Blood Memory

by Greg Iles

  I don’t reply. My silence must remind him of the wordless year that followed my father’s death, because it spooks him.

  “Catherine?” he says in an anxious voice. “Can you speak?”

  I don’t know. Am I speaking now?

  “Surely you have some questions. You always do.”

  But I’m not me anymore.

  “Well, after you’ve had time to absorb this, I think you’ll see why I don’t want you bringing outsiders here to search that room for more blood. No possible good can come from anybody learning what I just told you. None at all. But great harm could result.”

  “Who else knows?” I whisper.

  “No one.”

  “Not Pearlie?”

  A solemn shake of the head. “She might suspect, but she doesn’t know.”

  “Mother?”

  “No one, Catherine.”

  “Did you really examine me that night? After the police left?”

  He nods sadly.

  “What did you find?”

  A deep sigh. “Vaginal and anal irritation. Old scarring. Your hymen wasn’t intact. That’s not conclusive in itself, but I knew what I’d seen. If I’d waited ten minutes to go into that room, I’d have found more evidence. And if a forensic team had tested your bedsheets back then—”

  “Please stop.”

  “All right, darling. Just tell me what I can do.”

  “Nothing.”

  “I’m not sure that’s true. Now that you know the truth about your past, it might be helpful to speak to someone. I can get you access to the top people in the country.”

  “I have to go.”

  “Where?”

  “Anywhere.”

  “Why don’t you stay here for a while? I’ll have Pearlie fix a room upstairs. You don’t ever have to go back into that slave quarters again. You’d have never lived there in the first place if it had been up to me. It was Luke who refused to move in here. I offered him a whole damn wing. I guess now you know why. Anyway, you take a few days and start trying to get your mind around this. It could take a long while to really deal with it.”

  I can’t believe this is my grandfather talking. His philosophy was always unequivocal: When life throws you a curveball, you knock that son of a bitch right down the pitcher’s throat. I actually heard him say that many times. Yet here he stands, talking like he’s been watching Dr. Phil with my mother.

  “I have to go now, Grandpapa.”

  I turn and walk quickly to the French doors that lead out onto the lawn. His footsteps follow me, then stop. In a moment I’m standing in bright sunlight on an endless plain of freshly mown grass.

  And there the tears come. Great racking sobs that make my ribs hurt. I fall to my knees and bend over the grass the way I would if I were puking drunk. But I’m not drunk. I am desolate. What I want most is out of my skin. I want to take a knife, slash myself from my pubic bone to my neck, and crawl out of this disgusting body.

  “Catherine?” calls a frantic female voice. “What’s the matter? Did you hurt yourself?”

  It’s my mother. She’s kneeling in the flower beds near the front entrance of Malmaison. The mere sight of her throws me into panic. When she gets to her feet, I stand and race for the far corner of the house.

  Rounding the corner of Malmaison, I sprint along the back wall of our slave quarters. My bedroom window flashes at my left shoulder, and I shudder at the sight of it. There’s my car. My connection to New Orleans. My escape. Mom’s cries fade as I slide behind the wheel and slam the door. The revving motor is the first thing that slows the spinning panic in my chest.

  Throwing the Audi into gear, I roar out of the parking lot, spraying gravel against the wall of the slave quarters. Never have I wanted to leave a place so badly as I do Malmaison at this moment. Of course there is only one way to truly leave this place behind.

  Die.

  Chapter

  26

  DeSalle Island rises out of the Mississippi River like the back of a sleeping dog. The long, low line of trees stretches four miles north to south, three miles east to west. It’s so big, you wouldn’t know it was an island without crossing it.

  The setting of my childhood summers, the island is as much a part of me as Natchez and New Orleans, yet it stands utterly apart from them. Apart from everything, really. Nominally part of Louisiana, it is in truth subject to no authority other than that of my family. It was created when the Mississippi River, having wound back upon itself like a writhing snake, finally cut off its own tortuous bend with a great rush of floodwater that shortened its course by more than five miles. Left in the wake of that cataclysm was a great island covered with timber, rich topsoil, wild game, and the shacks of a dozen black families that worked for my ancestors for 150 years—first as slaves, then as sharecroppers, and finally as wage earners. Floods eventually smothered the topsoil with sand and killed the oaks and pines, but the blacks worked on, raising cattle instead of cotton, managing a deer camp, and doing whatever else kept food in their children’s bellies. The only whites who come here are members of my family, or business associates of my grandfather’s invited here to hunt.

  I’m parked where the narrowest part of the old river channel flows through a treacherous plain of mud. Here a dirt causeway stretches across the old channel to the island. Every spring it’s washed away by overflow from the river, but every summer it’s rebuilt, the cost being split between my grandfather and an oil company that operates several wells on the island. The river is high for this time of year, and the backwater laps against the edges of the causeway with maybe an inch to spare.

  I’ve been parked at the end of the causeway for twenty minutes, trying to decide whether it’s safe to cross. A line of thunderclouds has been blowing up from the south for the past hour. If they cut loose with enough rain, the causeway could disappear under the rising water. It’s happened before.

