by Greg Iles
A strange coldness comes over me as I recall my conversation with my mother after I first arrived in Natchez. “No. Mom had to get rid of the mattress because of urine stains. She said I wet the bed a lot as a child. But I don’t remember that.”
“Enuresis,” Michael murmurs. “That’s long been linked to sexual abuse. Sometimes it’s a cry for help.” He sits on the end of the bed. “You have no concrete memories of abuse?”
A hysterical laugh bursts from my throat. “What does it matter? Dr. Malik suggested I have dissociative identity disorder. I think Kaiser believes that, too. We’re talking about multiple personalities, for God’s sake. So what I think I know, I may not. And the real truth may be locked inside rooms in my head that I can’t even get into—not as me.”
Michael shakes his head. There’s something like grief in his eyes. “Is that how you feel? That there are parts of your mind you can’t reach?”
“Sometimes. But it’s not really like other rooms, or a hidden personality. Yes, I have blackouts. Yes, there are blocks of time I can’t account for. But I’m certain that’s the drinking, not DID. It’s more like depth, you know? I feel that the truth is buried in my mind, but it’s too damned deep. It’s like free diving. Four hundred feet is the holy grail for a woman. I want it so bad. But it might as well be the Mariana Trench. I just can’t hold my breath that long, can’t swim that far down. My true memories live at four hundred feet, and I’m not strong enough to get there.”
“It’s not a question of strength,” Michael says. “When you first spoke to me about repressed memories, I didn’t give much credence to the idea. But the more I’ve read on the Internet, the more I believe it. I was on Medline earlier. There’s a lot of evidence that during severe trauma, information is encoded in an entirely different way than at other times. They’ve found physiological changes in the amygdalae of people with severe PTSD. Apparently, the neurotransmitters get all out of whack during that kind of trauma, and memories get pushed down into holes and blind alleys. They only make themselves known when that person finds himself—or herself—in a similar situation to the one in which the trauma occurred. Child abuse victims having sex as adults, say. Or combat veterans walking near a car that backfires, or under a news helicopter that flies too low. Those triggers bring back the emotions that were experienced during the trauma, but not necessarily the memories themselves. That’s called body memory. It’s fascinating, really.”
“I’ve definitely experienced that. Especially during sex.”
“What was tonight’s nightmare about?”
I close my eyes and the vision is there, as though engraved on the backs of my eyelids. I relate the dream of the truck, the pond, and Daddy walking on water.
Michael shakes his head. “I’m no expert on dream interpretation, but walking on water is definitely a Christ image. Does Dr. Goldman interpret that kind of thing?”
“Sometimes. I’m sick of talking about all this, Michael. I want to do something.”
“I know. Forgive my amateur detective work, but—”
“I’m sorry about that. I’m just really antsy. I’m getting a little crazy.”
“Just a couple of questions.”
“Hurry.”
“What was your father’s childhood like?”
“They were country people. He grew up out at Cranfield. His dad was a welder. He got killed on an oil rig in the Gulf of Mexico. I think Daddy was nine when it happened. He was raised by his mother for a while, but she died of lung cancer when he was eleven. One of his uncles took him in.”
“Any other kids in that home?”
I see where he’s going now. “I think so, yes.”
“Siblings in the original home?”
“Two older brothers. They were split between a couple of uncles’ homes. The brothers were never close later.”
“What about your grandfather’s childhood?”
I shake my head. “The stuff of legend. Both his parents were killed on the way to his baptism. Head-on collision with a truck. Grandpapa was thrown clear. He actually landed in a patch of clover. Not even a broken bone.”
“You’re kidding.”
“He used to say that his mother saw what was going to happen and threw him out of the window before they hit the truck. But that’s bullshit.”
“Who raised him?”
“His grandfather. In east Texas.”
“And grandmother?”
I shake my head. “The grandfather was a widower.”
Michael nods thoughtfully. “Any other children in that home?”
