Blood Memory

by Greg Iles

  I can see much more from this vantage point. The riverbank to my left—the eastern bank—is enveloped in darkness. But on my right, a haze of faint bluish light reflects off the clouds. That light is Louisiana Highway 1. That light is civilization. And the river, true to its course, is driving the tree beneath me straight toward the far bank of the bend beneath those lights. In about three minutes, I should be able to leap from these roots and swim no more than three hundred yards to shore.

  Even the rain doesn’t bother me here. The roots above my head shield me from most of it. Flipping over the Ziploc to check my cell phone, I see its screen glowing green in the darkness. It shows three bars under the antenna icon.

  I have service again.

  It’s surreal. Riding down the Mississippi River in the root-ball of a floating willow tree, I can call any telephone in the world. Some people in this situation might call the Coast Guard, which maintains stations along the river. But my main concern is no longer reaching the opposite bank. It’s catching a ride when I get there. Besides, the nearest Coast Guard station is probably thirty miles away, at New Roads. And what would I tell them to look for? A floating willow tree in a storm? A bass boat with its spotlight on? They’d never find the former, and the bass boat would go dark and disappear long before a Coast Guard vessel could catch it.

  While deciding whom to call, I realize my screen shows four missed calls. Paging through screens, I see that one was from Sean, one from Dr. Goldman, one from Michael Wells, and one from Unknown Caller. I check the battery to make sure I have adequate power, then listen to the messages.

  Sean: Hey, it’s me, I’m sorry about not answering before. I was with Karen. We’re talking about the whole divorce thing, and about you. It’s complicated. Look, there’s something you need to know. Nathan Malik isn’t in jail anymore. He made his bail. A million bucks. The FBI had him under surveillance, but Malik drove out to Lakeside Mall and pulled some kind of switch in the Dillard’s store. They lost him. They should have let us tail him. Anyway, you need to watch your back. Malik hasn’t been declared a fugitive, but if he leaves the state, he will be. He’s already the target of a covert statewide manhunt here, and they’ll be doing the same thing in Mississippi. His data’s gone out nationally as a BOLO. You need to know, because the guy obviously has some kind of fixation on you. Don’t come back to New Orleans, Cat. And even in Natchez you should—Shit, Karen’s coming.

  There’s a click, and the message ends.

  So Malik is free again. Where is he now? I wonder. Could he be the man behind me in the bass boat? Sean’s message was time-stamped 6:11 P.M. It’s conceivable that Malik could have driven from New Orleans to DeSalle Island in that time, but how would he even know where it was? Or that I was coming here?

  The next message is from Dr. Goldman. In her eerily calm voice, Hannah says, Catherine, I’m very concerned about the things you told me in our earlier conversation. I want to see you as soon as possible. Call me any hour of the day or night. I consider this a crisis, and I want you under my direct care. The time for distance is over. This is the most dangerous and the most hopeful moment in your life. Please call me.

  The next message says, Cat, this is Michael Wells. I got your cell number from your mother. I’m done with work now, and I’d really like to talk to you. You didn’t sound good on the phone earlier. That stuff about repressed memories…all that. I’m not sure what you’re dealing with, and you may be fine now. I just want you to know I’m here for you. As a friend, a doctor, whatever you need. My home number is four four five, eight six six three. Call me, okay? No pressure.

  No pressure. God, how those words sound good to me.

  The last message is only dead air, then static followed by a click. So much for Unknown Caller. For a brief moment I wonder if that could have been Dr. Malik, but the odds are against it. Probably just a wrong number.

  No pressure, Michael said. The idea of calling Sean is nothing but pressure. And Dr. Goldman…maybe tomorrow. Right now I need a different kind of help. After checking my orientation to the riverbank—I have about a minute left before my swim—I dial Michael’s number. He answers on the third ring.

  “Dr. Wells,” he says, sounding ready for anything from a toddler with a cold to an infant with spinal meningitis. Tears well in my eyes, and for some reason it hits me now that the chief difference between Michael and me is that he treats live patients, while I work with the dead.

  “It’s Cat Ferry, Michael.”

  “Cat! Are you all right?”

  “Yes and no. I’m in trouble, actually.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “I need a ride.”

  “A ride? Okay. I’ll come get you. Where are you?”

  I close my eyes in relief and worry. “I’m about forty miles south of Natchez by air, but more like seventy by road.”

  There’s a pause. Then Michael says, “That’s fine. Just tell me where to go.”

  God bless you…“I’m going to be beside Highway One on the west-bank side of the Mississippi River. Somewhere near the Morganza Spillway. Do you know where that is?”

  “Yep. I’ve flown down the river several times to Baton Rouge and New Orleans.”

  “If you could just start in this direction, I can tell you exactly where I am when you get close.”

  “I’m leaving now. Are you safe, Cat? I mean, do we need police or anything?”

  “Maybe a first-aid kit. I’m going to talk to the police myself. And there’s no danger for you. I know this is a huge favor to ask, but—”

  “Don’t even think about it. I’m on my way.”

  I’m less than a quarter mile from the bank now, but the tree is starting to slide left beneath me. The current is sucking us back out toward the center of the river.

