Jeff Abbott - Distant Blood

“And no one has to know you covered it up?” I took a step back. “You're more worried about your own skin than you are about your son's.”

The accusation wounded her and she stiffened. “That's not true.” But her eyes didn't linger near me, or near her unconscious son's face.

“No wonder he ran away.” I headed for the door. “Where are the notes for his book, Sass? His laptop?” I gestured at the empty desk near his bed. “Did they get up and walk away?”

She evaded my question. “What're you going to do, Jordan?” Sass challenged. “Tell your tale to the police? Lead them to Paul's body? You have no evidence. And if you blow the whistle, your father might be tried for murder. Is that what you want? Huh? Answer me!”

I hesitated by the closed door before I turned back to her. “Who said anything about the police, Sass? Mutt's convinced the police to leave us alone. I'm not so sure I'm interested in law as much as justice. I don't need the police for that.”

“Then you're just like the rest of us. No worse and no better. I shouldn't have called you a mistake. You're a Goertz, through and through.” She sank down next to her son and began to stroke his face with hard caresses, as though she could pour her own life's energies into him.

I shut the door on her and her words. Tom and Mutt had questions to answer.

As I went down the stairs, a jab of pain in my own stomach nearly floored me. I realized I hadn't eaten a bite since lunch. I needed to keep up my strength, although eating food of any sort in this house seemed risky. I'd find some canned soup-or other safe comestible-in the kitchen, and fix dinner for myself, Pop, Gretchen, and Deborah. Hell, maybe I'd even fix something for Sass. And perhaps Aubrey and Candace could be helped by food.

I skirted past the voices in the study. I could hear Jake and Mutt arguing loudly. Apparently Jake had been retrieved from his bedroom with all the panic and had found a second wind to bicker with Mutt. I hurried to the kitchen, finding it deserted. I busied myself with pots and pans. Grilled-cheese sandwiches and canned tomato soup should be safe, I reasoned.

My eyes stung; the combo was a favorite lunch of Can-dace's. I tried not to think about her-about the baby-too much. Not out of selfishness. It's just that I didn't want to be crumpled into a fetal ball, too consumed by grief to act. Or avenge.

I didn't have the luxury of remorse right now. The knot I felt in my guts would have to wait for a better time to unravel. When Candace and I could mourn together.

My shoulder blades itched as I worked, as though Sass's words had left a spike in my back. Just exactly how did I propose to bring this poisoner to justice without exposing Pop as a killer? Even though I knew he'd shot Paul in self-defense-or even by accident-the family had conspired to cover the death up as though it'd been the most heinous fratricide ever committed. What if the police and the courts viewed Pop's actions as homicide? By continuing to pry into the past, I might be sending my father to prison.

I emptied the tomato soup-its tanginess nipping at my nose-into a pot and turned on the heat. The soup resembled sour, thick blood and again I fought back thoughts of Candace. Red. Reddish soup, reddish blood on her legs, on my hands. I remembered last Valentine's Day-the scattering of red rose petals on my bed, our laughter at my silly antics, which seemed so far away.

I belonged by her side.

I wondered: if I did nothing, would anyone act? Lolly was dead. Aubrey and Candace might die. And with a mad poisoner in the family, would any of us truly be safe?

I was risking my father's freedom by proceeding with an investigation. But I was letting a murderer get away, scot-free, if I didn't intervene. I slathered butter on bread, stuck cheese in between, and began to grill the sandwiches, the heat from the stove offering a little comfort as the storm continued to rage.

“Smells good,” a voice said behind me. I hadn't heard Tom come into the kitchen. He stood by the refrigerator and fished a can of cola from its depths. He glanced at the makeshift dinner I was preparing. “And very smart, too, Jordan. Cheese and bread and canned soup. Safe and difficult to tamper with.”

“Have you given the subject of poisoning a lot of thought, Tom?” A cold anger threaded through my body as I watched him lounge against the refrigerator. He popped open his Coke and took a long draw.

“Well, Gretchen came down and said Aubrey and Candace seemed to be improving-”

“Candace was pregnant. She miscarried.”

My words struck like a slap. His mouth gaped. “Jesus Christ, Jordan, I'm sorry. Holy hell.”

I moved away from the stove and toward him. “You nearly beat Aubrey to a pulp today. And when you were putting Jake to bed tonight, he mentioned you'd been digging around the island. Is there some connection there, Tom?”

He stiffened and his pale specter's eyes locked on mine. “I had nothing to do with Aubrey's poisoning.”

“Then who did?” Only a chopping block, with a score of magnetically attached kitchen utensils dangling above it, separated us.

“I don't know.”

“Why were you pummeling Aubrey earlier today?”

“It's a private matter between him and me.”

I shook my head. “Wrong. No private matters left, Tom. Not after murder and attempted murder.” My skin felt white-hot as I stared at him. Why wouldn't he tell me the truth? “If you hurt Candace-if you killed my baby-there's no place on earth you'll be able to hide from me, Tom.”

He tensed, his muscles straining like whipcord under his shirt. He was older than me, but tautly fit. “You and I have no quarrel.”

“As long as I stay out of your business, right?”

“Right.”

“If Aubrey lives, do you think he'll continue to be quiet about your feud? Especially if he doesn't know who laced his juice?”

Tom's face blanched. “Aubrey knows how to keep his silence.”

“Rules change when someone tries to kill you. Or tries to kill someone you love.” My voice was barely a whisper, but my words seemed to thunder in my ears. I could feel the war drum of my own pulse, a maddening beat. A connection suddenly formed in my mind.

“That shovel. What have you been digging for, Tom? Buried treasure? Or maybe buried bodies?”

“I don't have to listen to this crap-” He began to turn away from me, and I whirled him back around with a strength I didn't know I had.

“You shit. You knew. You're looking for Paul's body, aren't you?”

Anger darkened his features and I stood there slack-jawed. He jerked his head toward the stove, where a plume of smoke billowed from the pan. “Your sandwiches are burning.”

“Tell me. Tell me what you know-” I barely had time to utter the request before his fist came flying at me. I didn't react soon enough. He clubbed me on the side of the head and I fell, twinkling lights playing about my eyes and the odor of singed cheese in my nostrils.

Tom leaned down toward me, his voice nearly soothing. “Little boys who don't know better get killed around here. I'm not your enemy. Put some ice on your cheek before it swells.” He turned to saunter out.

Not hardly.

I grabbed him before he'd taken four steps, whirled him hard once, and belted my fist across his smirking face. He staggered back and I pile-drived another punch into his gut. His breath whooshed out satisfyingly and his bone-pale eyes bulged in surprise.

“Catch your breath,” I advised him, “and get ready to talk, Tom.”

“You,” he managed, a dribble of blood oozing from his cut lip. “You shit. You made a mistake, buddy.” He launched himself at me, mowing me down in his embrace and tumbling us both against the kitchen's back door. Glass shattered, wood splintered, and as he collapsed heavily against me, every bone in my body cried in agony. Rain, roaring in from the broken door pane, splashed our faces.