by Jeff Abbott
ESPECIALLY WHEN I THINK OF YOU DYING.
I handed her back the card, feeling sick. She slipped it back into the envelope quickly and wiggled her fingers, as if dusting some foulness off her hands.
“My God. Just like the cards I received.”
She swallowed. “It was Paul's sick joke. He sent me others, but I had them destroyed. I never told Bob Don. I knew he'd go after Paul. I just wanted to forget Paul existed. I never thought-” She covered her face with her hands. “I'm so ashamed, I was so foolish.”
“You couldn't know, it's not your fault.” I squeezed her hands. How odd life is. A year ago this woman was my mortal enemy, and now we sat trying to muddle together through a dark and torturous past, united by the love we felt for the same man. Family makes strange bedfellows.
“I know. Hindsight is hell. But whatever was wrong with Paul, Nora couldn't fix. He killed her, shot her in the face.”
“Deborah claims her father, since he was an artist who had sculpted Nora so often, wouldn't kill her the way he did.”
Gretchen shook her head. “Deborah clings to hope. No one wants to believe her daddy could kill her mom. I knew her father better than she did. Blasting away Nora's face makes perfect sense for Paul. Did Deborah tell you he marred or destroyed all the sculptures in his studio after he killed Nora?” The expression on my face answered for me. “Of course she didn't, Jordan. That fact won't support her theory of her father as the wronged victim.”
Another round of thunder rumbled above the roof, but fell faint quickly, and the rain began to ease against the windows. The band of the storm seemed to be passing us.
“Paul vanished after Nora died. The police searched for him. The family gathered here; Deborah and Brian were of course terribly traumatized. Mutt was worried sick about them. I felt terrible guilt, as if I'd robbed those children of their mother. I can't say why. It makes no sense. But guilt and grief don't always have rhyme and reason, do they?”
“No, they don't.” I'd lashed out at Bob Don out of guilt and grief-guilt that I could think so little of my mother, grief that my life wasn't the perfect picture I'd imagined it to be. No sense required.
“He came in the night.” Gretchen's expression went slack as she brought forth the memory, and her hands felt boneless in mine. “I was asleep, thanks to a generous serving of whiskey. I wasn't drinking so hard then”-her voice quavered-”but it was the start of the beginning. Bob Don couldn't sleep, sickened over what had happened. And how the family was reacting. Lolly was nasty to the children, hardly kind at all. Everyone seemed so ashamed of what Paul had done. As though it reflected on the rest of us. How terrible for us to have a murderer on the family tree. No one-except her children, of course, and Bob Don and I- seemed broken over what had happened to poor Nora. She was the victim, not us. As a family, the Goertzes couldn't understand that.”
“You said he came in the night,” I prompted.
“Bob Don couldn't sleep. He had thought if he'd reached out to his brother, mended fences, tried to reconnect with him-well, Nora's terrible murder could have been averted. Isn't that just like Bob Don?”
“Yes.” My throat felt constricted.
“Your father-he went out to walk. Restless, he was. I don't know for certain, but I believe he went to Nora's grave. We'd buried her here. She had no family of her own. Her children were all the blood relations she had in the world. Paul was there-at the cemetery. They fought and Bob Don killed him.”
Coldness fingered my spine. I repressed a shudder. No. I couldn't imagine Bob Don a killer, much less a slayer on the scale of Cain. “No. No.”
“Yes, Jordan. I woke up, feeling sick and needing to throw up. I heard them talking downstairs, heard Bob Don crying over what he'd done. He was hysterical. Paul had a gun, told Bob Don he was going to kill him, then me, for ruining his life. They fought for it, Bob Don shot him through the heart.” She looked away from me. “I wanted to go to him, but I was so frightened. I didn't want to believe it was true. So I went back to bed.”
“You said 'them talking.' What themV
She swallowed again. “Mutt. Jake. Sass. Lolly. They all knew what Bob Don'd done. They all knew Paul was dead, by his own brother's hand.”
“My God. It was self-defense, right? Why didn't they just call the police?”
She shook her head again. “Not this family. Not the Goertzes. Mutt said the shame of Paul being a murderer was bad enough without one brother striking down another self-defense aside. Best, he said, for Paul to have taken his own life. Cleaner that way. The others-had to convince Lolly. She loved Paul so. But even she finally agreed that protecting Bob Don was more important.” Gretchen shivered. “Oh, I've wanted to tell this for so long. And I couldn't. Not even Bob Don knows that I know. I never told him. And he never told me. I guess he was afraid I'd turn away.” She cried then, long, racking sobs, and I held her close, feeling her pain begin a slow drain in the cleansing of confession.
