by Greg Iles
I lurch up out of the tub and splash cool water on my face from the bathroom sink. As I peer at my bloodshot eyes in the mirror, a shudder goes through me, heralding a terrifying thought. At one point during the phone call, I had the feeling Malik was telling me his patients were his lovers. Or ex-lovers. Could he have consummated his old lust for me during a session of which I have no memory? I still recall the shock I felt when Malik’s photo first scrolled out of my grandfather’s fax machine. That was the first time I’d seen his face in ten years, I was sure of it. But what is the value of my certainty? Once you open the door to the idea that you don’t remember parts of your past, anything is possible. And for someone who’s dealt with blackouts and manic episodes, it’s not a great leap to make.
Stop thinking, says a voice in my head—the voice of self-preservation. Too much truth too fast can kill you.…
Grabbing a large towel from the hanger on the door, I wrap it around me, then climb into bed and pull the comforter up to my neck. The light is still on, and I’m not about to turn it off. I set my phone to VIBRATE, close my eyes, and pray for sleep.
On any other night I’d need a drink or a Valium to shut off the thoughts racing through my head, but tonight exhaustion does the job for me. As consciousness blurs, Dr. Malik’s face flashes before me, his eyes cold and penetrating. Then Michael Wells’s face replaces it. Michael’s eyes are warm, kind, and open. Something about him reminds me of my father, but I can’t place what. It’s not his eyes, or his build. It’s just a way. A reluctance to judge, perhaps. Whatever it is, it draws me to him.
Why didn’t I tell Michael I was pregnant? It was the only thing I held back. Was it because, deep down, I’m the one hoping for this relationship to progress? Am I afraid that when he learns I’m pregnant, he’ll vanish like those men drawn by my body and my intensity would?
Stop! shouts the voice in my head. Stop stop stop!
I have a trick to deal with destructive thoughts. I put myself in a different place altogether, a place of peace. For me, it’s the ocean. I’m free diving down a multicolored wall of coral, a steep wall that slopes down through Caribbean blue toward depths of India ink. There’s no sound but the beating of my heart. My body knifes through warmth until warmth becomes cold, and my perception balloons out beyond the cage of my skull, taking in all that I see, and rapture comes over me, the rapture of the deep. I’m diving that wall now, down through the last glimmering stratum of wakefulness into sleep. I wish it were only darkness that awaited me below. But it’s never just the dark. Dreams lie in wait, as they always have. The netherworld where I’m always a stranger, or a fugitive, or a soldier frozen in the midst of battle. Fear and confusion are my only companions there, and our journeys are always long ones.
When I was a teenager, I heard that dreams that seem to last hours actually happen in a span of six or seven seconds. I know now that this isn’t true. Most dreams last ten or fifteen minutes, then fade into others in the deep reaches of REM sleep. Some dreams we remember, others we don’t. Most of mine—though often more vivid than life—leave only fragmentary images behind, like tattered pages from a picture book.
Tonight will be different.
Tonight I’m back in the rusted orange truck. Back on the island. My grandfather is behind the wheel. We’re rolling up the long sloping hill of the old pasture. On the other side lies the pond where the cows drink. Their patties dot the grass like dried mud pies. My grandfather’s hair is black, not silver. The truck smells bad. Stale motor oil, chewing tobacco, mildew, other odors I can’t identify.
It’s going to rain. The sky is leaden, the air still. We roll steadily up the shallow slope, making for the crest. Terror has closed my throat, but Grandpapa’s face is calm. He doesn’t know what’s on the other side of the hill. I don’t either, but I know it’s bad. I’ve dreamed this dream so often that I know I’m dreaming. Each time we make it a little closer to the crest, but we never top the hill. We’re getting close now, though…I know I’ll wake up soon.
Only this time I don’t.
This time Grandpapa downshifts and steps on the gas pedal, and the old pickup trundles right over. The cows are waiting for us, staring with dumb indifference. Beyond them lies the pond, slate gray and smooth as glass.
