Distant Blood (36 page)

Tears braced in his eyes. “Okay.”

“I'll keep the name Poteet, if you don't mind.”

“Whatever you want, son.”

“Son,” I echoed. I glanced, almost shyly, at his face.
There is no mark of Cain there. I can't believe this man killed his own brother, even in self-defense. And I'm not going to let anything, anything happen to him.
“I suppose if you're going to call me son, I should call you something other than Bob Don.”

He opened his mouth, then shut it again.

“I'd feel a tad odd calling you Daddy,” I ventured. “What did you call your father?”

He smiled, almost as shyly as I had. “I called him Daddy.”

I laughed. “Of course. Why is it Southerners are so unimaginative with nicknames for parents and so imaginative with nicknames for grandparents?” I thought of the photo of my great-grandfather I'd examined so closely in Lolly's room, seeing so much of his face in mine, and my odd intuition that I would've called him Pop-Pop. “Hey. What about Pop?”

“Ain't pop what Yankees call Cokes?”

“Well, yes,” I answered.

He rolled the word about in his mouth, as though tasting it. “Pop. Well, if that's what you want to call me, I guess I'll get used to it.”

I could tell the endearment wasn't entirely to his taste, and felt an unexpected relief he hadn't adopted it immediately in mindless gratitude—perhaps the days of putting me
unreachably aloft were over. We could deal with each other as men now. “Well, why don't we try it out and see how it fits?”

“Okey doke,” he finally said, and then spoke for us both: “This kind of all feels funny, doesn't it?”

“Yes. It's a strange family to be joining.”

A momentary flash passed over his face, as though the mention of the rest of the Goertzes cast a dark shadow across this long-awaited moment. “Oh, God, son. Let's all just leave. Just go back to Mirabeau and pick up our lives. There's nothing for us here.”

“But the investigation—”

He snorted. “I don't care what that judge says, there ain't no reason to keep us here. Anyway, Lieutenant Mendez has left.”

“Left? Left us here?”

“Going soon, if he ain't already.” His voice sounded choked. “He seems certain that those toxicology tests are gonna turn up Jake's medicine, or something else. Seems Lolly sending you those cards convinced him that she took her own life, crazy like she was.”

“Crazy's not enough. Why would she kill herself?” He stood and leaned against the den's bookshelves. I didn't relent: “Someone planted a bag of digitalis pills in my clothes. So if the cops searched, it'd look like I had a stash of poison.”

“I heard Mendez and Mutt talking. Mutt told him that's exactly what Lolly would do to make it look like you killed her. Along with the cards. You can see how crazy she was….” His voice drifted off.

Are you protecting a murderer
—
Pop?
“The only thing crazy is that theory. Lolly didn't want me here for some reason, tried to frighten me away, and when that didn't work, poisoned herself with Jake's medication and tried to frame me for the crime? Listen to yourself, Pop. Mutt's influence might make Mendez buy this, but I don't. Why on earth would she—”

His face set. “Don't ask so many questions. Don't—”

“Fine, I won't.” I'd traveled that road before today and
gotten nowhere fast. “So you think we can go soon?” Putting distance between us and Sangre Island felt like putting distance between us and Paul Goertz's death.

“Let's hope. Uncle Mutt's calling a family meeting tonight, after he has himself a long chat with Philip. And Wendy.”

I swallowed. I would not want to be in their shoes, facing Mutt's formidable wrath.

Pop leaned against the shelves. He looked weary to the bone. I wanted to go and embrace him, tell him I knew about the family's dark past, but I didn't. He would have to tell me his secret, on his own terms. I could not ford that deep, harsh river for him. He opened his mouth, as if to speak, then closed it firm.

“You probably need to talk to Gretchen, explain how things are between us. I need to go talk to Candace.”

“Okay, son.” He came forward, and awkwardly embraced me in a bearish hug. The thump of his heart thrummed against my chest and his breath, scented with bourbon, was a warm stream against my ear. For all my famed wit and tongue, I had no words. He did.

