Greg Iles - Blood Memory

“Don’t even think about it. I’m on my way.”

I’m less than a quarter mile from the bank now, but the tree is starting to slide left beneath me. The current is sucking us back out toward the center of the river.

“I have to go, Michael. I’ll call you soon. And thank you, thank you.”

“I’m on my way,” he repeats. “Don’t worry about anything.”

I hang up the phone, then replace it in the Ziploc. This time, when I seal the bag, I leave a small opening at one end. Through this hole I blow air into the bag until it’s full, like a balloon. Then I seal it tight. If for some reason I drop it, at least it will stay afloat.

Clenching the Baggie in my teeth like a Saint Bernard, I climb down the ladder of roots until I’m half in the water. Then I push away and start swimming freestyle toward the bank. I do this for about thirty yards, just to get clear of the branches of the tree that saved me, then switch to the breaststroke. I could easily freestyle to the bank in calm water, but the waves are still bad. The breaststroke carries me up and down the waves in a more natural motion, and it’s a good stroke for breathing.

Fifteen minutes of steady swimming bring me within twenty yards of the bank. My wind is still good, but my arms and legs are getting that leaden feeling I used to get during the longer solo races. The bank here is very steep. There’s nothing I can grab to pull me up. In the end, I simply breaststroke along the river’s edge and crawl snakelike onto the muddy slope, digging my fingernails into the earth for purchase.

I lie panting on the bank like a novice marathon runner, but it’s not as bad as it could be. I’ve surfaced from free dives so fatigued that I had to be put on oxygen to maintain consciousness. The rain still lashes my face, but I hardly feel it now. The ground under me seems like the most solid thing in the world, and I don’t want to get up.

My body tenses in fear.

Someone is whistling. The sound dies, then starts again. It’s my cell phone, its ring muted by the Ziploc. Ripping open the bag, I press SEND.

“Hello?”

“Cat? It’s Sean. Where are you?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. Where are you? Home with Karen?”

Silence. Then: “Actually, I am. I’m calling because you need to know something. Did you get my message about Malik making bail and evading surveillance?”

“Yes.” I’m still thinking about Sean being home with his wife.

“Have you heard anything from Malik?”

“No.”

“The FBI knows you tried to call him.”

“So?”

“So, are you out of your mind? It doesn’t look good.”

“I don’t care.”

“Do you care about staying alive?”

“Strangely enough, I do. I just found that out beyond any doubt.”

“What do you mean?”

I’m laughing softly. “Somebody just tried to kill me.”

“What?”

“It doesn’t have anything to do with Malik.”

“How do you know that?”

“It happened on the island. My family’s island in the river. This is about something else. I’m not sure what, but it’s not the murders in New Orleans.”

“Where are you right now?”

“Lying on a riverbank with a hole in my leg and rain falling in my face. I don’t have any clothes or shoes. And I feel a hell of a lot better than I did this morning.”

“Cat…that sounds like your manic voice. Are you taking your meds?”

“I have to go, Sean. Don’t worry about me.”

“Cat, don’t do this. The FBI wants to talk to you. Kaiser wants to talk to you.”

“Tell Kaiser I’ll call him tomorrow. And, Sean?”

“Yeah?”

“You know how we used to wonder about some of the things I wanted you to do to me? Sexually, I mean?”

His voice goes quiet. “Yeah.”

“I just found out that my father abused me. So don’t worry about any of that stuff. It had nothing to do with you. Same with the other stuff I did. The one-night things. I think all that stuff is from what happened to me when I was a kid.”

“Cat, you don’t sound good. Let me…”

“What? Can you leave home now? Can you come get me right now?”

“I may be able to, yeah.”

“I’m an hour away from you. Maybe more.”

Silence. “I can send somebody.”

One more knife in the stomach. “Don’t worry about it, Sean. Take care of your wife and kids. Good-bye.”

“Cat-”

I hang up before he can finish. He can’t help me now. He never really could.

Rolling onto my stomach, I lay my palms flat on the ground and push myself to my feet. The glow of the highway looks about a mile away.

I start walking.

I’m sitting against the wall of an abandoned gas station on Highway 1, wearing only my underwear and waiting for Michael Wells to save me from the mosquitoes that are making a feast of my blood. The river coated my skin with a rank, oily film, but the mosquitoes here must be used to it. If I don’t have West Nile virus by tomorrow, it will be a miracle. The narrow overhang above hardly protects me from the rain, but I don’t mind the rain tonight. It’s the only thing relieving the stifling heat. The dark is another matter. The only light comes from a diffuse glow behind the thunderclouds, and the occasional glare of headlights flying up the highway.

Michael told me to watch for a black Ford Expedition, but it’s hard to get a look at the passing cars without exposing myself. Since I’m on the opposite side of the river from the man who was trying to kill me, I’m probably safe from him for a while. But if I stand on this highway wearing only my bra and panties, I’m asking to get raped. Besides, it’s only been an hour or so since I called Michael. He couldn’t be here yet unless he drove ninety or faster.

The moment I leaned against this cinder-block wall, a deep fatigue settled into my limbs. It wasn’t exhaustion from swimming the river. I feel disconnected from everything, even from myself. There’s a hollowness in my heart that must be the beginnings of grief. I’ve lost so much today. Sean-by my own choice if not by his. My father, who remained alive in my heart for all the years since his death, finally began to die this afternoon when Grandpapa told me what he’d done. My mother, who somehow could not protect me from my father’s secret desires. Even Pearlie, who kept so much from me all these years. I’m not even sure I want to know what she knew and when.

And then there’s me, the woman who despite alternating bouts of elation and depression managed to work her way to the top of her field. She isn’t who I thought she was at all. Part of me was always a sham. The public persona-the superachiever who brooked no nonsense from anyone-was a professional doppelganger who protected a little girl filled with self-doubt, who secretly drank vodka almost around the clock to numb a pain she didn’t understand, and who needed a man to protect her from dangers that existed mostly in her head. Yet somehow that bundle of contradictions added up to someone who functioned efficiently in the world. Someone I liked reasonably well. But now the formless pain I always ran from has a face. And that face belongs to my father. Suddenly, the wild emotional gyrations of my past make sense. I am no longer a mystery. I’m an Oprah show.

My cell phone is ringing.

The screen reads, UNKNOWN CALLER .

I’m afraid to answer, as though by doing so I’ll allow the caller to see where I am, like the Eye of Sauron seeing Frodo when he put on the One Ring. But that’s crazy. After a quick breath, I press SEND.

“Is this Catherine Ferry?” asks a precise voice.

My body goes rigid. “Dr. Malik?”