Greg Iles - Blood Memory

The Q-Beam rakes over the waves like a searchlight in a prison movie. First this way, then that, occasionally returning to one spot or another in the frothing waves. Once, when the light lingers upstream, I see the massive root-ball of a tree moving in the glare. Half the twisted roots are above the water, and by the size of them, the tree itself must be eighty feet long.

The drone of the motor rises, and the searchlight moves closer to the tree. Its white beam probes the tangled root structure, its operator obviously looking for a stowaway on this natural vessel. Without warning, the light whips back around toward me. Submerging again, I feel my jeans adding to my weight.

The air in them is gone.

I need to reinflate them, but whipping them over my head right now would be like waving a flag. Like most of my decisions, my next is made purely by instinct. Carefully removing the Ziploc containing my cell phone from my pocket, I let the jeans sink in the river. Then I kick toward the bass boat, using the spotlight as my guide. My goal isn’t the boat itself-or the man in it-but the tree floating toward it.

After thirty seconds underwater, I surface to check my progress. The boat is fifteen feet in front of me, its pilot invisible behind the spotlight. Taking a gulp of air, I drop back under the waves and swim past the boat.

When I surface ten meters beyond it, the tree arrives like a scheduled bus. With my right hand I reach out and catch a trailing root. It’s like catching hold of a ski rope being towed by a speedboat. The root bloom is the bow of my adopted ship, the branches far behind me its stern. The trunk is easily four feet in diameter, which tells me it’s probably a willow uprooted by high water. As the monster trunk drifts downstream, I climb from its submerged roots to the dry roots above the waterline. Suddenly the waves that were thrashing me around the river are merely scenery. I’m riding atop an eighty-foot willow like Cleopatra on her royal barge. The rifleman in the bass boat is already behind me, and though he could return to search this tree again, the tangle of roots and mud could easily conceal me.

I can see much more from this vantage point. The riverbank to my left-the eastern bank-is enveloped in darkness. But on my right, a haze of faint bluish light reflects off the clouds. That light is Louisiana Highway 1. That light is civilization. And the river, true to its course, is driving the tree beneath me straight toward the far bank of the bend beneath those lights. In about three minutes, I should be able to leap from these roots and swim no more than three hundred yards to shore.

Even the rain doesn’t bother me here. The roots above my head shield me from most of it. Flipping over the Ziploc to check my cell phone, I see its screen glowing green in the darkness. It shows three bars under the antenna icon.

I have service again.

It’s surreal. Riding down the Mississippi River in the root-ball of a floating willow tree, I can call any telephone in the world. Some people in this situation might call the Coast Guard, which maintains stations along the river. But my main concern is no longer reaching the opposite bank. It’s catching a ride when I get there. Besides, the nearest Coast Guard station is probably thirty miles away, at New Roads. And what would I tell them to look for? A floating willow tree in a storm? A bass boat with its spotlight on? They’d never find the former, and the bass boat would go dark and disappear long before a Coast Guard vessel could catch it.

While deciding whom to call, I realize my screen shows four missed calls. Paging through screens, I see that one was from Sean, one from Dr. Goldman, one from Michael Wells, and one from Unknown Caller. I check the battery to make sure I have adequate power, then listen to the messages.

Sean: Hey, it’s me, I’m sorry about not answering before. I was with Karen. We’re talking about the whole divorce thing, and about you. It’s complicated. Look, there’s something you need to know. Nathan Malik isn’t in jail anymore. He made his bail. A million bucks. The FBI had him under surveillance, but Malik drove out to Lakeside Mall and pulled some kind of switch in the Dillard’s store. They lost him. They should have let us tail him. Anyway, you need to watch your back. Malik hasn’t been declared a fugitive, but if he leaves the state, he will be. He’s already the target of a covert statewide manhunt here, and they’ll be doing the same thing in Mississippi. His data’s gone out nationally as a BOLO. You need to know, because the guy obviously has some kind of fixation on you. Don’t come back to New Orleans, Cat. And even in Natchez you should-Shit, Karen’s coming.

There’s a click, and the message ends.

So Malik is free again. Where is he now? I wonder. Could he be the man behind me in the bass boat? Sean’s message was time-stamped 6:11 P.M. It’s conceivable that Malik could have driven from New Orleans to DeSalle Island in that time, but how would he even know where it was? Or that I was coming here?

The next message is from Dr. Goldman. In her eerily calm voice, Hannah says, Catherine, I’m very concerned about the things you told me in our earlier conversation. I want to see you as soon as possible. Call me any hour of the day or night. I consider this a crisis, and I want you under my direct care. The time for distance is over. This is the most dangerous and the most hopeful moment in your life. Please call me.

The next message says, Cat, this is Michael Wells. I got your cell number from your mother. I’m done with work now, and I’d really like to talk to you. You didn’t sound good on the phone earlier. That stuff about repressed memories…all that. I’m not sure what you’re dealing with, and you may be fine now. I just want you to know I’m here for you. As a friend, a doctor, whatever you need. My home number is four four five, eight six six three. Call me, okay? No pressure.

No pressure. God, how those words sound good to me.

The last message is only dead air, then static followed by a click. So much for Unknown Caller. For a brief moment I wonder if that could have been Dr. Malik, but the odds are against it. Probably just a wrong number.

No pressure, Michael said. The idea of calling Sean is nothing but pressure. And Dr. Goldman…maybe tomorrow. Right now I need a different kind of help. After checking my orientation to the riverbank-I have about a minute left before my swim-I dial Michael’s number. He answers on the third ring.

“Dr. Wells,” he says, sounding ready for anything from a toddler with a cold to an infant with spinal meningitis. Tears well in my eyes, and for some reason it hits me now that the chief difference between Michael and me is that he treats live patients, while I work with the dead.

“It’s Cat Ferry, Michael.”

“Cat! Are you all right?”

“Yes and no. I’m in trouble, actually.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“I need a ride.”

“A ride? Okay. I’ll come get you. Where are you?”

I close my eyes in relief and worry. “I’m about forty miles south of Natchez by air, but more like seventy by road.”

There’s a pause. Then Michael says, “That’s fine. Just tell me where to go.”

God bless you …“I’m going to be beside Highway One on the west-bank side of the Mississippi River. Somewhere near the Morganza Spillway. Do you know where that is?”

“Yep. I’ve flown down the river several times to Baton Rouge and New Orleans.”

“If you could just start in this direction, I can tell you exactly where I am when you get close.”

“I’m leaving now. Are you safe, Cat? I mean, do we need police or anything?”

“Maybe a first-aid kit. I’m going to talk to the police myself. And there’s no danger for you. I know this is a huge favor to ask, but-”