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than one killer storm had screamed ashore along this section of the coast.
    Rufus veered the boat out a bit from the island and gestured toward the empty bay north of the island, opposite the mansion. “That's where they went down.”
    “Who?” Candace asked, yelling above the roaring motor and the whistling wind.
    “The
Reliant.
Went down fighting.”
    “A Confederate ship?” I asked. “I thought most of the naval action along the coast during the war was up near Sabine Pass.”
    Rufus shook his head. “Well, the Confederates built a fort on Matagorda Bay and made the timber look like big guns to bluff the Yankees, but that ain't here no more.
Reliant
wasn't a Confederate ship.
Reliant
was one of the five battleships in the original Texas Navy, back when Texas was fightin' for independence. Went down fightin' a Mexican ship. That's how the island got its name. Sangre means blood in Spanish.”
    “Rufus, this is a distasteful story. Surely—” Gretchen attempted.
    He paid her no heed. “Survivors from the
Reliant
got to the island. The Mexicans”—he pronounced it
Messkins
—“captured them and cut their throats, right there on the sand.” He gestured from where the sunken wreck lay to a sliver of beach on the north side of the island, with a dock protruding. He kept his hands so little on the wheel I wondered how he steered. “But Mutt tells the story lots better than I do. You should ask him.”
    I stared out at the watery spot Rufus Beaulac had indicated. Somewhere beneath those whitecapped waves the shell of the
Reliant
rested, its broken hull serving as an empty coffin to God only knew how many boys and men that had dared to defy the Mexicans. Then I glanced again at the beach where Rufus indicated the massacre had taken place. Those poor sailors—they had never lived to see the Republic of Texas born, the admission to the Union, the bonds of brotherly ties shattered in the Civil War, then the pain of Reconstruction.
    “Anyone ever dive down there?” T called to Rufus. He stared at me with frank horror.
    “Hell, no! With all them dead boys? Who'd want to go down there?”
    I started to mention that any human remains would be long gone. “It could be fascinating—” I started, but Rufus crossed himself with a practiced hand and looked at me with reproach.
    “You a ghoul, boy,” he said. “You got more to worry about than those dead sailors.” He turned the boat away from the watery grave and aimed it toward the island. I felt a sick unease tug at my heart.
You got more to worry about.

A TALL, LANKY MAN AND AN OLDER WOMAN IN A flowing, robelike dress waited for us as we pulled the boat up to a dock. The man had a thick shock of blondish-gray hair, high cheekbones set in a broad, German face, and watery blue eyes. There was no mistaking the familial resemblance between him and Bob Don. An unlit cigarette dangled from his mouth and he had his narrow hands set on thin hips, watching us expectantly.
    The woman was older, in her sixties at least, and she held a small Chihuahua up to her cheek as though it were a puppet. She, too, had the Teutonic countenance I had come to think of as particularly Goertzish, but a warm, gentle smile softened her face. As the boat grew closer she took one of the Chihuahua's tiny paws and waved it in greeting. The dog looked bored with this social nicety and squirmed uncomfortably against the lady's bosom.
    Gretchen wiggled fingers at the welcoming party, but tension crinkled her eyes and Bob Don frowned for a moment before replacing his grimace with a grin.
    I glanced at Candace. I hoped I didn't look as petrified as I felt. She gave me a hopeful, warm smile. I did my best to return it.
    Rufus leaped out of the boat and moored it to the dock. The khaki-clad man didn't offer to help; instead, he lit his cigarette with a battered Zippo lighter and peered at me through the feather of smoke that crept past his weathered face.
    We disembarked and I helped Rufus pull our