Blood Kin

by Judith E. French

  Unconsciously Daniel clenched his jaw as he turned the casing to catch the last rays of the setting sun. The head stamp on the shell was plain enough: Remington .308. Not military issue, as he’d expected, but civilian, a weapon used primarily for hunting, and it should be easy enough to match bullet to rifle. Trouble was, there were probably a hundred Winchesters on Tawes that could have fired this bullet.

  “Clever bastard.” Leaving the brass where it could be found had been sloppy, but so had the attempt on his life. For the first time he wondered if maybe the shooter hadn’t meant to kill him, but to frighten him. If so, the plan had worked . . . maybe too well.

  Still cradling the shell casing in his hand, Daniel hunched down in the grass. He had a clear view of Tilghman’s Sandbar from this spot. Not that he could see how shallow the water was, but the eddies around it showed him the sandbar as plainly as if it had been outlined in fluorescent orange paint.

  Daniel knew what damage a .308 could do to a two hundred-pound buck. The bullet would enter, leaving a small, neat entrance hole, then continue, exploding through muscle, bone, and vitals to exit in a gaping wound of total devastation. He could easily imagine how close Bailey had come to dying. He hadn’t thought the agency—if it was the agency that had done this—would go so far. His carelessness had nearly cost her life. Or his . . . He couldn’t afford a second mistake in judgment, not after Mallalai.

  Emma eased back on the throttle and slowed the engine to fifteen knots. Downing the last drops of the McCallan, she dropped the empty bottle into the bait well. She’d never been a particularly brave person, and she hoped that the Scotch had given her enough courage to do what had to be done. She was through running, through hiding secrets that should have been exposed decades before. Better dead than living scared night after night, jumping at every footstep, and lying awake these last few weeks listening to the haunting refrain outside her bedroom window.

  Emma slowed the skiff and prepared to nose up against Will Tawes’s dock. Her heart was leaping in her chest, and her hands felt numb. She expected that Will would kill her once he heard what she had to say, and it was no more than she deserved. Thirty-six years, and she’d never found the stones to tell the truth for Beth, but now, for Bailey, it had to come out and be finished.

  Emma cut the engine, and the boat glided almost soundlessly into the slip. She knew there’d be no reprieve this time. She looped a mooring rope around a post and climbed up onto the dock. By the time she had the skiff secured, Will’s dogs were running toward her in full cry. Behind, tall and menacing, she saw him striding to the dock.

  “You’re not welcome here. And well you know it, Emma Parks.”

  She stood her ground, knotting her hands into fists to keep them from trembling. “Few are, from what I hear.”

  “With good reason, I’d say.”

  The dogs rushed at her, and she had the sudden urge to empty her bladder. The big male Chesapeake hesitated, hackles raised, teeth bared, while the female circled and the shaggy shepherd snarled a warning. Will dropped them to earth with a single command.

  “What do you want?”

  Emma’s throat tightened. “I need to tell you something I should have said a long time ago,” she said in a strangled croak. “About your Beth . . . about what happened to her.”

  Will was on her before she had the chance to defend herself. A big hand closed on her shirtfront. A kick drove her legs out from under her. She slammed hard onto the ground. Stunned, gasping for breath, she lay prone with Will’s knee pressing into her chest and his fist inches from her face.

  “Say your piece while you still can draw breath!”

  Once more they were trying to send her away from the island. Why? And had the shooting been an accident, as Daniel had said? Was his explanation as simple as a foolish boy playing with a gun, or was it something more? And why had Emma rushed out of the house as through her hair were on fire? His hair?

  Bailey shook her head. It was all a maze of maybes, and she needed to think things out for herself. Could she trust Daniel? Should she? Running might help clear her head, but so would any kind of hard physical labor. Hadn’t the weeds in the garden behind the school been getting out of hand since the shower the other night? Weeding was as good a way to distract herself as any.