  I drove the seventy miles here in a state of near hypnosis, my only goal to reach this place where my father spent so much time, to somehow solve the tragic mysteries of his life and mine. I was conscious enough to call Sean twice, but he didn’t answer. That means he’s with his wife. If he were in a task force meeting or even at a fresh murder scene, he would have at least text-messaged me back. So…the father of my baby is almost certainly trying to save his marriage.

  After failing to reach Sean, I felt an irresistible compulsion to speak to Nathan Malik. I called his cell phone, but it kicked me over to his voice mail. I wanted to leave a message, but I didn’t. If the psychiatrist is still in jail, his cell phone is probably sitting on the desk of some FBI agent. It might even be in John Kaiser’s pocket. Whoever has it has probably already put the Bureau’s technical machinery in motion, trying to trace the number of the person who called their main suspect.

  When I couldn’t reach Malik, I started paging through my digital phone book. That’s one thing you do when you’re depressed. One thing I do, anyway. Go through my phone book calling friend after friend, praying for a sympathetic voice. I call people I haven’t seen in months, and even years. But today…I didn’t do that. As the rolling hills of southwest Mississippi swept me into the boot of Louisiana, I called directory assistance and got the number of Michael Wells’s medical office. It took some convincing, but his receptionist finally put me through. I told Michael I’d really like to talk to him, if he had some time.

  “I’m up to my ass in alligators right now,” he said, laughing. “Sick two-year-olds, actually, but it amounts to the same thing. I’d love to see you later, though. Would you let me buy you dinner? We actually have a Thai restaurant in Natchez now.”

  I was silent for a moment—or maybe longer—because Michael said, “Cat? Is something wrong?”

  “Umm…yeah. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. But we can do it some other time.”

  “Tell me what’s wrong.”

  “Do you believe in repressed memories?”

  “Related to what? That usually
has to do with child abuse.”

  “Yeah. Like that.”

  He was silent for a bit. “Is this a hypothetical question?”

  I wasn’t sure how to answer. “Sort of.”

  “Forget about dinner. Come to my office right now. I’m on Jeff Davis Boulevard. You remember where that is?”

  “Sure, but it’s okay. Forget I called. I’m not even in town right now.”

  “Where are you? New Orleans?”

  “No. Look…if I get back in time, I’ll call you later, okay?”

  “Cat—”

  I hung up and put my ringer on silent. Why was I trying to involve a pediatrician who knew nothing about me and my problems? Because we’d known each other in school? Because he had a sympathetic face? Because he treated children, and right at that moment I felt about four years old?

  Across the old river channel, a green johnboat is plying the shore in the shadow of some cypress trees. Squinting, I can make out the silhouette of a shirtless black teenager. He paddles a few feet, bends down, works at something, then straightens up and paddles on. When he hauls a fat, gray fish into the air, I realize what he’s doing. Checking a trotline. The static line has dozens of hooks hanging from it, one every few feet, baited with something stinky to attract the cat-fish that abound in this old channel. It’s been ten years since I visited the island, but life doesn’t seem to have changed much.

  As the boy works his way along the line, I pick up my cell phone and speed-dial Dr. Hannah Goldman. Hannah is my court of last resort. I don’t call her often, but when I do, she answers immediately or gets back to me within an hour. You don’t find commitment like that in too many therapists.

  “Cat?” she says, apparently looking at a caller ID screen.

  “Mm-hm,” I say in a tiny voice.

  “Where are you? We have a bad connection.” Her statement is punctuated by a burst of static.

  “Out of town. It doesn’t matter.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “I just found out something.”

  “Do you want to tell me about it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, you called me. I think you want to tell me about it.”

  “Okay.”

  “Twenty words or less.”

  “My grandfather killed my father.”

  Not much throws Dr. Goldman, but this does. After several seconds, she says, “Please tell me some details. I thought your father was shot by an intruder.”

  “I thought so, too. But my grandfather just told me a different story. It’s complicated. I found some blood in my old bedroom. A latent bloodstain, I wasn’t even looking for it. But it got me thinking about that night. I started asking questions. I was going to bring in an outside forensic team, so he decided to tell me the truth.”

  “‘He’ being Dr. Kirkland?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was the shooting an accident?”

  “No. He caught my father abusing me. Sexually abusing me. And he killed him.”

  “I see,” Dr. Goldman says in her most professional voice.

  She says that to keep from saying Dear God or something similar. Hannah tries to be detached, but she’s not. That’s why she lets me call her this way. Hannah Goldman is the middle ground between professional detachment and the activist commitment of Nathan Malik.

  “Do you believe what your grandfather told you?”

  “He’s never lied to me before. Except about this, I mean, by omission. He said he kept the truth from me to protect me. And I always felt like something was wrong with the story they’d told me as a child.”

  “Do you have any memory of the events he described?”

  “No. But I’ve been thinking about repressed memories a lot lately.”

  “Why?”

  “It has to do with a murder case I’m working on.”

  “The murders here in New Orleans?”

  “Yes.”

  “I see.”

  “Do you believe in repressed memories, Hannah? I mean, do you believe that a person can totally block something from their conscious mind?”