I squeeze my hands so tightly into fists that my palms bleed.
There’s something in the pond.
A man.
He’s floating facedown in the water, his arms outspread like Jesus on the cross. He has long hair like Jesus, too. I want to scream, but Grandpapa doesn’t seem to see the man. Mute with fear, I point with my finger. Grandpapa squints and shakes his head. “Goddamn rain,” he says. They can’t work on the island when it rains.
As the truck rolls down toward the pond, Grandpapa points to our right. His prize bull has mounted a cow and is bouncing above her with violent jerks. As he stares at the rutting animals, I look back toward the pond.
The man isn’t floating anymore. He’s getting to his feet. My palms tingle with apprehension. The man isn’t in the pond, but on it. He’s standing on its glassy surface as though on an ice rink. But it’s almost a hundred degrees outside. My heart pounds so loudly I can hear it over the sound of the truck.
The man standing on the surface of the pond is my father.
I recognize his jeans and his work shirt. And behind the long hair, his deep-set brown eyes. As I stare, he starts walking across the water, holding out his arms to me. He wants to show me something. Grandpapa is mesmerized by the bull humping the cow. I pull at his shirtsleeve, but he won’t look away. Daddy is walking on water like Jesus in the Bible, but Grandpapa won’t look!
“Daddy!” I shout.
Luke Ferry nods at me but says nothing. As he nears the edge of the pond, he starts unbuttoning his shirt. I see dark hair on his chest. He undoes four buttons, then pulls his shirt open. I want to shut my eyes, but I can’t. On the right side of his chest is a hole where the bullet went in. There are other scars, too, the big sutured Y-incision of an autopsy. As I stare in horror, Daddy puts two fingers into the bullet hole and starts to rip it open. He wants me to watch, but I don’t want to see. I cover my eyes with my hands, then peer between my fingers. Something is pouring out of the wound like blood, only it’s not blood. It’s gray. That’s all I know, and all I want to know.
“Look, Kitty Cat,” he commands. “I want you to look.”
I can’t look.
When he calls my name again, I shut my eyes and scream.
Chapter
37
“Wake up! It’s Michael! You’re dreaming!”
Michael Wells is shaking my shoulders, his eyes frantic.
“Cat! It’s just a nightmare!”
I nod as though in understanding, but in my mind’s eye I see my father pushing his fingers into the bullet wound in his chest, then pulling the skin apart—
“Cat!”
I blink myself back to reality and grab Michael’s hands. He’s wearing a UNC T-shirt and plaid pajama bottoms. “I’m okay. You’re right…a nightmare.”
He nods in relief, then stands and looks down at me. The overhead light is bright behind his head, but the bedroom window is dark. “Do you want to talk about it?”
I close my eyes.
“Is it one you’ve had before?”
“Yes. The truck, the island…my grandfather. Only this time we made it over the hill.”
“What did you see?”
I shake my head. “It’s too crazy. Did I scream out loud?”
He smiles. “You screamed, but I wasn’t sleeping. I’ve been thinking about everything you told me.”
“Have you?”
“I’ve come up with a couple of ideas, if you’re interested.”
I sit up and prop myself against the headboard. “Is it about the New Orleans murders, or my situation?”
“Your situation. I don’t know anything about the murders.”
“Don’t feel left out. Neither does anyone else.”
“Something you said stuck in my head. That thing about your dad not being the breadwinner for your family. I’d thought his sculpting earned a lot of money. But if it didn’t, then your grandfather was that figure in your household.”
“Absolutely.”
“And from what you told me about your father, he wasn’t a dominating man, or even a strong personality. He didn’t try to control people. Is that right?”
“Yes. Daddy just wanted his own space. He hardly interacted with anyone except me. And of course Louise, the woman on the island.”
“I don’t know Dr. Kirkland well, but I would characterize him as a control freak.”
