Jeff Abbott - Distant Blood

“I don't know. If Lolly didn't die by natural causes-I might've been the target. Would anyone want to kill her?”

“No. No. There is no murderer in this family. No, son, no.”

“Uncle Mutt-”

“If anyone's killed here tonight, it's me. Breaking the news like that. I couldn't be subtle. I had to be as loud as a fart in church. I brought on Lolly's heart attack.”

“You can't know that, Uncle Mutt. Don't do this to yourself.”

He didn't speak for a full minute. “You've met the family now. Who do you suspect of sending you those cards?”

“I don't know.”

His mouth worked, but no words came out. “I want to see these letters.”

“I gave them to Lieutenant Mendez.”

“And I want to know why the hell Lieutenant Mendez didn't inform me about the threats to a member of my family. I believe I'll phone him now. I'll do that from my office. Good night, Jordan.”

“But, Uncle Mutt.”

For the second time that evening, I was dismissed from a conversation. “Good night, Jordan.” His scowl softened.

“Get some sleep. And rest assured no harm will come to you while I live in this house.”

“Good night,” I said. “I'm just going to pick out another book, in case I don't like this one.” I proffered the Lamar biography. “After all, like you said, he wasn't much fun.”

He grabbed me into another of his bear hugs, his breath warm against my neck. I felt his shudder of exhausted grief, the sadness he wouldn't truly share with any of us. He released me without a word and left the den.

I didn't dawdle. I went straight to the bookshelf to see which volume Philip had so secretively and dexterously replaced. The book, Bitter Money, was notched carefully back into the heart of the true-crime section.

I remembered Bitter Money being a best-seller ten years ago: the lurid tale of a noted New York financier who'd murdered his socialite wife. It was the kind of torridly written saga that was the literary equivalent of driving slowly past a fatal car collision. I opened the book and scanned the copy on the inside of the jacket.

Yes, of course. The eminent banker had poisoned his wife of thirty years. With a deadly overdose of her own digitalis-based heart medication.

My dreams were unkind. In the darkness of night and slumber, I swam through the shattered hulk of the sunken Reliant, the current piloting me along. I drifted, breathing the murky water like air, among the tattered corpses dressed in makeshift uniforms. One revolved toward me in the ebb of moving sea and I saw with horror the decaying face was Uncle Mutt's. I jerked away from the sight, and the corpses began to close around me in an icy fellowship. I could see their faces clearly now-a misshapen Deborah; Jake, his countenance pecked by fish; a one-eyed Sass; and worst, a Bob Don who looked like a demon from some nether region, the lower half of his face rotted away. His arms stretched out to me in an obscene embrace, and I roused from the nightmare with a shudder.

I felt the momentary disorientation of waking in an unfamiliar place, then remembered where I was and the contorted look on Lolly's face as she died. I was thirsty, but a small boy's fear held me and I didn't want to get up from the bed to venture into darkness. I suddenly missed my parents very badly. Finally I fell asleep again, the bedding wrapped around me like a shroud.

I awoke with the sun. Rather than concentrate on my disturbing dream, I set my mind to replaying Philip stealthily replacing that book about digitalis poisoning among its less meaningful colleagues. Had I made a mistake? What if I'd spotted the wrong book? But I didn't think that I was wrong. I thought dear Cousin Philip might have some serious explaining to do, but I had no proof. Borrowing a book wasn't a crime.

The first rays of dawn shot through my window, and with no Candace to snuggle up to, the bed seemed a cold place. I pulled myself up, donned a pair of shorts and a long-sleeved T-shirt, and stumbled down to the kitchen in search of caffeine.

I wasn't the earliest riser in the house. I found Wendy bustling about in the kitchen, getting ready to prepare a large breakfast for the family. Food always seems so inextricably linked with death; I remembered vast buffets of food brought by neighbors when my father died… but there were no neighbors on Sangre Island. Did anyone else share this family's grief? I knocked timidly on the door I'd already opened.

I had met her very briefly last night, but we'd hardly exchanged more than hellos. “Good morning, Wendy. I don't want to disturb your work, I just wanted to get some coffee…”

“Oh, hi, c'mon in,” she said. Her voice sounded tired, as though she hadn't slept well. I saw she'd already poured herself a large cup of cream-laced coffee and a cigarette sat burning in an ashtray, a plume of smoke rising from its cin-dery end. “Did you sleep okay, Jordan?”

“Not really.” I started looking in cupboards for a cup. Wendy quickly produced one, an old-fashioned big white mug. She filled it for me, offered me cream and sugar. The rich, comforting smell of French roast wafted over me like airborne nectar.

“The beach is beautiful in the morning, if you're of a mind for a walk. And this is one of the nicest times of the year to see all the wildflowers,” she said. I wasn't sure if that was a polite way of ushering me out of the kitchen, but I didn't want to leave.

“Thanks, but if you don't mind, I'd like to stay here and drink my coffee.”

“Suit yourself.” Wendy sat back down at the table, took a long draw off her cigarette, and sipped at her coffee. She regarded me with frank eyes. I remained quiet, sipping at the hot brew. She hadn't seemed inclined to engage in idle conversation, but since I'd made myself comfortable, she deigned to speak.

“Hard day for Mutt ahead.”

“I think he has harder-and fewer-days ahead,” I pointed out.

Wendy stared down at her coffee. “Each day brings us one day closer to our deaths. He's not going to think much about his own problems today. Dying people still grieve.” She shook her head and took a long draw on her cigarette. I thought her too young to have such a dark outlook; but I had no idea where life had taken her. Her journeys might have been far tougher than mine.

“He's a good employer?” I kept my voice neutral.

“The best. He's been a kind friend to me, and I will miss him terribly when he's gone.” She stubbed out her cigarette and quickly lit another. “I don't usually chain-smoke, but these aren't usual days.”

I studied her over the rim of my coffee cup. She puzzled me. She didn't speak with a noticeable Vietnamese accent, and she didn't have an easy Southern drawl like the rest of the household. I'd wondered if she was from one of the hundreds of Vietnamese families that had settled in fishing towns along the Texas coast.

I ventured forward with dark humor: “I guess not. An illegitimate son turns up, the family patriarch announces he's terminally ill, and his sister dies. If this is usual, get me the hell out of here.”

She didn't grin and I saw her face was vacant of the wear of laugh lines. Wendy Tran suddenly struck me as a woman who would smile sparingly.

“I'm curious,” she asked. “Just why are you here? Bob Don says you're his son, but you don't seem to act like a father and son yet.”

“We're not quite there yet.” I stirred my coffee.

“I figured he hadn't acknowledged you before because you were too embarrassing to him.”

“You must not know Bob Don well,” I countered. “He's a very fine man.” I felt a quickening anger fill my face. How dare she sit in judgment of Bob Don? “I'm here because I do care about Bob Don. He asked me to come, so I did.”