Jeff Abbott - Distant Blood

I'd heard cloth-or something similar-ripping when I'd hid in Lolly's closet-when Wendy had asserted Bob Don was in the room. But I hadn't been able to identify what had been disturbed.

I upended Sweetie's pillow. A long gash tore open the pillow's bottom, and the downy innards had been disturbed. I sat thinking for a long moment, then got up in search of Candace.

“Are you still mad at me?” I asked from her doorway.

She lay curled like a cat on her bedspread, her eyes half-lidded in sleep. The thought of her being in the proximity of a coldly conniving killer was enough to frost my blood. I didn't want us still bickering.

She smiled. “No, I'm not still mad at you.”

I sat down next to her on the bed. “I'm going crazy here. Arguing with Bob Don in the middle of all of this madness is rotten, and then having a spat with you-”

She touched a hand to my lips. “It'll all be over soon. I think the police suspect Philip. He just looks guilty.”

I ran a hand along her hip and she closed her eyes. I wanted the comfort of lovemaking, but I knew celibacy was the order of the evening. Instead I softly kissed her hair and she ran a gentle hand along my cheek.

“I love you,” I murmured, “and I'm sorry I was a jerk.”

“Jordan, I love you, too. Even when you're a jerk. I'll try not to dispense so much advice. Sometimes I tend to want to tell you what to do instead of just listening a little.”

I kissed her cheek again. It was warm, but not with fever. She smiled at me. “If you and I can mend fences, you and Bob Don should be able to.”

Tightness locked my throat. Gretchen had confided in me. I wanted to tell Candace what I'd learned about Bob Don, but I didn't dare. Not yet. There was no sense in putting her in harm's way. “Bob Don and I aren't setting new records for bonding. Why can't we just go on with our lives without hurting each other? God, I'm tired of this.” I moved to the window.

“If I give you advice now, are you going to explode?”

“No. I'm done with that.”

She leaned against my shoulder. “Try something for me. Put yourself in his shoes. He didn't want to abandon you. He did what he thought was right. And he did that knowing that your mother might never have told you the truth about him. He turned and walked away because he wanted to spare you all the pain.”

Outside, the storm throbbed like a colossal heart. I listened to its roar and beat. “But I couldn't have done that, Candace. I couldn't have just walked away from my child. Turn heel and flee. He watched me. He watched me grow up and never came close, never tried.” I swallowed and my eyes stung with repressed anger.

Candace pressed a palm against my back. Sorrow tinged her voice. “Because to try would have been to ruin your life. You were just a little boy. His distance was a gift to you then. Let him come close to you now.”

I rubbed my forehead with the heel of my hand. “And he doesn't want me again. He's made that clear.” Yet Gretchen wants me to save him. From his own family? I can't.

“He's a stubborn goat, same as you. Because he believes you don't want him as a dad. Now listen, Jordan. If you let him walk away-if you walk away-it's going to leave a terrible hole in your life. You and he both deserve better.”

“But I-”

She stilled me with a kiss. When she spoke her lips were soft against my own. “Don't judge him so harshly. It's hard to know what you would have done in his shoes.” She hugged me and her throat warmed against my own.

I held her, feeling the heat of her, the soft bellows of her lungs setting the pace for my own breathing.

“I told Gretchen that I love him.”

She hugged me tighter. “Then why don't you go talk to him again?” She caressed my face with her fingertip.

“Yes,” I said softly. “I think I will.” I stood, and paused at the foot of her bed. “Were you in your room late this afternoon? When the storm kicked back up?”

She shook her head. “No. I went down to the den and watched television with Deborah.”

So my prowler would have had access to the attic through Candace's room. And Candace provided an alibi for Deborah. I knew Sass was in the garden when I heard the footfalls. And I didn't believe Uncle Jake spry enough to navigate a trapdoor and steps; plus, there was no sign of his cane in the dust. At least three I could scratch off my most-likely-to-be-skulking-about list.

Maybe after I talked with Bob Don, I needed to go examine the shoe selection in this house and see who wore a particular tread.

I found Bob Don in the television room on the ground floor. The TV was tuned to the Weather Channel and the perky meteorologist described the rapidly moving tropical depression surging up toward Texas. Hurricane season had not kicked into gear, but we were due for an onslaught of rain and wind.

Rufus Beaulac lay slumped in the leather recliner I knew was Uncle Mutt's regular roost. A beer tottered in his loose grasp.

“Hi, Rufus,” I said. “Would you please excuse us? I'd like to talk to my father alone.”

Bob Don's head jerked up at the label I'd used. Rufus flashed a look of annoyance. “Just as I was gettin' comfortable.”

“Sorry.” I didn't budge.

Rufus roused himself from the recliner. He regarded Bob Don with a smirk. “No good drinkin' buddies round here since Gretch sobered up. Sass is a snob and the twins don't drink near enough.” A faint hint of malice colored his words, and I wondered for a moment if his had been the hand behind Gretchen's drunkenness.

“You go and get a head start, Rufe,” Bob Don said, “and maybe I'll join you in a few minutes. I could use another shot of bourbon in the worst way.”

Rufus regarded me with his murky hazel eyes and his scarred lip formed a crooked smile. “Later, boys.” He saluted, ambling out of the room. I shut the door behind him.

“I don't much like him,” I announced.

Bob Don kept staring at the television, watching a report on a forest fire in Oregon. “I don't think you much like anyone.”

I came and sat on the couch next to him, tendering a foot over the hard borders separating us. “That's not true.”

“Maybe not. You actually referred to me as your father. Rufus doesn't know the honor he's received.” Sardonic was not Bob Don's usual style of repartee and he stumbled over his own words.

“You are my father,” I said softly.

“Accident of biology, just like you said.” He stared at the televised inferno.

“True of every child, though, isn't it?”

“Jordan-”

I tentatively touched his arm, and a cascade of images from the past year flooded past my eyes: Bob Don lying in the hospital after taking a bullet intended for me, his blue eyes bright with pain; Bob Don standing over my other daddy's grave, telling me in a soft voice to realize the good fortunes in my life; Bob Don pleading with me to give Gretchen a volunteer job at the library as he subtly tried to knit us into a family; the hurt look in his own eyes after he'd slapped me on the porch. I grabbed the remote from his hands and silenced the television.

“I made a rotten mistake. I felt so angry when I found out that you were my biological father and I wanted to punish you, I suppose, for being part of the conspiracy of silence.”

He turned reddened eyes toward me. “Don't blame your mother. She did what she thought best-”

“She did what she wanted. She wanted to save her marriage. She wanted to protect my sister. She wanted you out of her life. I don't blame her any more than I blame you. I don't want to blame anyone anymore. I just want-” My voice broke, and he waited in the sudden silence.

“I just want you to be a father to me. And a friend.” The words came in a rush, as though I'd been holding them in my mouth for months, sampling their unusual taste.