“Oh, yeah. He’s like a feudal lord.”
Michael nods slowly. “Well, what I’ve been thinking is this. You grew up with one version of your father’s death. You got that version from your grandfather. It’s the same version he gave the police in 1981. Now, twenty-three years later, you discover some old blood in your childhood bedroom. You decide to investigate it, and you make no secret of the fact. What happens? Your grandfather instantly begins revising the story you grew up with, his original story. By his own admission, he told you the new version—supposedly the real truth—to stop you from investigating the scene further. As a result, you stop investigating the bedroom. But you don’t stop probing the events of that night. And when you decide to bring in professionals to search the bedroom for more evidence, Dr. Kirkland changes his story yet again, this time to a ‘truth’ so horrifying that no one—not even you—would want to reveal it to anyone outside your family. In that version, he takes the blame for killing your father. But he also does something else, Cat. He lays the blame for your sexual abuse on your father.”
I feel a strange buzzing in my head. With it comes an almost frantic desire for alcohol. “Go on.”
“Are you sure you want me to? I think you know where I’m going.”
“Just talk, Michael. Quickly.”
“The only evidence you have that your father abused you is your grandfather’s word. If you discount that, what evidence is there? Hearsay about your father’s extramarital love life. Some possible brutality in Vietnam.”
I swallow hard and wait for Michael to continue.
“You do have a long history of psychological symptoms and behavior consistent with patients who’ve suffered past sexual abuse. You don’t have direct evidence as to who abused you. So…I’m just asking a question, Cat. Why should you believe that your grandfather’s latest version of the ‘truth’ is any more true than his first story?”
“Because it feels right,” I say softly. “I wish it didn’t. But it does. It’s like I can almost see it in my mind. The two men fighting over my bed in the dark. I’m afraid that I did see that.”
“Maybe your grandfather did kill your father, as he said. But maybe not for the reason he gave you. I mean, why take his word for it that he caught your father abusing you? It could easily have been the other way around. Maybe your grandfather was the abuser.”
There’s something in my throat, a hot tightness that won’t let any more words pass. “But…”
“I’m just using logic,” Michael says. “You’re so close to the situation, it’s hard to see past the emotion. I don’t think anyone could.”
“I concede that, okay? I don’t want to believe that my father abused me. I’m desperate to find hope that he didn’t. But the idea of Grandpapa doing it just seems outrageous to me. He’s like the model of propriety in this town. Famous for being faithful to his wife.”
“You could be making my point for me. Kirkland didn’t need affairs because he relieved his secret drives at home. And abusers often appear as paragons of virtue to the community. Especially in affluent families. I’ve seen that in practice.”
“What put this in your head, Michael? Was it just the things I told you tonight?”
“Honestly, no. I’ve heard about your grandfather all my life. And I can’t say I like what I’ve heard. All doctors want to make money, but they say Kirkland lived for the money. The general opinion around here is that he only married your grandmother for her money and social position.”
“Gossips always say that when a poor boy marries into a rich family. And Grandpapa doubled the family holdings through shrewd management. Particularly of the oil.”
Michael is filtering all this through some other knowledge, I can tell. In a neutral tone, he says, “The old docs around here say he did a lot of questionable procedures in his day.”
“Questionable in what sense?” I can’t keep the defensiveness out of my voice.
“As in unnecessary. You know, too many appendixes removed that turned out to be normal. Exploratory surgery for belly pain. They say he’d cut the gallbladder out of anybody who even looked like he had a stone. And a ton of hysterectomies for fibromyomas. He did one of those on my mother, in fact. Remember, this was the fifties and sixties. A surgeon could do just about anything he wanted to back then. But they still called your grandfather before a surgical review committee.”
“Who told you all this?”
“I spoke to Tom Cage last night. He stopped referring patients to Kirkland for exactly that reason.”
“Did Dr. Cage say anything about my father?”
