Greg Iles - Blood Memory

“I think he got something over Dr. Kirkland,” Pearlie says softly.

“What do you mean? Something on him?”

She nods once, firmly.

“What could he have on Grandpapa?”

Pearlie shakes her head, her eyes still on the retreating figure. “His mama used to work for your granddaddy. Secretary or bookkeeper, something. She knew things.”

“What could she know about? Something illegal?”

Pearlie turns to me, her eyes hard. “I don’t know. Dr. Kirkland’s careful with the family business. But it’s got to be something. Your granddaddy wouldn’t let that trash tie his shoes, otherwise.”

Her comment reminds me that my grandfather-a man who places such value on integrity that he closes million-dollar deals with a handshake-has destroyed the careers of several men who crossed him, or who lied to him in business deals. “I wouldn’t want to try to blackmail Grandpapa.”

“Lord knows that’s right. Be like climbing into a bear pit with the bear in it.”

“You stay away from that driver, Pearlie.”

She reaches out and squeezes my wrist. “You, too, baby. Things have changed around here.”

“Have they?” I shake my head. “I don’t think so. I think things were always this way. I was just too young to see it.”

Grandpapa is waiting for me in his study. He’s sitting in the same leather executive chair he sat in two days ago, when he told me the same old lie about my father’s death. What does he want to tell me now?

He doesn’t speak when I enter. He sits erect in his chair, his left hand cradling a glass of Scotch, his blue eyes looking strangely wet. He’s still wearing his suit and tie, and his tanned skin and silver hair give him the appearance of a veteran Hollywood actor awaiting a scene-not a character actor, but an aging leading man.

“Your driver said you want to talk to me.”

“That’s right,” he says, his voice a commanding blend of baritone and bass. “I need to ask you a question, Catherine. Please sit down.”

Something makes me want to take the initiative away from him. “Why do you keep that lowlife around?”

Grandpapa appears taken off guard. “Who? Billy?”

“Yes. He doesn’t belong here, and you know it.”

Grandpapa looks at the floor and purses his lips, as though reluctant to discuss this with me. Then he speaks in a tone of regret. “The casino business isn’t like our other family businesses, Catherine. Las Vegas wears a corporate image nowadays, but the old unsavory practices are still around. The big Nevada boys don’t like competition, and they have quite a stake in Mississippi. I need someone who knows that world inside and out. Billy worked in Las Vegas for twelve years, and he spent three working for an Indian casino in New Mexico. The exact nature of his experience is something into which I don’t delve too deeply. I’m not proud of that, but sometimes to accomplish something good, you have to rub elbows with the devil. That’s the nature of the gambling business.”

“It surprises me to hear you talk that way.”

He shrugs in the chair. “This town is desperate. We can’t afford our high ideals any longer. Please take a seat, dear.”

I sit in a club chair and face him across a Bokhara rug.

“Still off the alcohol?” he asks, motioning toward the sideboard.

“So far, so good.”

“I wish I had your willpower. Must be the diving that gives you the discipline.”

“You said you needed to ask me a question.”

“Yes. This morning you mentioned hiring a professional forensic team to search your old bedroom. For blood and other evidence, you said.”

I nod but say nothing.

“Have you shelved that plan, given what I told you this morning about Luke’s death?”

“No.”

Grandpapa doesn’t react at first. Then he raises his glass and takes a long drink of Scotch, closing his eyes as he swallows. After a few moments, he opens them again and sets the glass on a table beside his chair.

“I can’t let you do that,” he says.

What do you mean? I ask silently. But aloud, I say, “Why not?”

“Because I killed your father, Catherine. I shot Luke.”

The words don’t really register at first. I mean, I hear them. I recognize the order in which they were spoken. But their actual significance doesn’t really sink in.

“I know this is a shock to you,” Grandpapa goes on. “I wish there were some other way to deal with this. That you’d never have to know. But you found that blood, and now there’s no other way to put an end to this. I know you. You’re just like me. You won’t stop until you know the truth. So, I’m going to give it to you.”

“I thought you gave it to me this morning.”

He shifts in his chair. “I lied to you before, darling. We both know that, and you’re probably wondering why you should believe me now. All I can tell you is this: when you hear what I’m about to tell you, you’ll know it’s true. You’ll know it in your bones. And I wish to God it was a different truth.”

“What are you talking about? What is this?”

Grandpapa rubs his tanned face with his right hand, squeezing his jaw. “Catherine, someday you will get old, and you’ll hear from some doctor that you’re going to die. But what you’re about to hear will be worse than that. Part of you is going to die today. I want you to brace yourself.”

My extremities are going cold. I felt a little like this when I saw my home pregnancy test turn pink. A temporary paralysis set in while my mind tried to adapt to the total transformation of my life. I feel that paralysis now, but with it comes a terrible foreboding. A fear that my whole world is about to be sucked inside out by something that’s been kept from me my whole life. And the funny thing is, I’m not surprised at all. It’s like I’ve known this moment was coming since I was a little girl. That one day I would find myself in this room, or a room like it, while someone gave me the terrible secret of why I am the way I am.

“There was no prowler here on the night Luke died,” Grandpapa says. “You already suspect that. That’s why you asked me if Luke committed suicide.”

“Did he?” asks a faint voice that comes from my throat.

“No. I told you, I killed him.”

“But why? Did you argue with him? Was it an accident?”

“No.” Grandpapa squares his shoulders and looks me in the eye. “Two days ago you asked me why I didn’t like Luke. I didn’t tell you the complete truth. Yes, his reaction to his war service bothered me, and the fact that he couldn’t provide for you and your mother didn’t help matters. But from the very beginning, I had a bad feeling about that boy. Something wasn’t right about him. Your mother didn’t see it because she was in love. But I saw it. I couldn’t put my finger on exactly what it was. I just sensed something, as a man, that made me recoil.”

“I can’t stand this. Please just tell me whatever it is.”

“Do you remember that when Luke was having his bad periods-his spells, Pearlie called them-you were the only person he’d let near him? The only one he’d let into the barn while he worked?”

“Of course.”

“He spent a lot of time with you, Catherine. You were his connection to the real world. You two had a very unusual relationship. And as time went on, I started to feel that it wasn’t an appropriate relationship.”

The numbness is spreading to my heart. “How do you mean?”

“That night Luke died, I wasn’t reading downstairs. I had turned off all the lights downstairs and pretended to go up to bed, but I didn’t. I’d done this several nights in a row. Luke was supposedly leaving for the island. That night, instead of watching from the window, I went out into the yard with a flashlight and sat on the grass.” Another swig of Scotch. “After about an hour, I saw Luke coming up the hill from the barn. He wasn’t walking like himself. In the dark I actually thought he was a different person. I thought he was a prowler. But it was Luke. He went through the door of your house without making a sound. I circled the house and went to your window. I saw a crack of light as he opened your door. I thought he might be checking on you…but he wasn’t. The door opened and closed quickly, and I knew he’d gone into your room and stayed there.”