Distant Blood

I WOULD LIKE TO ACKNOWLEDGE THE HELP OF the following people in writing this book:

Susan Rogers Cooper, for bravely reading early drafts and offering helpful criticism;

Eileen Dreyer, for her wit and her detailed knowledge of dealing with medical traumas in less-than-perfect circumstances;

Eva Klima, M.D., for patiently answering my medical questions and offering helpful advice;

David Lambert, for answering questions regarding investments and ethics;

Susan Baker Olsen, for getting morbid with me.

Special thanks to:

Lieutenant Gary Smejkal of the Calhoun County Sheriffs

Department, for his time and willingness to help; Justice of the Peace Nancy Pomykal, for her patient answers to a whole array of questions. Any mistakes are mine and cannot be attributed to these kind folks.

And as always, Joe Blades and Nancy Yost, for their professionalism and encouragement.

While Matagorda Bay, Matagorda Island, Port Lavaca, Port O'Connor, and Calhoun County are all real places, Sangre Island is not. And while the Texas Navy fought valiantly during the Texas Revolution, the sad incident of the
Reliant
is entirely fictional.

Accidents will occur in the best-regulated families.

—Charles Dickens,
David Copperfield

MORTAL FEAR IS KNOWING YOU'VE BEEN POI
soned. I sagged against the fine oak paneling, agony vying with numbness for control of my body. My heart raced with the knowledge that it was pounding its last rhythm, like the beat of a runner's shoes against the road as he surges toward the finish line, toward blessed rest. Bile rose in my throat and I swallowed, trying to steady my breathing. I slid down to the floor, dizziness and nausea washing across my body like an obscene tide. I tried to cry for help and my throat felt dead. Raising one leaden arm, I managed to focus my vision on the blurred figures in the room.

And blinking, saw murder done before my eyes.

Step back with me two months.

My name is Jordan Poteet, and I'm the library director for the small Texas town of Mirabeau. This sometimes quiet hamlet lies on a crook of the Colorado River in the rolling countryside between Houston and Austin. Mostly the houses are tidy, the flower beds edged with a draftsman's precision, the street loud with the laughter of playing children. But don't be fooled by Mirabeau's tranquillity. I've been back home for a little over a year and the past months have shocked me to the core of my being. I've seen death, and suffering, and loyalty, and love the likes of which I'd never known. But finally, my life had mellowed into a fairly easy ride—easy despite dealing with my mother's increasingly severe Alzheimer's and the unnerving fact that the man I forever thought was my father … wasn't. And just when I thought I'd sailed into relative calmness, ordering
my life into a semblance of normalcy, my biological father, Bob Don Goertz, upset my boat. By issuing the invitation from hell.

My girlfriend Candace Tully did not react in the way I'd hoped.

“Of course you're going,” Candace said, brushing my hair out of my eyes.

We sat on the back-porch swing, sipping wine and watching the evening slide into purples and oranges as the sun set brilliantly against the hills. The loblolly pines were etched in darkness as light fled below the horizon.

“I am
not
going to this stupid reunion. All those people are Bob Don's family, not mine.” I gulped at my wine. I can be as stubborn as a government mule when I set my mind to it and I could feel my brain encasing in concrete recalcitrance.