  “I have to go, Michael. I’ll call you soon. And thank you, thank you.”

  “I’m on my way,” he repeats. “Don’t worry about anything.”

  I hang up the phone, then replace it in the Ziploc. This time, when I seal the bag, I leave a small opening at one end. Through this hole I blow air into the bag until it’s full, like a balloon. Then I seal it tight. If for some reason I drop it, at least it will stay afloat.

  Clenching the Baggie in my teeth like a Saint Bernard, I climb down the ladder of roots until I’m half in the water. Then I push away and start swimming freestyle toward the bank. I do this for about thirty yards, just to get clear of the branches of the tree that saved me, then switch to the breaststroke. I could easily freestyle to the bank in calm water, but the waves are still bad. The breaststroke carries me up and down the waves in a more natural motion, and it’s a good stroke for breathing.

  Fifteen minutes of steady swimming bring me within twenty yards of the bank. My wind is still good, but my arms and legs are getting that leaden feeling I used to get during the longer solo races. The bank here is very steep. There’s nothing I can grab to pull me up. In the end, I simply breaststroke along the river’s edge and crawl snakelike onto the muddy slope, digging my fingernails into the earth for purchase.

  I lie panting on the bank like a novice marathon runner, but it’s not as bad as it could be. I’ve surfaced from free dives so fatigued that I had to be put on oxygen to maintain consciousness. The rain still lashes my face, but I hardly feel it now. The ground under me seems like the most solid thing in the world, and I don’t want to get up.

  My body tenses in fear.

  Someone is whistling. The sound dies, then starts again. It’s my cell phone, its ring muted by the Ziploc. Ripping open the bag, I press SEND.

  “Hello?”

  “Cat? It’s Sean. Where are you?”

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. Where are you? Home with Karen?”

  Silence. Then: “Actually, I am. I’m calling because you need to know something. Did you get my message about Malik making bail and evading surveillance?”

  “Yes.” I’m still thinking about Sean being home with his wife.
<
br />   “Have you heard anything from Malik?”

  “No.”

  “The FBI knows you tried to call him.”

  “So?”

  “So, are you out of your mind? It doesn’t look good.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “Do you care about staying alive?”

  “Strangely enough, I do. I just found that out beyond any doubt.”

  “What do you mean?”

  I’m laughing softly. “Somebody just tried to kill me.”

  “What?”

  “It doesn’t have anything to do with Malik.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “It happened on the island. My family’s island in the river. This is about something else. I’m not sure what, but it’s not the murders in New Orleans.”

  “Where are you right now?”

  “Lying on a riverbank with a hole in my leg and rain falling in my face. I don’t have any clothes or shoes. And I feel a hell of a lot better than I did this morning.”

  “Cat…that sounds like your manic voice. Are you taking your meds?”

  “I have to go, Sean. Don’t worry about me.”

  “Cat, don’t do this. The FBI wants to talk to you. Kaiser wants to talk to you.”

  “Tell Kaiser I’ll call him tomorrow. And, Sean?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You know how we used to wonder about some of the things I wanted you to do to me? Sexually, I mean?”

  His voice goes quiet. “Yeah.”

  “I just found out that my father abused me. So don’t worry about any of that stuff. It had nothing to do with you. Same with the other stuff I did. The one-night things. I think all that stuff is from what happened to me when I was a kid.”

  “Cat, you don’t sound good. Let me…”

  “What? Can you leave home now? Can you come get me right now?”

  “I may be able to, yeah.”

  “I’m an hour away from you. Maybe more.”

  Silence. “I can send somebody.”

  One more knife in the stomach. “Don’t worry about it, Sean. Take care of your wife and kids. Good-bye.”

  “Cat—”

  I hang up before he can finish. He can’t help me now. He never really could.

  Rolling onto my stomach, I lay my palms flat on the ground and push myself to my feet. The glow of the highway looks about a mile away.

  I start walking.

  Chapter

  31

  I’m sitting against the wall of an abandoned gas station on Highway 1, wearing only my underwear and waiting for Michael Wells to save me from the mosquitoes that are making a feast of my blood. The river coated my skin with a rank, oily film, but the mosquitoes here must be used to it. If I don’t have West Nile virus by tomorrow, it will be a miracle. The narrow overhang above hardly protects me from the rain, but I don’t mind the rain tonight. It’s the only thing relieving the stifling heat. The dark is another matter. The only light comes from a diffuse glow behind the thunderclouds, and the occasional glare of headlights flying up the highway.

  Michael told me to watch for a black Ford Expedition, but it’s hard to get a look at the passing cars without exposing myself. Since I’m on the opposite side of the river from the man who was trying to kill me, I’m probably safe from him for a while. But if I stand on this highway wearing only my bra and panties, I’m asking to get raped. Besides, it’s only been an hour or so since I called Michael. He couldn’t be here yet unless he drove ninety or faster.

