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.
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.