“I love you,” he murmured; he kissed the side of my cheek, and embraced me again. He released me after another moment and turned away. I watched him leave the den and felt, for one terrible moment, as if I'd stepped off the edge of a precipice. Gravity was not the only inexorable force in the world. Love's just as potent.

I went upstairs to tell Candace I had a father. And to set in motion the most horrifying night of my life.

I DIDN'T FIND CANDACE IN HER ROOM. SO I
ambled down to Deborah's quarters, thinking she might be visiting my cousin.
My cousin.
It seemed even more real now that Pop was Pop. I felt light, almost giddy, as though a weight had been lifted from my aching back. The choice to love is frightening, but it's also energizing. I felt like a new man. In many ways, I was.

Deborah, sitting on her bed, saw it in my face. She sat in a dim circle of light tossed by her bedside lamp, perusing a photo album. “You look happy. What's up?”

It seemed wrong to share my good news before telling Candace, so I simply smiled and said, “I let my head soften a tad.”

She glanced at me in puzzlement. “What?”

“Stubbornness. I shed myself of some of it tonight.” I sat on the edge of the bed.

“That's not always a smart move.” She closed the album and tossed it away from her, as if it reeked.

“Deborah. What's going on here?”

“What do you mean?” She evaded my stare, watching the lightning—now nearly continuous—as it illuminated the sky.

“With you and this family.”

She didn't respond for so long I thought she had not heard my softly uttered question. She slicked her lips with her tongue, still not looking at me. Finally she spoke. “I'm just a bad reminder, Jordan.”

“Of what?”

“An unfortunate time for this family.”

“I'm sorry.”

She laughed, a short, brittle, horrible sound. “You're a stranger, and you care more than they do. Think any of these people gave a shit about my mother? Oh, sure, they were sorry as hell she died. Terribly sad, terribly unfortunate, and wasn't she so pretty? They spoke all the right lines in the play of mourning. But I never felt they cared about my mom.” She paused. “Your mom's sick, right? Alzheimer's?”

“Yes.”

“Is it bad?”

“Very.”

“But she still draws breath,” Deborah murmured. “My mother's face was blown off. I shouldn't dwell on it, but I do. You can at least hold your mother, tell her you love her, touch her hair. I can only drop flowers on a cold grave.”

My heart ached for her. I didn't know sorrow like Deborah's.

“So the Goertzes were more worried about your dad?”

“Worried? Embarrassed is more like it. Horrified at what was being written in the papers: Paul Goertz wanted for murder.” She licked her lips again and I saw the worn exhaustion in her face. “Ever have a murderer in your family?”

“No. Well, not that I know of.” The lie came easily.

She laughed again, jagged and full of weary sadness. “It's kind of like playing a board game. Rule one: Don't ever pass Go without being reminded your father's a killer. Rule two: Never speak of it to outsiders. You get really good at manufacturing colossal lies. Where's my dad? He travels a lot. Hong Kong, Paris, Berlin. Or he died of cancer, always an easy out.” She closed her eyes. “Rule three: Anyone who breaks the first two rules gets the whole wrath of the family down on them.”

“And wrath is what? Bitchy comments from Lolly? A whack from Jake's cane? A lecture on loyalty from Mutt?”

“You don't understand.” Deborah's voice was a tight wire of anger. “I'm afraid of them.”

“Your own family? For God's sake, why?”

“They—they—”she stumbled. To my shock, I saw fear in her face as dark and deep as a well. “Because—”

A terrible realization nudged against my consciousness. And Deborah's words on the porch what seemed like an eternity ago:
Brian used to be sure our father was alive somewhere….

“What happened to your brother, Deborah?”

Her lips tightened into a grieving line. “I told you. He died.”

“When he was about twelve or so?”

“Yes. We also don't talk about it much.” Her voice lowered to the barest of whispers.

“He died in this house, though, didn't he?” I tried not to picture the shade I'd imagined in the attic.

“Not… not in the house. He died down off the beach.”

