“When did Brian tell you?”
“The day before he drowned.”
“My God. That was fourteen years ago.”
“Yes.”
What had Tom said to me after he'd walloped me? Little boys who don't know better get killed around here.
“Brian-” I murmured. “It wasn't an accident, was it? Oh, God, they killed him. They killed that little boy. Only twelve years old. Just like they killed his father.”
“Not they,” Tom managed to speak. “Just Mutt. And Aubrey's protecting him. Or at least he was.”
“You're sure it was Mutt?”
“Can't prove it. Would love to. Before he gets away with it.”
“He won't. There's no statute of limitations on murder.” I threw the knife away; it clattered across the floor. I stared down at Tom with a deep and abiding shame for what I'd done.
“Except death. And I want to nail the bastard before this brain cancer kills him.” Tom rubbed at his throat and eyed me with new respect. “They teach you to punch like that in library school?”
“I never went,” I answered. I stood, staggering away from him. The grilled-cheese sandwiches were blackened lumps in the ruined pan and I hurled them, pan and all, into the sink. The soup had boiled over, leaving a noxious bubbling mass. It, too, went into the sink.
“You and I should be on the same side,” I said to him. He'd pulled himself to his feet. “Why do you want to fight everyone?”
“How am I supposed to know whose side you're on?” he grumbled.
“Oh, for Christ's sake.” I wanted to throttle him. “Do you think I want to protect Mutt if he poisoned Candace?” My head and back throbbed, aching from Tom's fists.
“No. But you probably want to protect your daddy.” Tom lowered his voice. Oh, God. He knows, too.
The kitchen door swung open. “What is that smell?” Wendy asked as she entered, followed by Philip. Both of them stopped and stared at the mess: a damaged back door, smoking pans in the sink, Tom bleeding from his mouth, my face a massive bruise.
“What the hell-” Philip began.
“Get out of here,” I yelled.
“Tom? You okay?” Philip began, ogling me as if I were deranged.
“Get out!” Tom hollered at his brother. Philip stumbled backward, and quickly escorted Wendy from the room. She shot me a look of stunned amazement before the door swung shut.
I waited long seconds, hearing their footsteps retreat. “How do you know it's Mutt? How did he kill Brian? How did he poison Aubrey and Candace? And Lolly-”
“Goddamn it. Do you think if I had the evidence, I wouldn't have turned him in already? I don't have anything but what Brian told me-that Mutt knew his daddy hadn't committed suicide and had buried him somewhere on the island. And that your daddy had helped.”
“Why didn't you say anything after Brian died?”
Tom sank to the floor. “Oh, God. I wanted to. But you don't break the code of silence.”
“Tom, these people don't deserve loyalty like that. You're making yourself accessory to murder.” I didn't know the legal ramifications, but that sounded accurate. And I wanted to scare him.
The tactic failed. “You think it was loyalty. Hell, no. I just didn't want to end up dead like Brian. And I couldn't prove he hadn't drowned. He liked to go for midnight swims when he could sneak out of the house. Mutt and Lolly'd both tan his hide if they caught him at it.” He broke into gasping sobs. “God, he was a great kid. Fuckers.”
I leaned down next to him, the battle in me spent. “So why'd you change your mind?”
He looked at me with his pale eyes, unfocused and veiled with unshed tears. “Oh, Christ, Brian comes to me in my dreams. He comes to me and tells me to look for his daddy's body. Here on the island. And he drags his fingers across my face, and when I wake up I can smell the dead rot of the sea.” He blinked and stared away from me. “It's driving me completely nuts. So I go and I dig. And I ain't found shit. Crazy, right?”
“No. It's not. It's not crazy at all.” Two days ago I would have recommended a therapist for Tom. But that was before I'd seen the dark-throated boy in the blackness of the attic. I lowered my voice to a hoarse whisper. “What if I told you I've got the evidence Aubrey claimed to have?”
Tom's eyes widened. “You do? What?”
The jewelry of Paul's I'd found stashed in the attic was my only trump card, and I wasn't quite ready to trust Tom enough to toss it on the table. I hesitated and he saw the fear shine in my eyes.
“What the hell,” Uncle Mutt's voice boomed from the dining-room door, “are you boys doing in here?” I whirled to see his mutilated hand pointing in accusation, the angry glare on his face, and the pistol he carried at his side, his fingers drumming restlessly against its dark skin.
22
“Looks like y'all been tusslin' some,” Mutt said, watching us both with stony eyes. “I thought I heard a crash, but I just figured it was the storm. Didn't expect to find you boys tearing up my kitchen. So what's the problem?”
I inhaled restorative air. “No problem. Just a misunderstanding. It's all cleared up now.” I eyed his sidearm. “No need to break out the artillery, Uncle Mutt.”
The kind, cajoling grin he'd shown me in our times alone-the times when I believed I'd bonded with this lost uncle-was gone. In its place was a hard smile, one that did not suffer fools or shine upon the unlucky. “Why you boys resorting to fisticuffs? Jordan, you got a bruise coming up on your face gonna be as purple as a plum.”
“I'm fine. Like I said, it's a misunderstanding.”
“It's my fault, Uncle Mutt,” Tom interjected. He straightened and sniffed, wiping the blood away from his mouth. “I'm real sorry.”
“Shut up, Tom.” Mutt favored me with a pitying glance. His eyes glinted with amused malice. A shudder of horror ran up the back of my legs and I leaned against the counter. “You sure you okay, Jordan?” he asked.
“I'm fine,” I answered. Tension made my mouth taste of old pennies.
“You sure you not back on the powder, Tom? You look a tad hyper.” Mutt glanced at me, his smile broadening. “See, Jordan, ol' Tom likes to take a toot now and then. It's been an ongoing problem for a while. He done lost a job over it and I had to make a goddamned big donation to an aquarium in Florida to get him another job.”
Tom didn't look at me. “I'm clean, Mutt. And I've been clean for years.”
“So why you so excitable tonight?” Mutt asked. His tone, idly baleful, didn't make me believe he expected a serious answer.
“Uncle Mutt, aren't you going to ask how Aubrey and Candace are?” I shaded my voice with a calmness I didn't feel.
“Son, I was just up there checking on them. They're both holding on, God bless them.” The thought of Mutt near either Candace or Aubrey made my blood run hot. He didn't exactly gesture with the pistol, but it moved in his hand. “Why don't we head into the living room and have a nice chat? Jordan, you want some ice for that bruise?”
“No, thanks. I'm fine.” An ice bag sounded like heaven, but I wasn't about to let Mutt minister to my needs. Mutt stepped back from the door, and not looking at each other, Tom and I went back to the study. Each stride felt like a step further out on the plank.
I'm making a deal with the devil, I decided as Mutt escorted Tom and me into the study. I thought the rest of the family would be massed here, waiting-but the room was empty, except for Uncle Jake. Apparently retrieved from his bed by all the commotion, he sat huddled under a robe and a quilt, his long fingers splayed out across his face as he dozed in the deep of the leather chair. His skin looked as frail and creased as old paper. Rufus stood by the window, watching the tempest paint its fearsome beauty across the night sky.
“Where is everybody?” I asked.
“Showing some sense of self-preservation,” Jake muttered from his cocoon of fabric. “I think everybody's headed off to their rooms to wait out the storm.”
I noticed Mutt hadn't relinquished his firearm yet. I would have to be very, very careful in what I said. I didn't speak but went and sat on the couch, feeling soreness and exhaustion vie for control of my body.