  She raced upstairs, changed into her oldest pair of shorts and shoes, and pedaled the bike through town to the summer-school garden. She had the rows of vegetables to herself, and for the next few hours she crawled up and down, making neat piles of the weeds and watering the pepper and tomato plants. Already, green tomatoes were starting to turn color, and with any luck, in a week or two they’d get to taste the results of all their work.

  Finally, when her back was aching and the worst of her agitation had worn off, Bailey gathered the lettuce, green beans, and radishes she’d salvaged and carried them to Emma’s mother’s house. The elderly woman wasn’t at home, but Bailey left them in the basket attached to the windowsill beside the front door and returned to Emma’s. She still hadn’t found answers to any of her questions, but she knew what she wanted to do next: get clean.

  At the house—Emma’s house—Bailey undressed and got into the shower. She turned the water hot enough to steam up the bathroom and leaned her head against one wall of the stall as doubts rushed back to plague her. Why hadn’t she listened to reason? she thought as she used a long-handled brush to scrub every inch of her body. Why hadn’t she left when everyone warned her to? Why hadn’t she been content with childish fantasies about the tragic death of her beautiful young mother? Will had warned her; Emma had warned her.

  Daniel had warned her:“Are you certain you want to know?”

  Now she was sorry she had persisted. What if Matthew Catlin was her biological father? Daniel’s brother. She felt as though she needed to vomit. The thought was too disgusting to imagine. If Matthew had fathered her, then she’d just fallen hard for her own uncle. Worse, she’d committed incest.

  She rubbed shampoo through her hair, scrubbing at her scalp with her fingertips. She’d lost her mind, going to pieces because of a wild guess on Emma’s part. Emma or Emery, or whoever she was. Someone had told her that, too—nothing was ever as simple on Tawes as it seemed. She turned off the hot and shivered in the hard stream of icy water.

  Stepping out, she dried herself and wrapped a clean towel around her wet hair. The blotchy face that stared back at her might have belonged to a deranged woman. She was as crazy as all the rest of them on this godforsaken island. Or as inbred. By morning she’d probably be walking on all fours and devouring raw squirrels.

  She returned to the bedroom, suddenly aware that she hadn’t had enough sleep in the last twenty-four hours to think clearly. Crawling between the sheets, she laid her head on the pillow, intending to rest for just a few minutes. She woke nearly three hours later feeling like a new woman.

  Impulsively, she ran a comb through her hair and pulled on a clean T-shirt and matching shorts. She felt empty inside, numb as if she’d been injected with massive doses of Novocain. But she had to know whether she was panicking over an unsubstantiated rumor or if she’d committed the worst mistake of her life when she slept with Daniel Catlin. She had to find Matthew and demand that he tell her the truth.

  The hushed street was strangely empty as Bailey hurried past the store in the shadowy twilight. No one, not even a dog, was in sight. She went first to the parsonage, but her repeated knocking went unanswered and she saw no lights on inside. After a few minutes she gave up and crossed through the cemetery to the church office. There was no sign of anyone there either, but she called Matthew’s name several times before circling the building to the sanctuary. The interior was as dark and silent as the graveyard.

  She didn’t want to go back to Emma’s without getting answers, and the only other person she could think to ask was Forest. As Bailey approached his house, she saw someone on the porch speaking to the attorney. The two golden retrievers sat by the men, but readily abandon
ed their master and came to greet her.

  Forest broke off his conversation with the stranger. “Bailey. What a pleasant surprise.”

  His companion abruptly descended the front steps and strode past her without replying to her “Good evening.”

  Forest came to the edge of the porch. “What a coincidence,” Forest said. “I was just going to call you. Come in, please. I was about to have some tea.”

  “No, thanks. I need to talk to you. It’s”—she glanced over her shoulder to make certain they were alone—“urgent and confidential.”

  Some of her agitation must have been evident in her voice, because his normal cheerfulness vanished and he appeared concerned. “Is something wrong?” he asked as he ushered her inside. “Something I can help with? If it’s the bequest, I’m afraid we’ve hit another snag. I’m embarrassed to say that the delay may drag on for weeks. You might want to think of going home to Delaware and returning when—”

  “No, I don’t want to go home.” She shook her head. “Why does everyone seem to want me to leave Tawes? I’m sorry.” She let out an exasperated sigh. “At least, I don’t think I want to go.” She sank into a chair near Forest’s desk.

