Greg Iles - Blood Memory

“I’m buying the local airport.”

“ What? ”

He laughs. “Privatizing it, actually. I’ve already got a charter airline committed to coming here.”

“Why would the county let you do that?”

“I’ve promised to bring in ongoing commercial service.”

“It’s like Field of Dreams, isn’t it? You believe that if you build it, they will come.”

He fixes me with a pragmatist’s glare. “Yes, but this isn’t a dream of foolish sentimentality. People want glamour and stars, and I’ll give them that. The high rollers will fly into the cotton capital of the Old South on a Learjet and live Gone With the Wind for three days at a time. But that’s all window dressing. What they really come for is the age-old dream of getting something for nothing. Of walking in paupers and walking out kings.”

“That’s an empty dream. Because the house always wins in the end.”

Now his smile shows pure satisfaction. “You’re right. And this time we’re the house, my dear. But unlike that abomination floating under the bluff, which fleeces local citizens of their Social Security checks and sends the profits directly to Las Vegas, Maison DeSalle will keep its profits right here in Natchez. I’m going to rebuild the infrastructure of this town. A state-of-the-art industrial park will be first. Then-”

“What about the Indians?” I ask bluntly.

The cool blue eyes lock onto mine, silently chastising me. Grandpapa has grown unused to interruptions in my absence. “I thought you said they were Native Americans now.”

“I thought you might answer my question.”

“Those eleven Indians will become some of the richest people in Mississippi. Naturally, I’ll receive fair compensation for spearheading the venture and laying out the initial capital.”

I see it now. My grandfather will be hailed as the savior of Natchez. Yet despite the stated nobility of his goal, I feel uneasy at the way he’s going about it. “Can anything go wrong at this point?”

“Oh, something can always go wrong. Every old soldier knows that. But my Washington contacts tell me that federal certification of the Natchez Nation should come within seven days.”

I walk away from the poker table, my eyes on a bottle of Absolut on the sideboard.

“Sure you don’t want a drink?” he asks.

I close my eyes. I’d hoped to wean myself off the Valium today, but I’m going to need one for the drive to New Orleans. “Positive.”

He takes a last look at his model, then carries it back to the gun safe. While his back is turned, I take a pill from my pocket and dry-swallow it. By the time my grandfather returns to his chair, the Valium is in my stomach.

“Tell me about the night my father died.”

Grandpapa’s eyelids seem to grow heavy. “I’ve told you that story at least a dozen times.”

“Humor me. Tell me once more.”

“You’re thinking about that blood you found.” He lifts his Scotch and takes another swallow. “It was late. I was reading here in the library. Your grandmother was upstairs with abdominal pain. Pearlie was with her. I heard a noise behind the house. A metallic sound. A prowler had knocked over a metal drum on the patio in the rose garden.”

“Did you see that happen?”

“Of course not. I found the drum when I went outside.”

“Were you armed?”

“Yes. I took a Smith and Wesson.38 out with me.”

“What was in the drum?”

“Pesticide for the roses. It was a heavy drum, so I figured a deer had got spooked while eating the roses and knocked it down.”

“Why didn’t you call the police?”

He shrugs. “I thought I could deal with it myself. Your father was standing outside your house. I thought he’d left for the island, but he’d been down in the barn, working on one of his sculptures. He’d heard something, too. Luke was holding the old Remington rifle he brought back from Vietnam.”

“The one that hung over our fireplace?”

“That’s right. The 700.”

“So he went into the slave quarters to get that?”

“Apparently so.”

“And then?”

“We separated. I went to look behind Pearlie’s house, while Luke circled around yours. I was on the far side of Pearlie’s house when I heard the shot. I raced around to the garden and found Luke lying dead. Shot in the chest.”

“Are you sure he was dead then? Did you check his pulse?”

“I spent a year in combat in the Pacific, Catherine. I know a gunshot death when I see it.” His voice has the kind of edge that closes further questions in that line.

“Did you see the prowler?”

“You know I did.”

“Please just tell me what you saw.”

“A man running through the trees toward Brookwood.”

“Did you chase him?”

“No. I ran into your house to make sure you and Gwen were all right.”

I try to picture this scene. “Were we?”

“Your mother was asleep, but you weren’t in your bed.”

“What did you do?”

He closes his eyes in recollection. “The telephone rang. It was Pearlie, calling from the main house. She and your grandmother were in a panic. She asked if you were all right. I said you were, but at that point I didn’t know.”

“Did you tell her to call the police?”

“She’d already called them.”

“What happened then?”

“I searched the house for you.”

“And?”

“I didn’t find you. I was worried, but I knew the man I saw running hadn’t been carrying a child, so I wasn’t panicked. I figured you were hiding somewhere.”

“Did you wake Mom up?”

“No, I knew Gwen would panic. But she soon woke up on her own. She didn’t believe Luke was dead, so I walked her out to look at his body.”

“Did she ask where I was?”

“The truth? Not at first. She wasn’t in very good shape. She’d taken a sedative. I think she assumed you were asleep in your bed.”

How many mothers would assume that under those circumstances? “Was there a lot of blood around Daddy’s body?”

Grandpapa tilts his head from side to side, as though filtering his memory of my father’s corpse through decades of surgical experience. “Enough. The bullet clipped the pulmonary artery, and there was a good-sized exit wound.”

“Enough for what?”

“For someone to track blood into your room, I suppose.” My grandfather’s face gives away nothing.

“When did I turn up?”

“Right after the police arrived. I was telling them what happened when you walked up out of the dark.”

“From the direction of our house?”

“I didn’t see where you came from. But I remember the eastern slave quarters behind you, so I guess so.”

“Was I wearing shoes?”

“I have no idea. I wouldn’t think so.”

“Did I get close to Daddy’s body?”

“You were practically on top of him before anyone noticed you.”

I close my eyes, willing my memory of that image back into the dark where I keep it. “Was the prowler you saw running away white or black?”

“Black.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive.”

“What kind of shoes were you wearing that night?” I didn’t mean to ask this aloud, but it’s too late to take it back.

“I wore boots during the day back then, but that night…I don’t recall.”

“Did you go into my room after the murder?”

“I did. To help your mother calm you down.”

“Was I upset?”

“Not that a stranger could tell. You didn’t make a sound. But I could see it. Pearlie was the only one you’d let hold you. She had to rock you in the chair like she did when you were a baby. That’s the only way we got you to sleep.”