“Yes. Apparently Luke told him a lot about his war experiences. Tom served in Korea, so your dad probably felt he was a more sympathetic listener than most.”
“What did he tell him?”
“Tom wouldn’t go into specifics with me. But he did say he thought your dad was a good soldier and a good man. That’s really what got me thinking. If Tom Cage thought your dad was a good guy, it’s hard for me to picture him as a child molester. I’m not saying he couldn’t have been. Dr. Cage may have looked at your dad, seen a troubled veteran, and blinded himself to other flaws. But Tom wants you to come talk to him. I think you should hear what he has to say.”
“I want to. God, I wish it were morning already. I’m not sleepy at all.”
“You won’t have to wait long.” Michael reaches out and flicks off the room light. After a couple of seconds, the window changes from black to blue. “You’ve been asleep for six hours.”
Dawn is breaking. I can’t believe it.
“Cat, there’s something else I think I should tell you.”
“What?”
“Your grandfather could be telling the truth about your father abusing you, but lying about killing him.”
“What do you mean?”
“There are other possibilities for the person who pulled the trigger.”
For some reason, it takes me a moment to grasp what Michael is saying. But then I have it. “My mother?” I whisper.
He nods. “Easy to imagine. She denies the abuse for several years, but then one night she unexpectedly walks in on it. Maybe she’s drunk or stoned on prescription meds. They argue, she grabs the gun from over the fireplace and kills him.”
“With me in the room?”
“We don’t know that you were in there. Afterward, your grandfather moves Luke’s body to the rose garden and invents the story of the intruder to protect his daughter. If you ask me, in that scenario, your grandfather’s a hero.”
“Who else could have done it? Pearlie?”
“Sure. Same psychological process as your mother’s, basically. Years of denial—or maybe even years of conscious knowledge—but then she finally snaps and kills him. Your grandfather might carry Luke’s body out to the rose garden to protect a maid who’d worked for his family for fifty years. She was also your primary caregiver.”
“You’re right. God, I understand why everybody freaked out when I started talking about doing a forensic investigation of that bedroom. Who knows what kind of evidence a team would find in there?”
Michael watches me as though he has something else to say, but he’s silent for some time. At length, he says, “I just think you should be aware of what you could find before you go tearing down this road after the truth. Like Pearl
ie told you…some things it’s better not to know.”
“No. I have to know.”
“The truth shall make you free?”
“That’s what Dr. Malik said last night.”
Michael shakes his head. “I wouldn’t use Malik as a guide for anything. And remember, those last possibilities only come into play if your father was your abuser. If your grandfather was molesting you, then your dad caught him in the act and Kirkland murdered him to keep him quiet. No other option.”
I suddenly feel like I need ten more hours of sleep. “I have no idea what to do now.”
“You need to find out who was actually molesting you. Forgive the crudeness, but my money is on your grandfather.”
Something in the tone of Michael’s voice pushes me to anger. “You’ve made your point, okay? But amateur detective work isn’t going to cut it. You say my grandfather loved money and did unnecessary surgery to get it. That’s unethical, but what does it have to do with child abuse? Louise Butler told me a story about Grandpapa beating a horse half to death. That makes me hate him, but does it make him a child molester? Hitler loved animals. My dad killed people, you know?”
“During wartime,” Michael says softly.
“Yes, but his unit committed atrocities, including rape. And he had sex with a fifteen- or sixteen-year-old girl on the island. The point is, none of this is conclusive. I need hard evidence.”
“What about your bedroom? That’s the source of all this.”
“It can’t tell me what I need to know. Say I find Grandpapa’s blood, and Daddy’s. It can’t confirm one story or the other.”
“What if there’s something besides blood in there?”
This gives me pause. “Like semen?”
Michael nods. “Wouldn’t semen be conclusive?”
“If we could get viable DNA after all this time, yes. But semen isn’t as resilient as blood over so many years.”
“But it’s possible. Is the bed the same one you slept in as a child?”