  “Wait. You need something stronger than Earl Grey. A glass of merlot?”

  She nodded. “Yes. That sounds good.”

  “I have some nice roast beef and onion rolls. Would you care to share my—”

  “No, thank you. I couldn’t eat anything.” She couldn’t remember having lunch, but she wasn’t hungry. “The wine would be wonderful, though.”

  “Certainly. I hate to drink alone.” He went to a cupboard built into the wall beside the fireplace and removed a bottle and two crystal glasses. “There’s nothing wrong at Emma’s, I hope? Daniel hasn’t taken a header off the roof?”

  She fixed him with an accusing gaze. “You mean Emery’s roof?”

  Forest inclined his head slightly, a courtly gesture that would have been accepted gentlemanly behavior when the house was built two hundred years earlier. “Ah, so you’ve ferreted out another of our small secrets.”

  “I just found out what everyone else seems to know about my hostess.”

  “You really didn’t guess, did you?” he said kindly. “Please don’t be offended. I didn’t mean it as a criticism. We’ve grown accustomed to Emma’s ways. It didn’t occur to us that you might feel deceived. And no one could tell you without violating Emma’s privacy.”

  She sipped the merlot. It was dry but rich and fruity. She liked it.

  “Now, what’s really troubling you? It certainly isn’t Emma.” The attorney sat on the corner of the desk with the dogs sprawled contentedly at his feet.

  “Daniel Catlin and I . . .” She stopped, uncertain as to what to say. What were they exactly? Dating? Lovers? Instead she blurted, “Is there any chance that Matthew is my natural father?”

  “Good God, who told you that?”

  “Is it possible?”

  The color drained from Forest’s face.

  “Tell me!” she insisted.

  “All right.” He nodded. “There were rumors that Beth and Matthew were—”

  “Sleeping together?”

  “No.” Closing his eyes, Forest rubbed his temple. “I never thought that you and Daniel . . .” He swallowed. “It’s possible, yes. I used to see Beth and Matthew . . . coming out of choir practice laughing and whispering, but . . .”

  “But what? Was Matthew her boyfriend, or was she the kind of girl who—”

  “No. It’s not what you’re insinuating. She was shy, sweet, the kind of girl any father would want for a daughter. That’s why the pregnancy came as such a shock to everyone. There were other young ladies on the island that . . . Well, your mother wasn’t one of them. Matthew’s father was the pastor here then, and he was strict, every bit as strict as Will Tawes. The Catlins had plans for Matthew, and they didn’t include his becoming serious with a local island girl his freshman year of college.” His mouth tightened. “Or any other year, for that matter. They wanted more for him.”

  “Matthew was already attending college then?”

  Forest nodded. He rose and refilled his wineglass, then offered her more. “Would you like—”

  “No, just answers, Mr. McCready. Just the answers no one seems to want to give me.”

  “I hadn’t seriously considered that the father might be Matthew. In his own way, he was just as shy as she was. Never had a serious girlfriend until he and Grace . . . No, it couldn’t be Matthew. He was a good-looking boy, but he was terrified of disappointing his parents. I can’t imagine him involved in premarital sex, certainly not with Will Tawes’s niece.”

  “If not Matthew Catlin, then who? You don’t believe that Uncle Will did—”

  “Not for a minute. He loved that girl as if she were his own. He’d have cut his own throat before he’d have done anything to hurt her. There’s been plenty of scandal on the island, but not by the Tawes men. And I don’t believe he beat Beth the night that you were born. Or any other night. Will was a hard man—is a hard man—but he’s never used his fists on a woman. I would never have defended him if I believed that.”

  She rose.“Thank you. I appreciate your honesty. I still intend to ask Matthew. If there’s the slightest chance . . .”

  “I understand.”

  “There didn’t seem to be anyone at the parsonage when I came by, but perhaps now . . .”