After a few minutes had passed, she eased her breathing and I pulled away from her, to look her square in the face. “So what did they do with Paul's body?”
“I don't know. Buried it somewhere on the island, I guess. Or dumped it out in the Gulf.” Her tears formed curving roads on her cheeks. Her eyes were so red they appeared on the verge of bleeding.
“And no one else knew?” I asked.
“No. The twins were here, and Aubrey, and Deborah and Brian. But they didn't know.”
Did they? It occurred to me if Gretchen could overhear the older Goertzes covering up Paul's death, so could the younger ones.
“Please don't hate your father,” Gretchen implored. “He's not really a killer. He was just trying to save himself-”
“Of course I don't hate him. But I don't understand why the Goertzes did what they did.”
“Their pride. It's their fatal taint. That's why Lolly was so bitter about Aubrey's book at dinner. And why she was so terrible to Deborah and Brian. And why she was so hard on everyone-that damnable pride no one could live up to. At least I never could. Eventually I gave up trying.”
“So why”-I gestured at the hateful envelope Gretchen had produced-”did she send me cards like those? And how could she know that Paul had sent you such threats?”
“I'd shown them to her. After Nora died. She took them from me and said she'd destroy them. And afterward I wanted them gone, I didn't want the police to find any reason for Bob Don to have killed Paul.”
“But you kept one.”
“I kept one.” Her voice was hollow and distant. “Anytime I doubted Bob Don, doubted my love for him-and when you drink you often think you don't need anyone-I have that card to remind me of the price he paid to protect me. I bring it with me, whenever we come to Sangre. So I never, never forget.”
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
17
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.
Minutes crawled by like hours. I heard someone walk down the hallway, Sass's voice out in the garden calling for Aubrey, a voice raised downstairs in anger that I suspected was Philip's. The sea wind played against my window in capricious gusts. Rain began again, whipping against the window, the striking drops sounding like a child's fingers thumping against the glass.
The attic held its silence.
I tarried another ten minutes, then opened the trapdoor. Disuse made the hinges shriek, and I cringed, waiting to see a face appear in the black doorway. Dust motes danced around my face and I sneezed. No response issued from the darkness, so I unfolded the wooden steps attached to the door and clambered into the attic.
The house was old, but the attic seemed decades older. The air tasted ancient, tinged with time and dust. I realized, with some disappointment, that I didn't have a flashlight to guide my way.
I retreated to my room. I could still hear Aunt Sass braying for Aubrey, like she might holler for a wayward dog. I wondered if maybe Tom had gotten ahold of Aubrey and was busy resolving their unfinished business by beating Aubrey to a pulp.
Or maybe Aubrey had been sneaking around the attic while his mama called for him out in the garden. I watched Aunt Sass from the window, huddled underneath her umbrella. No Aubrey materialized. Aunt Sass'd catch cold if she didn't get out of the storm.
&nbs
p; A quick exploration of my room revealed no flashlight, but I did find a candle and matches. I'd hoped as much, since the frequent storms along the coast could result in power outages. I had no idea if the island had its own generator.
I ascended back into the attic, feeling a tad like a male Jane Eyre, wondering if a raving former wife of Uncle Mutt's awaited me in the darkness. Ridiculous. I'd let a goofy, scared dog and my own overactive imagination propel me away from logic. I am always reasonable and I refused to let myself be girded by the most inane doubts and fears.
Why be afraid of a dark attic? You just found out your father killed his crazy brother. And that this whole clan covered it up for years. You should be more afraid of this family. What'll they do to you if they learn you know about their little conspiracy?
Darkness cloaked me. My candle provided meager illumination. The attic was long, running the length of most of the house. I wondered if each and every room offered access to the garret the way my closet did-surely not. But folks made odd architectural decisions in olden days. I decided it might be worthwhile to identify every point of ingress the attic offered.
Forgotten homes of spiders dangled from the rafters, the errant dust the only prey caught in their clutches. The air smelled of the sea. I began moving toward the south side of the house, away from my room.
Boxes and trunks dotted the walls, arranged haphazardly wherever they were deposited. The grime of long memories coated the containers I ran my fingers across. Locks and old tape kept time out. Nothing here that I could see had been disturbed. But someone had been here. If not taking something-perhaps hiding something?
I looked for the signs that any container or object in sight was new. Nothing gleamed as freshly unwrapped from plastic. There was little here that spoke of recent years.