  “Yes, I do. It’s a controversial subject. Very little is known about the neuromechanics of memory. But current evidence indicates that some trauma victims dissociate during their experiences and suffer amnesia for those events. The strange thing about your case is that it’s happening backwards. You’ve been handed corroboration of abuse before you even started to remember it. Considering the issues we’ve been dealing with for so long, this information could be the greatest gift you ever receive. I know it’s hard to see that now, but I think I’m right.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Listen to me, Cat. This is a very dangerous time. I want to see you as soon as you can get to my office.”

  “Like I said, I’m not in town now.”

  “Well, you need to get here. Are you drinking?”

  “I haven’t had a drink in…a long time. I’m pregnant.”

  “What?” This time Hannah can’t mask her shock.

  “I know I should have called you. But I’m doing okay.”

  “Listen to me. I think we should consider a hospital detox program. Then an inpatient abuse-recovery program somewhere. You can’t do this alone. After what you’ve been told today, there’s simply no telling what might happen. Flashbacks, body memories, suicidal impulses. Please tell me where you are.”

  “I’m all right, really. I just wanted to ask you something.”

  “What?”

  “If my daddy was really doing that to me…how could my mother not know?”

  Dr. Goldman takes her time before answering. “There are two or three scenarios in these situations that usually explain the mother’s behavior. At some level she is aware of the abuse. But whether she’s in denial or a silent coconspirator, I can’t tell you without more information. In any case, the mother’s primary goal is to keep her family together at all costs. Still…Gwen might have had no idea that this went on.”

  “Did you suspect it? Did you ever think I might have been sexually abused?”

  “It’s crossed my mind once or twice. But these days we don’t bring up that idea unless the patient leads us there. And you never did. I thought the murder of your father was sufficient trauma to cause the problems we’ve seen. But now that this has surfaced, there’s a lot of work we can do. That we need to do. I know some very good people in this area, Cat.”

  “Do you know Nathan Malik?”

  “Why do you ask that?” Hannah’s tone is suddenly guarded. “Do you know him?”

  “I met him.”

  “Have you seen him as a patient?”

  “No. Do you think he’s good at what he does?”

  “He’s published some interesting articles. And he’s had some surprising successes with recovered memories. But he uses radical techniques. They’re unproven, and maybe even dangerous. I wouldn’t want you under the care of someone like that. You’re too fragile.”

  “I was just asking.”

  “Cat, are you in your car? I don’t think you should be driving.”

  Dr. Goldman has received many calls from parking lots and from the shoulders of highways. “No. I’m just sitting here.”

  “Are you in a safe place?”

  I look across at the island, ominous and even forbidding beneath the gray clouds. “Yeah.”

  “Where are you in your cycle? Up or down?”

  “Neither. I’m numb.”

  A sharp intake of breath belies the calming words that follow. “Cat, my concern is that this new information will trigger a manic episode. You’re in shock. You have no defenses left, other than mania. By going manic, you’re brain convinces itself you’re invulnerable. And if that happens, when you finally crash—” Static blots out Hannah’s voice. “The main thing to keep in mind is that what happened between you and your father is not your fault. You were a child. You couldn’t possibly make a free choice. You—” The static returns, this time like intermitte
nt explosions in my ear.

  “Thanks for answering,” I say into the static. “Thanks for always—”

  A blaring horn nearly knocks me out of my seat. I look in my rearview mirror and see a big white pickup truck parked behind me.

  “Hannah?”

  The connection is gone.

  The truck honks again. It’s waiting to use the causeway. The driver behind me may trust the muddy span, but I don’t. I want to back up and get out of his way, but I can’t seem to move. My hands lie on my lap like the hands of a quadriplegic. The horn blares again.

  I can’t move.

  Half a minute passes. Then a black man who looks like he weighs three hundred pounds climbs out of the truck and walks toward my car. He’s wearing a T-shirt stretched tightly over breasts much bigger than mine, and he doesn’t look happy at being delayed. When he reaches my car, he knocks on the window.

  Up close, the man has a kind face. He looks about fifty years old, and though it seems unlikely, I wonder if fate has put me in the path of Jesse Billups. With great effort I pull the switch that rolls down my window.

  “You look like you in the wrong place, lady,” he says in a deep and melodious voice.

  “Are you Jesse Billups?”

  The big man’s mouth breaks into a broad smile. “Hell no. Jesse my cousin, though.”

  “Is he on the island today?”

  “Jesse always on the island.”

  “I need to talk to him.”

  The man leans back and looks at my Audi, then laughs. “You got business with Jesse? That’s kind of hard to believe.”

  “Is it? Well, I do.”

  “Wait a second. You with them Sports Illustrated people who shot that bikini spread here back in the spring?”

  “No. I’m Catherine Ferry.”

  A blank look, then a faint spark of recognition in his eyes.

  “Catherine DeSalle Ferry,” I clarify.

  The smile vanishes, and the man straightens up and starts to tuck in his T-shirt. “Sorry I didn’t recognize you, ma’am. I’m Henry Washington. What can I do for you? You want me to lead you over the bridge and find Jesse?”