  “You’re upset, Bailey. I’d be happy to come with you, if you’d like.”

  “No, thank you. I’ll be fine. I need to do this alone.” She set the wineglass down on a coaster. “If I do decide to leave the island, I’ll let you know. But unless Matthew confirms my worst fears, I have every intention of remaining here, at least until summer school is out.”

  He followed her to the door. “I’m so sorry about the additional delays with the will. I feel as though I’ve let you down. You must think me a terrible example of my profession.”

  “No, not at all,” she said. “You’ve been very kind.”

  “I feel like the worst kind of host. At least let me walk you back to Emma’s.”

  “No.” She forced a smile. “It’s not as though I’m going to get lost. All I have to do is follow the street back to the house.”

  Head throbbing, hurting from a half dozen blows, Emma pushed herself up on her hands and knees and spit dirt and blood from her mouth. A tooth felt loose, and something wet and sticky trickled down her chin as she staggered to her feet. The sound of Will’s curses coming from the house drove her back toward the dock. She swayed on her feet as she found the edge of the wooden walkway. She could see the boat, but the distance seemed more like miles than yards.

  One eye was fast swelling shut, and she thought her cheekbone and at least two ribs must be cracked. Faster, she had to move faster. Once she reached the boat, she jerked loose the mooring lines with stiff hands and climbed in. Scrambling across the deck, ignoring the pain of bone grating against bone, she frantically turned the key. The engine clicked once and roared to life as a cursing Will burst from the house, gun in hand.

  Emma put the boat in reverse, shot backward, and then cried out in fear as the engine stalled. Will came across the yard, jamming a shell into his shotgun as he ran. The moon was rising over the water, making its surface nearly as bright as day. Another minute and she would be as dead as Creed and Joe Marshall.

  Emma shoved the throttle into neutral and prayed harder than she’d ever prayed before. The engine caught, sputtered, and throbbed to life. She threw the throttle forward and the boat leaped ahead in a cloud of spray. Will’s shotgun blasted from the dock, but the skiff was already moving away at a good twenty-five knots, and the pellets rained around her head and pinged against the transom like hail.

  Emma headed out into the bay. Her hands were shaking so hard that she could hardly feel the wheel, and she ached from belly to temple. Cautiously she tested the loose tooth with her tongue. She’d be lucky if her jaw wasn’t broken.<
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  No, she reasoned, as her heartbeat slowed to somewhere near normal. She’d be lucky if Will didn’t follow her out onto the bay and kill her. She should have felt better now that the truth was out after so long, but she felt only empty dread. Maybe it would have been better if she’d just waited for Will to get the gun from the house and finish her off.

  When she was a good mile out, Emma slowed the boat and switched on her running lights. She knew the bay waters like she knew her own house . . . the channels, the tides, and where the sandbars were exposed or covered just enough to be dangerous. But when the engine noise changed to a shrill whine and then cut off, she realized that her panicked flight had caused her to run straight into a line of crab pots. Rope had tangled around the propeller, disabling it and bringing the boat to a halt as surely as if she were anchored to a concrete wall.

  “Damn it! Damn it.” She groaned. She needed medical attention, but if she couldn’t free the propeller or repair it, she’d be here until the first commercial boat or sport fisherman came along in the morning. She wondered if she was in any shape to strip and dive down to check out the damage firsthand. If there was net or line she could cut loose, maybe the engine would run well enough to get to Smith or even the Eastern Shore. Hell, the way she felt, she’d probably drown and save Will the trouble of shooting her.

  For perhaps fifteen minutes she sat there, not knowing what to do. Her head was pounding, and the pain in her side was sharp enough to draw tears with every breath. She wondered which was worse; waiting all night in agony or forcing herself into the water to try to set things right. A cloud of bloodsucking mosquitoes forced her decision. She pulled off her shoes just as she became aware of the sound of another boat engine.

  “No,” Emma stammered. “No, Will, don’t. Please.” The boat was coming fast, and she was trapped like a duck in a barrel. “Sweet Jesus.”