“One girl, I think. She was my grandfather’s aunt, but she wasn’t much older than he was.”
“How did she turn out?”
“I don’t know. She died when I was young.”
Michael folds his arms and sits silently for a while. “Did your mother ever remarry after your dad died?”
“No.”
“Why not? She was what…thirty?”
“Twenty-nine. She dated some, but nobody was ever good enough.”
“Whose opinion was that? Hers? Yours? Your grandfather’s?”
“Probably Grandpapa’s. Every man in town was intimidated by him.”
“What about your aunt? You said she’s bipolar?”
“Severely manic-depressive. The whole package. Alcoholic, shoplifting charges, promiscuity, three failed marriages. A great role model for me.”
“All that could be a flag for sexual abuse in her past.”
“It could,” I say in a taut voice. “But bipolarity has a genetic component. My grandfather’s father was supposedly bipolar, the one killed in the car wreck. And I’m cyclothymic. So all that could just be our genes. Not abuse.”
Michael is about to speak again when my cell phone begins vibrating on the nightstand. He picks up the phone and shows me the screen. It’s the same New Orleans number that called last night. I press SEND.
“Agent Kaiser?”
“Yes. Hello, Cat. Sorry to bother you so early.”
Why is he calling me? He probably found out that it was Malik I was talking to last night, and not Sean. “What is it now?”
“I have some information for you. It’s probably going to be a shock, so—”
“Skip the Vaseline, okay? What happened?”
“A couple of things. First, we learned last night that Nathan Malik didn’t pay all his own bail on the murder charge.”
“I don’t understand.”
“A million-dollar bail meant that Malik had to come up with a hundred thousand in cash, and the rest in collateral. On paper he looked fairly wealthy, so when he put up his house across Lake Pontchartrain, we didn’t look too closely at the cash. But your friend Sean had a talk with the bail bondsman last night—just rechecking details. Turns out that most of the hundred thousand was paid by someone else.”
“Who?”
“Your aunt. Ann Hilgard.”
Chapter
38
I feel like I’m in a falling elevator, the basement rushing up beneath my legs. The idea that my aunt would pay Nathan Malik’s bail seems utterly beyond belief.
“You have to be wrong.”
“No mistake,” says Kaiser. “Ann Hilgard, née Kirkland. Resident of Biloxi, Mississippi. Two hours from New Orleans. She brought the bail bondsman a briefcase filled with cash.”
My mouth is open, but I can’t form words. The implications of Kaiser’s revelation are too enormous to grasp. “Why didn’t Sean call me about this?”
“That’s probably something you should ask him.”
No thanks.
“I only learned that she was your aunt a few minutes ago, Cat. Ann DeSalle Kirkland. Daughter of William Kirkland, sister of Gwendolyn DeSalle Kirkland Ferry. Maternal aunt of Catherine DeSalle Ferry, forensic odontologist. Is your aunt a patient of Dr. Malik’s? Is that why you have a special relationship with him?”
“If she is, I hadn’t a clue until ten seconds ago.”
“She�
�s definitely got the history for it. Confirmed bipolar disorder going back three decades. A string of bad marriages—”
“My God,” I breathe. “No wonder Malik knows things about me. Jesus Christ…”
“We’re trying to locate your aunt,” Kaiser says, “but we’re not having any luck. She’s apparently involved in a bitter divorce. Her husband says she hasn’t been living at home for the past couple of weeks.”
“I saw her in Natchez yesterday. She was…” I trail off, remembering the manic gleam in Ann’s eye.
“What?” Kaiser asks. “She was what?”
Borrowing money from my grandfather. Bail money, maybe? “Talking to my mother about her marital problems. You said you had a couple of things to tell me. What else?”
“We just found one of Nathan Malik’s patients in a coma on the floor of her apartment in Metairie.”
“Male or female?”
Kaiser answers softly. “Female. Her name was Margaret Lavigne. Twenty-seven years old. She lives about three minutes away from you.”
