Jeff Abbott - Distant Blood

She didn't look at me again, and I sensed that her story wasn't complete-that a final coda to all this misery was missing. I turned her chin back toward me. “Gretchen. What else?”

“Nothing. Isn't that enough?” After a moment's hesitation she regarded me. “Now you see why we've got to protect him. Because we hid the truth, if the investigation into Lolly's death reveals what Bob Don did-there's no statute of limitations on murder.”

“But it was self-defense.”

“Maybe the courts won't see it that way. Regardless, they all hid the truth. They covered up Paul's death and forged a suicide note. Isn't that a crime?”

I cupped my head in my hands. A slow throb coursed from my temples through my head. “God. And you think Lolly's death has to do with this cover-up.”

“I don't know. Yes, probably. Maybe she was going to tell on the family, after all these years, and someone decided to stop her.”

“Why would she tell? She'd be implicating herself as well.” I leaned my forehead against hers. Maybe she truly was going crazy, losing her reason. And crazy people talk. “What else is there to know, Gretchen?”

“I've told you the whole story. You've got to help me protect Bob Don.” She tightened her grip on my arm.

“If Lolly was going to blow the whistle on the rest of the family, why would she attempt to scare me off-using the same method Paul used to terrorize you?”

“I don't know. Maybe she thought it was shameful for Bob Don, who'd already created enough trouble for the family, to have a… bastard. I'm sorry she treated you badly.”

“It seems odd,” I mused. “Why strike at me that particular way?”

“Never mind her, she's dead, she can't hurt us now. But you got to help me come up with a way to protect Bob Don.”

“Gretchen,” I said gently. “I don't know what we can do to protect him. If any of this family conspiracy is connected to Lolly's death, the whole house of cards might tumble down. I'll stand by him all the way, but I'm not sure what you want me to do.”

She blinked. “You're smart. You solve crimes. Surely you can concoct some way to keep Bob Don from getting in trouble.”

I stood, listening to the fading hiss of the ebbing rain. Darkness was falling now and the setting sun was barely a molten hump above the horizon. Clouds formed a shroud across the sky, obscuring the comfort of the stars.

“I'll think of something.” But inspiration seemed as fleeting as the afternoon light.

“Well, what?” she demanded.

“I don't know yet. Give me some time. I can't manufacture a plot out of thin air.”

She swallowed and silently accepted my answer. “I'm glad I told you this, Jordy. I-I knew you loved him. I knew I could depend on you.” She stood. “I got to get back to my room. Bob Don'll wonder what mischief I'm up to.” She surprised me with a quick kiss on my cheek. And then she turned and left, leaving me alone. The open door of my room loomed like a portal to a world of murder and secrets, all the open domain of this terrible house. A feeling of death and guilt thrummed through the air, almost palpable.

And I was supposed to rescue my father from the sins of his past. I sank down on the bed, feeling crushed by the sudden weight of responsibility. Find a murderer and save my father.

I lay on my bed, thinking, staring at the ceiling, trying to slowly piece together a plan.

Whoso rewardeth evil for good, evil shall not depart from his house. -Proverbs 17:13

I must've dozed off. When told your father killed his brother, sleep is a natural escape. While I juggled theories and ideas as to who had murdered Lolly, I kept seeing Bob Don's face hovering above my own, his kind eyes, his gentle smile, his hearty laugh that made you know you were as welcome as could be. I could not see him pressing a trigger, killing his own brother. Even in self-defense.

Was Gretchen lying?

I didn't believe so. But I didn't want to swallow her entire story. My eyes felt heavy and I shut them, for just a moment.

Paws pressed against my heart and I awoke with a start. Sweetie stood on my chest, his tongue lolling out of his mouth with exertion. He stared down at me with enormous and forlorn eyes. Also at loose ends, I knew how he felt.

I sat up, scooping the little dog into my arms, and stood to stare out the window. No more rain fell, but the sky was mottled with dark clouds, like a snake's skin; the next wave of bad weather wasn't far off. The Coast Guard boat bobbed in the waves; Mendez and Yarbrough still blessed us with their company. I am not a superstitious man, but I wondered why this little Texas island served as a nexus for disaster: the shattered Reliant and its valiant men entombed beneath the waves, the massacred boys on the beach, the collection of graves amassed in the cemetery, the lonely marker of little Brian Riley Goertz. TOO BRIEF A TIME, his inscription had read. I wondered if the same tragic air that haunted this island had warped this family somehow, some cold hand reaching beyond its grave to shape human life.

I shook my head and Sweetie wriggled in my arms. I chided myself for this sudden gothic veer in my thinking. Reality was an old warm dog against your skin, writhing to be petted. Attributing bad conduct and human sadness to the island air seemed ludicrous. This was not Shirley Jackson's Hill House. Nothing walked here alone. My sour temperament was my own fault, not that of arcane foulness seeping through the rooms. Holding Sweetie, I went and closed my door.

What brushed your eyelids this afternoon as you slept?

I sat on the bed and set Sweetie on the covers. He chased his tail in a quick, single circle as if assuring himself he was the only pup present, then curled up into a crescent of fur and watched me with his huge peasant's eyes. I scratched the top of his head and his ears lay low with pleasure. I felt a surge of affection for this little dog, not without some surprise. I wondered if Sweetie sat watching his mistress while she composed her missives of hate to me.

Life is odd, I thought. Usually I warred with Gretchen and got along peaceably with Bob Don. Now the situation was reversed and I felt an uneasy soldier. And the battle might be brief. Bob Don sounded ready to proceed in life without the travails of trying to forge a relationship with me. And just how was I supposed to protect him from his own past? The task seemed impossible. And how was he going to react to Gretchen confiding in me? He might well-

The ceiling creaked above me.

I sat very still on the bed. Old houses cry out in the struggle against time, and this one, weathered by sea and wind and rain, was no exception. But that noise had sounded like the distinct pang of weight against old wood.

Another faint scream of a trodden-upon board, then another.

Why on earth was anyone tiptoeing around the attic?

I stood. Sweetie suddenly bolted upright, flung himself off the bed, and scrabbled at the door like the room was ablaze. I inched the door open and he shot out like a jag of lightning. His claws skittered on the hardwood floor of the hallway and he bounded down the staircase.

I eased the door shut quietly. A long minute passed, then another soft footfall from above-away from the wall that held my window, moving toward my closet.

I tiptoed-after all, if I could hear them, they might hear me-to the closet door and carefully opened it. The door swung open on silent hinges. I fumbled for the light cord. Another creak sounded.

A trapdoor occupied a back corner of the big closet. I'd noticed it when I unpacked, in the same abstract way one notices the particular shade of color the walls are painted. I reached toward the trapdoor, wondering if I could feel the weight of another person on the opposite side of the wood. I didn't touch the door, though-I suddenly felt the sharp gnaw of fear. And remembered the ghostly tickle I'd felt against my skin, and the kitchen door that had swung open with no one near. Idiot. No such thing. Ghosts don't exist, and if they did, they wouldn't make boards creak.