence of craziness, of suicide. That'd be conveniently backed up by the cards she sent you.”
“I don't think Mutt knew about those,” I countered. “But what about Aubrey? Mutt tried to kill him.”
Philip shook his head. “I don't know. Maybe Aubrey found out about his scheme somehow. And Aubrey wasn't winning over anyone with that book he was planning.” He didn't elaborate, and I didn't offer my own version— Aubrey let Mutt know he had stumbled across the truth about Paul's, or Brian's, death.
“I don't want to add to your hurt,” Philip said softly. “But maybe Aubrey wasn't the target. Maybe he was just someone who drank the same cranberry juice Candace did.”
The suggestion froze my heart. “Mutt would have no reason to hurt Candace. None at all.”
Philip's blue eyes looked a great deal like Pop's sometimes did, heavy and sad. “Except you haven't been exactly subtle about poking your nose in folks' business. And your dad's bragged to Mutt and Lolly—actually all of us, when you're not around—about your involvement in solving crimes. Maybe he aimed to poison Candace—not to kill her, just make her sick—to scare you off.”
“Then he miscalculated severely.”
Philip surprised me with a quick squeeze of my shoulder. “It's too bad I don't like you. We could've been friends.”
“You can't pick your relatives,” I said, and he laughed softly.
“You bring that gun up here to shoot me? Just curious.”
“No. It's not loaded. I wanted to scare you.” I glanced toward the window. I could not place why I believed Philip and not Mutt. Perhaps because Mutt had avoided my eyes, and Philip had been frank with his looks. Minor but telling.
“You scared me. For a minute.” He coughed again. “I am truly sorry about Candace and your baby.”
I grabbed his arm. “Then help me nail the son-of-a-bitch.”
He cocked an eyebrow and looked half-amused. “How? What should we do?”
“Force him to open the safe. See if he's still got those ID papers there.”
“That gun of yours didn't just become magically loaded, did it? Just how are we supposed to force him to do anything—”
And that's when the lights went out, popping like the last beat of a heart.
Philip and I stumbled out onto the second-floor hallway. It was pitch-dark. He had no candles or flashlights in his room, and I groped my way along the wall.
“Find Mutt,” Philip hissed. “I want to know where the hell he is.”
Brief illumination came with a scattershot of lightning arcing across the sky. “You find him. I gotta check on Can-dace.” Still carrying my unloaded gun, I sidled to the stairs and ran up to the top floor.
Candace's room was locked. I knocked hard and identified myself when Gretchen called for my name. The door opened a fraction.
One candle had been lit, shining weakly on the crowd gathered within. Candace—and now Aubrey, too—lay in bed, both still. Aubrey was mumbling to himself. Candace seemed flushed. Sass leaned over them both. Deborah, Sass, Pop, and Gretchen sat around the bed. Sweetie blinked at me, nestled against Gretchen's foot.
I closed the door behind me. They all stared at me.
“You've been in a fight,” Deborah noted.
“Are they okay? What's wrong—” I began to babble, but Sass cut me off with a wave of her hand.
“They're holding on. But it was too much for Deborah to run from room to room, so Bob Don carried Aubrey in here.” Her voice lowered a notch toward tenderness. “It was best not to move Candace.” I noticed then—Sass's right hand was linked with Aubrey's, her left with Candace's.
“Has she asked for me?” I leaned down and kissed Candace's forehead. She didn't stir in response.
“No,” Deborah answered. She mopped gently at Candace's brow. “They're slipping into coma, Jordan. We've got to get them to a hospital. I say we try the boats, even in the storm.” Sass moaned, averting her face from the rest of us.
“The power's out,” I announced, stating the obvious.
“What's going on downstairs?” Pop demanded. “I go down, you and Mutt are glaring at each other, he won't talk to me, he starts yelling for Wendy—”
“Stay here. All of you. Lock the door behind me. And don't open for anyone but me.”
“This is insane,” Sass blurted. “Acting frightened in our own house—”
“Aunt Sass, please.” I begged. “Just stay here. Aubrey needs you. So does Candace.”
She blinked at me, then at her brother. She fell silent and leaned her cheek against the quilts covering Aubrey's stomach.
“I'm coming with you,” Pop announced. He clambered to his feet.
“No, Pop, stay here. Protect the—”
“I can assure you,” Deborah announced icily, “that I can protect myself, and so can Gretchen and Sass.”
“Fine! Then y'all protect Pop! I don't want him in any trouble tonight!” My requests then apparently heeded, I kissed Candace's forehead again and dashed for the door.
“Take the candle!” Gretchen called.
“No,” I answered. “Deb needs it.” I shut the door on Gretchen's reply. A moment later I heard the bolt slide home.
They'd be safe in that room. I hoped.
I felt my way along the wall, stumbling. I could hear voices raised in hue and cry two floors below, shouts of two men and one woman's strident tone. Mutt, Wendy, and Philip, probably having it out.
I made a quick stop by my room, where I fetched a matchbook and the candle I'd used to explore the attic. (I didn't want to think about what I'd seen there while the entire house was bathed in darkness.)
I was tentatively feeling my way down the stairs when the shots rang out.
I CROUCHED IN THE STAIRWAY, LISTENING. Above the lashing cry of the storm the only regular sound was the intense drum of my heartbeat.
Another gunshot erupted. I hugged against the wall.
You see, I've been shot before. I know the lancing agony of a bullet ripping through skin and muscle, the heat of it kissing your bone, the blind pain that defies imagination. Terror welled up in me like black blood from a deep wound. My breath rattled in my chest.
A voice from above whispered harshly, “Son?”
Pop. I grimaced. “Pop! Go back upstairs. Stay with the others!”
“No, I won't. I ain't gonna let you go down there—”
“Listen.” I nimbly ascended a few steps to where I could see his outline, crouching in the heavy blackness of the hallway. “One of us has to go. I'll go. I think the shooting's over. No one's screaming, so maybe no one's hurt.” I believe this technique is called clutching at straws. But I didn't share that thought with Pop. I shoved the gun toward his hands in the darkness. “Is there a cartridge for this up here?”