“Was it the same crime signature? Two gunshots with bite marks?”
“No, this was a suicide attempt. We only found her because we’d got her name from the psychologist who referred her to Malik.”
“You mean she wasn’t on the patient list Malik gave you?”
“Exactly. He never really obeyed the court order.”
Malik’s voice sounds in my mind: They’re part of a very special group. An experimental group. Women only. I formed it after years of watching conventional therapy approaches fail. I chose patients who were at the stage where the eruption of delayed memories was beginning to destroy their lives…. My experimental group is called Group X.
“What kind of suicide attempt?” I ask, trying to keep my voice even. “How did it happen?”
“We sent two agents over there to talk to her. They saw Lavigne through her bedroom window, lying in a pool of vomit. She’d given herself a massive dose of insulin.”
A lot of suicides try insulin because it offers hope of a painless death. But usually all they manage to do is turn themselves into vegetables. I researched and discounted this method long ago. “Did she leave a note?”
“She did. You ready for this?”
“Come on, damn it.”
“It reads, ‘May God forgive me. An innocent man is dead. Please tell Dr. Malik to stop it. I couldn’t reach him.’ What do you make of that?”
Please tell Dr. Malik to stop it. “I’m trying to put it together.”
“I had a head start on you. I think your friend Malik has been executing child molesters, Cat. I think he listened to his patients recount their horrors for one too many years. He finally snapped and decided to do something about it. I can’t say I blame him. I snapped myself for almost the same reason. But we can’t let Dr. Malik go around removing criminals from the planet without benefit of trial. Do you agree?”
“Of course. If you’re right.”
Kaiser says nothing for a few moments. “The trouble with vigilante justice is that eventually an innocent person gets lynched. Ms. Lavigne’s note is telling us that’s just what happened. I wonder what Malik will do when he hears that? Do you think he’ll turn himself in?”
“I don’t know. You’re still speculating. Why did Lavigne’s note say tell Malik to ‘stop it’ rather than simply ‘stop’?”
“We’ll probably never know.”
“Was Margaret Lavigne related to any of our victims?”
“Not by blood. But I think you’ll find this interesting. Ms. Lavigne’s biological father was arrested just before her suicide attempt and charged with multiple counts of distributing child pornography. Interesting timing, no? He broke down under questioning and confessed to several incidents of sexually abusing children. Then his daughter tried to kill herself.”
“I’m not sure I understand. Are you saying you think he’s a potential target of our killer?”
Kaiser laughs drily. “He may be now. But remember victim number three? Tracy Nolan? The CPA?”
“I’ll never forget him.” I had my first panic attack at the Nolan crime scene.
“Tracy Nolan was Margaret Lavigne’s stepfather.”
“Holy God. Lavigne told someone her stepfather abused her, and that person murdered him?”
“Bingo,” says Kaiser. “Then it turns out that her real father was the molester.”
“Jesus.”
“I think Ms. Lavigne was sexually abused as a child,” Kaiser says. “She repressed her memories of these events. Dr. Malik tried to help her recall those events, and she did. Only she made a mistake about who the molester was. I mean, wouldn’t most kids prefer to think their stepfather raped them rather than their father?”
All I can think about is Group X, and Malik’s “groundbreaking” treatment protocols. What the hell did Malik do to those women? Or convince them to do?
“Cat? Are you there?”
“Yes.”
“Have you talked to Dr. Malik since we last spoke?”
I want to tell Kaiser the truth—that I talked to Malik and that he denied committing the murders—but until I know exactly how Aunt Ann is involved with him, I’m not saying a word. If I knew the identity of anyone in Group X, I would. But I don’t. “Look, I can’t talk to you anymore right now. I’ve got to find my aunt. She could be in real danger.”
“Help us find her, Cat. We’ll protect her.”
“If you need my help to find her, you can’t protect her. She’s bipolar, John. Do you have any idea what that means? She’s tried to kill herself twice that I know about. Malik has obviously been manipulating her. Can you imagine what kind of stress she must be under? She could be with Malik now, for all we know.”