“Tell me.”

“He … he went swimming. By himself, late at night, when we were all here for a family reunion. He got a cramp, or something. He got caught out in the surf. He drowned.” Deborah didn't look at me.

I blinked, trying to blur away the image of the boy I'd seen in the attic.

“How did you know? Who told you? Bob Don?” she asked.

“No. Gretchen,” I answered automatically.
Actually, I saw your dead brother. Wild, ain't it? I can't say he sends his best; he glared at me with bitter hatred.
I took a long, shuddering breath. “I'm so sorry, Deborah.”

Her hand clasped mine. “Why do you want to know about Brian?”

The answer, lurking in my heart, was in my mouth before I could even give it form. “My family is a great one for reminiscing. For keeping the dead alive in our hearts, by sharing stories about them, talking about them, letting those who came after they were gone know about them. Ever read Katherine Anne Porter's story 'Old Mortality'? Talks about how dead relatives get built into these amazing legends. I loved that story, because it rang so true to my own family.” I shook my head. “But the Goertzes are strange. They're not
like any other family I've ever seen. They don't talk about their dead. I've yet to hear one memory, one anecdote, about anyone in this family who's passed on. Did you all take a vow of silence?”

“No. It's not entirely true. Tom and I care about my brother, still.”

“Tom?”

“I know you think he's a hair-trigger temper, but he's a good man at heart. He was always so good to Brian. Tom's sure—” And her voice broke, as though recognizing the betraying tone of confiding in me.

I changed tactics. “There wasn't anything suspicious about Brian's death, was there?”

Her eyes widened in shock. “Of course not. Of course not! There couldn't be, it was only the family that was here—”

“Just like last night? When Lolly dropped dead?” I grabbed Deborah's arms and pulled her close to me. “You don't believe your aunt committed suicide, do you? Or had a simple heart attack?”

She averted her face from mine. “I don't know what to believe. She was a sick woman, you know that.”

“Tell me about your brother. What was he like?”

She broke away from me and fled to the window, leaning her head against the rattling pane. More thunder sounded, counterpoint to the building wind. “Please don't make me talk about Brian. Please.”

I surrendered, realizing I'd rudely overstepped the bounds of decency in pressing her for information. “Deborah, I'm sorry. I don't mean to upset you.”

“Well, you do.” She pivoted and glared at me. “Meaning well, though, I'm sure. You're awfully busy prying into your new family's past. Ever think you might be ignoring Candace?”

I didn't answer her immediately. “Did Candace complain to you?”

“Jordan. She's a wonderful girl and she loves you so. And I know you love her. Why don't you just take her and leave? The police can't possibly suspect you in Lolly's death—”

“They might.”

“Now you're manufacturing excuses. Are you staying for Bob Don's sake?”

“In a matter of speaking,” I answered carefully. I turned to leave. “And if I stay, Deb, it's because, as strange as it seems to me, y'all are family now. And I've never abandoned family in crisis. Never.”

She didn't say anything as I left.

Candace wasn't in her room, and she wasn't waiting in mine either. Damn. I glanced at my closet and, against my will, a prickle of goose bumps raised themselves along my flesh.

Something's up there.

I took a steadying breath.
Don't be ridiculous.

“Counting clouds?” a voice boomed behind me, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. I turned to find Philip glaring at me, lounging against my doorway, his arms crossed casually across his chest.

“No, just thinking.”

“Thinking, Jordan? Like about how you can screw me over next?” His face darkened and he spoke so softly I could barely hear him over the gusts hammering against the house.

“I'm not trying to screw you, Philip,” I retorted.

“Oh, really? So you just manufacture these lies about me for idle amusement?”

“I didn't lie about what I saw. Or what I heard.”

His tone harshened, the old cadence of the schoolyard bully. “You don't want to fuck with me.”

“Or what?” I shot back, feeling a creeping weariness set into my bones. “I'm not the least bit afraid of you, Philip. And if you've committed murder, I'm going to see you go down for it.”