  The moment I leaned against this cinder-block wall, a deep fatigue settled into my limbs. It wasn’t exhaustion from swimming the river. I feel disconnected from everything, even from myself. There’s a hollowness in my heart that must be the beginnings of grief. I’ve lost so much today. Sean—by my own choice if not by his. My father, who remained alive in my heart for all the years since his death, finally began to die this afternoon when Grandpapa told me what he’d done. My mother, who somehow could not protect me from my father’s secret desires. Even Pearlie, who kept so much from me all these years. I’m not even sure I want to know what she knew and when.

  And then there’s me, the woman who despite alternating bouts of elation and depression managed to work her way to the top of her field. She isn’t who I thought she was at all. Part of me was always a sham. The public persona—the superachiever who brooked no nonsense from anyone—was a professional doppelgänger who protected a little girl filled with self-doubt, who secretly drank vodka almost around the clock to numb a pain she didn’t understand, and who needed a man to protect her from dangers that existed mostly in her head. Yet somehow that bundle of contradictions added up to someone who functioned efficiently in the world. Someone I liked reasonably well. But now the formless pain I always ran from has a face. And that face belongs to my father. Suddenly, the wild emotional gyrations of my past make sense. I am no longer a mystery. I’m an Oprah show.

  My cell phone is ringing.

  The screen reads, UNKNOWN CALLER.

  I’m afraid to answer, as though by doing so I’ll allow the caller to see where I am, like the Eye of Sauron seeing Frodo when he put on the One Ring. But that’s crazy. After a quick breath, I press SEND.

  “Is this Catherine Ferry?” asks a precise voice.

  My body goes rigid. “Dr. Malik?”

  “Yes. I didn’t want you to think I was ignoring you. We can’t speak for long, I’m afraid, but we should get together soon. I’m sure you’ve been going through some difficult times since our last conversation.”

  “I have,” I admit, my hands already shaking.

  “That’s only to be expected, Catherine. Have you been having dreams? Flashbacks? Anything like that?”

  “All of the above. I found out this morning that I was sexually abused as a child.”

  “I suspected that when you were a medical student. Dr. Omartian was twenty-five years your senior, after all. There were other signs, too. We can discuss all this, but I’m afraid it will have to be at a later date.”

  “My grandfather killed my father.”

  Silence. “Who told you that?”

  “Grandpapa. He says he caught Daddy molesting me.”

  “Why would he tell you something like that after all these years?”

  “I was on the verge of discovering it anyway.”

  A pause. “I see.”

  A pair of headlights flashes out of the dark and blows past the gas station. The glare doesn’t touch me for more than a second, but being illuminated at all makes me shiver. “You know the task force is hunting you?”

  “Yes.”

  “They think you killed the victims in New Orleans.”

  “Yesterday you thought that yourself.”

  He’s right. I’m not sure what I think now. I only know that as I speak to this man whom the police and the FBI believe killed five men in brutal and premeditated fashion, I feel calmer than I have in days.

  “Do you still believe that, Catherine?”

  “I don’t know. If the murders are true sexual homicides, I don’t think you did it. But if they’re something else…maybe you did.”

  “What else would they be?”

  “Punishment.”

  A long pause. “You’re a perceptive woman.”

  “That hasn’t helped me much.”

  “It may yet.”

  “What was the video equipment for? The stuff the police found in your secret apartment?”

  “Public education. I’ll speak to you again soon, dear. I have to move now.”

  Separation anxiety pierces me like a blade. “Dr. Malik?”

  “Yes?”

  “Someone tried to kill me tonight.”

  Silence.

  “Was it you?”

  “No. Where did this happen?”

  “In the middle of nowhere. An island in the Mississippi River.”

  More silence. “I can’t help you with that.”

  “Do the murders in New Orleans have anything to
do with me? With my life in Natchez?”

  “Yes and no. I have to go now, dear. Be careful. Trust no one. Not even your family.”

  With one click he’s gone.

  I’m still holding the phone to my ear when a black Expedition wheels into the parking lot and blinks its headlights three times. I stay where I am until Michael Wells climbs out.

  “Cat?” he yells. “It’s Michael!”

  “Over here.” Keeping my back against the wall, I push myself erect with my legs and walk toward the Expedition.

  Chapter

  32

  Michael looks worried as I approach the Expedition, but then he smiles. “Every time I see you, you’re in your underwear.”

  “Seems that way, doesn’t it?”

  He reaches into the vehicle and hands me a T-shirt, a pair of warm-up pants, and some slippers about five sizes too large for my feet.

  “Thanks. Do you have a towel or something? I don’t want to ruin the pants. I’ve got a lot of blood on my leg.”

  He opens the passenger door and helps me up onto the seat. Then he bends over the ragged hole in my thigh. “Damn. I’ll have to suture that when we get back. For now we’ll just clean and cover it.”

  From a paper bag on the floor he takes a bottle of Betadine, soaks some gauze with it, and presses the soggy ball into my wound. After a few seconds, he removes the gauze and squirts half a tube of Neosporin into the hole, then covers it with a large Band-Aid.

  “Most of my patients need a Tootsie Pop after this.”

  “Do you have one?”

  He reaches into his glove box and, with a magician’s flourish, whips out a chocolate Tootsie Pop. This actually brings a smile to my lips.