“Yes, she could. So—”
“Listen to me. Those two patients of Malik’s who were related to the victims…Riviere’s daughter and LeGendre’s niece?”
“What about them?”
“Ask them about something called Group X.”
“Group X? What’s that?”
“A therapy group. I think they might have been part of it. That’s all I know that could help you right now. I have to go.”
“Wait! How do you know that? Did Malik tell you about it?”
“I’m sorry, John.”
I click END and almost leap out of bed, startling Michael to his feet.
Chapter
39
“What happened?” Michael asks. “You look like you’re going to faint.”
“My aunt Ann paid Nathan Malik’s bail.”
He shakes his head in disbelief.
“She must be a patient of Malik’s. That’s how Malik knows so much about me and my family.”
Michael’s eyes are bright with excitement. “If your aunt is a patient of Malik’s, he’s almost certainly treating her for sexual abuse. That means your grandfather is the one who molested you.”
“Not necessarily. Malik also treats people for bipolar disorder.”
“Exclusively? Or bipolar people who’ve also been sexually abused?”
“Exclusively, I think. Bipolarity, PTSD, and sexual abuse. Separate categories. May I use your phone?”
“Sure. Did your cell phone die?”
“No, but I don’t want the FBI to hear this call.”
Michael looks at me for several seconds in silence. “Are you calling Malik?”
“I’m going to leave him a message, yes. Are you okay with that?”
He goes out into the hall and brings back a cordless phone. “As long as you don’t do anything to risk your life.”
Even as I nod, I decide to tell Michael nothing about Margaret Lavigne’s suicide attempt or her note. When I dial the number Malik gave me last night, an automated voice instructs me to leave a message at the tone.
“This is Catherine Ferry. I’ve just learned that my aunt paid your bail. I’m assuming she’s a patient of yours. You’ve been dishonest with me, Doctor. I’d like to talk to you as soon
as possible. You can reach me at—” I look up at Michael. “What’s this number?”
Michael rattles off his number, and I repeat it into the machine. “If you don’t return my call within an hour, I’m telling the FBI everything you’ve told me to date. Good-bye.”
I hang up Michael’s phone, pick up my cell, and scroll through the digital phone book. When I reach Aunt Ann, I press SEND.
A recording says, “We’re sorry, but the Cingular customer you’re trying to reach is unavailable or has traveled outside the service area. You may leave a voice mail at the tone.”
When the beep comes, I say, “Ann, this is Cat. I’m sure a lot of people are trying to get hold of you right now. I’m not trying to bother you. Your life is your own. But I know about you and Dr. Malik. I’ve talked to him, and I know why you like him. I have no desire to hurt him, or to help anyone else hurt him. All I’m asking is for you to call me back. You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to. God knows, if anyone can relate to how you feel right now, it’s me. Mood swings are my life. I promise I won’t tell Mom or Grandpapa anything, and I won’t talk to the FBI. In fact, I’d like to talk to you about Grandpapa. Also about Daddy. I’m trying to figure something out about my childhood, and I have a feeling you can help me. Thanks. Please, please call back.”
Michael is staring at me like a doctor now, as though trying to decide whether I might be in a manic state myself. I’m tempted to call my mother and ask if she knows where Ann is, but I know better. All that would accomplish is to put my mother into a panic. If Ann wants to disappear, no one in the family will be able to find her. She’s had too much practice.
“What can I do?” asks Michael.
“You already did it. You gave me a place to stay. Now I have to make some decisions.”
“How stable is your aunt?”
“Two suicide attempts. One in college and one in her late thirties. If my mother called in the next five minutes and told me Ann was dead, I wouldn’t be shocked.”
“Jesus.”
“Yeah. She was obsessed with having a baby, but she never could get pregnant. Outrageous mood swings. Her liver’s pickled in gin.”
