Greg Iles - Blood Memory

“No. I’m going back to Natchez.”

He rubs his eyes like a man coming awake after a long sleep. “What are you talking about? You just came from there. Why would you want to go back?”

Trying to explain my reasons to Sean while he’s drunk is more than I want to deal with. “Look, I don’t need to be here right now. I need to go home.”

He waves his arm broadly. “I thought this was home.”

“I have to know what happened in that room. What happened the night my father died.”

“Well, you can’t just leave . Malik thinks he has some kind of connection with you. You’re important to solving the case.”

An image of the psychiatrist comes to me, a black-clad figure looking down a corridor like a concerned father. “Where’s Malik now? What’s that newspaper story about?”

“He’s in the Orleans Parish Prison. He refused to obey the court order. The Picayune ran a story about his big moral stand against the Feds. Some people think Malik’s a hero for protecting his patients’ privacy, others think he’s the killer, or that he’s protecting the killer. All anybody agrees on is that he’s the only goddamn lead in the case.”

None of this surprises me. “Look, I did what Kaiser wanted. That’s all I can do right now. I’m an expert on bite marks, but they’ve got somebody else doing that job. There’s nothing I can do to alter events. I’m done. I’m going home.”

Sean shakes his head as though trying to sober himself up. “Last night you asked me if I could give up everything for you. I told you I could.”

I nod but say nothing.

“Well…we can be together now. Right now. No waiting.”

I’ve dreamed of hearing him say this for more than a year, but now that he has, I feel only sadness. “You didn’t make that choice freely, Sean. You got caught. That’s a different thing.”

He looks incredulous. “Are you serious?”

“On top of that, you’re drunk. You don’t know how you’re going to feel when you sober up. For all I know, you’ll be begging Karen’s forgiveness and trying to sleep at home by tonight. I don’t want to sound like a bitch, okay? I love you. But I have something important to do, and I can’t put it off because you happened to get caught last night.”

“You do sound like a bitch.”

My laugh is a short, harsh bark that surprises even me. “Thanks for making it easier.”

At Malmaison, I find the wrought-iron gate standing open. Could the house be on tour? It’s the wrong season for that. Carefully negotiating the blind curves of the high-banked lane that leads to the main driveway, I circle around to the rear drive and pull into the gravel lot behind the two slave quarters and the rose garden.

Mother’s Maxima, Pearlie’s blue Cadillac, and my grandfather’s Town Car are in the lot. There’s also an Acura I don’t recognize. The Town Car is running. My grandfather’s driver is sitting behind the wheel. Billy Neal gives no semblance of a greeting, but stares at me with a strange malevolence.

I’m about to walk over and ask him what his problem is when Grandpapa marches through the trellis at the rear of the rose garden. He wears a stylish suit cut by the Hong Kong tailor who travels through Natchez twice a year and takes measurements at a local motel. The dark fabric sets off his silver hair, and he wears a white silk handkerchief prominently in his pocket.

Billy Neal gets out of the Lincoln and opens its rear door, but by then my grandfather has seen me and turned in my direction. Neal leans against the trunk of the Town Car and lights a cigarette, his posture radiating insolence.

“Catherine?” Grandpapa calls. “Two visits in three days? What’s going on?”

I’m not going to lie about my reason for being here, even though it might upset him. “I came back to finish the work in my bedroom.”

He stops a couple of feet from me, his blue eyes twinkling with interest. “You mean the blood you found?”

“Yes. I want to check the rest of the room for blood and other trace evidence. Probably the rest of the slave quarters as well.”

The twinkle goes dead. “What kind of evidence? Evidence of what?”

“Evidence of what, I’m not sure. But I’ll find whatever is preserved after twenty-three years.”

He glances at his watch. “You’re going to do this yourself?”

“I don’t think so. I wanted to. And my forensic equipment is packed in my trunk. But if something I discovered ultimately involved the courts, that could-”

“The courts?” He’s giving me his full attention now. “What could possibly involve the courts?”

Why is he forcing me to say it? “Look, I know you told me that you and I probably tracked that blood into the bedroom from the garden that night, but…”

“But what?”

“It was raining that night, Grandpapa. Hard.”

He nods as if only now remembering. “You’re right.”

“It’s not that I don’t believe you. But I can’t stop thinking about that rain. How could anybody track enough blood over thirty yards of wet grass to make those footprints?”

He smiles. “You’re as obsessive and tenacious as I am.”

I can’t help but smile back. “As far as me doing the work, the problem is objectivity. If any kind of legal proceeding involved me-and if I alone had discovered the evidence-that evidence would be suspect. I know people who work at the state crime lab in Baton Rouge. They do some moonlighting. Reconstructing crime scenes, testifying as experts in criminal trials-”

“Mississippi or Louisiana?”

“Louisiana.”

Grandpapa gives a perfunctory nod, as though suddenly preoccupied with something else.

“They could work up my bedroom in half a day and videotape the whole thing. Any evidence they discovered would be beyond reproach. Honestly, I can’t even pretend to be objective about this.”

“I understand.” He glances over at his driver, then back at me.

“Do you have any problem with me doing this, Grandpapa?”

He seems not to have heard me. The stroke he had a year ago wasn’t supposed to have affected his conscious thought processes, but sometimes I’m not so sure.

“Whose car is that?” I ask, pointing at the Acura.

“Ann’s,” he replies, his eyes distant.

Aunt Ann rarely visits Malmaison. Her stormy personal life long ago alienated her from my grandparents. It’s my mother who makes the effort to exert a positive influence in Ann’s life, but her efforts mostly go in vain. Diagnosed as bipolar in her midtwenties, Ann-the beautiful and favored child of the family-became a cautionary tale in local society, an example of how great wealth doesn’t necessarily confer happiness.

“Is she visiting Mom?” I ask.

“She’s with Gwen now, but she actually drove up to see me.”

“What about?”

Grandpapa sighs wearily. “What’s it always about?”

Money. Mom told me that Aunt Ann long ago depleted the trust fund my grandfather set up for her. Yet she has no qualms about asking for money whenever she needs it. “Mom said Ann’s new husband is beating her.”

Grandpapa’s face tightens, and I sense the slow-burning anger of a man who judges men by his own strict code. “If she asks me for help with that problem, I’ll intervene.”

I want to ask if he gave Ann the money she requested, but I don’t. He probably wouldn’t tell me.

He’s looking at his watch again. “Catherine, I have a meeting with a member of the Mississippi Gaming Commission. It’s about Maison DeSalle. I can’t be late.”

I suddenly remember the architectural model he showed me in his library, his plans for federal certification of a Natchez Indian Nation. “Oh, right. Good luck-I guess.”