Greg Iles - Blood Memory

“Is it too late to get your money back?”

Michael’s eyes silently apologize for joking about something so serious. But he’s so honest about his opinions that it’s difficult to get angry.

“I think it’s the secrecy that’s the root of your affairs,” he says. “Secrecy was part of your sexual imprinting. I think you’ve been reenacting your abuse for most of your life. You thrive on a secretive relationship with a forbidden partner, a relationship that’s very sexual in nature. Is that accurate?”

“Are you sure you didn’t subspecialize in pediatric psychiatry?”

He shakes his head. “Once you know about the abuse, it’s easy to see the connections. You may not feel comfortable telling me this, but do you have any quirks in your sex life that seem abnormal?”

I feel myself flush, and it surprises me. I’m usually quite candid with men about sexual matters, sometimes shockingly so. But tonight…“I’m not sure we know each other well enough to go there yet.”

“You’re right.” He puts down his fork and lays his hands on the table. “Let me ask you another question.”

“Okay.”

“Did your mother have an illness that kept her bedridden for long periods?”

“After I was born, she had some kind of female problem. Pelvic inflammatory disease, maybe? I’m not sure. But she would stay in bed for weeks at a time. I was very young then, of course.”

“What about later? Was she absent from the home a lot?”

“Yes.” My main memories of my mother are of her leaving home or returning. And she always had something in her hands-something besides me. “Mom was completely obsessed with her interior design business. If you asked her whether I liked mayonnaise on my sandwiches or not, she couldn’t have told you. But if you asked her how many shades of grass-cloth wallpaper were available in America, she could list them from memory.”

Michael doesn’t seem surprised. “Was alcohol a problem in your house? Or substance abuse?”

“Both. More drugs than alcohol. My dad used all kinds of drugs when he got back from Vietnam. Prescription, mostly. My mother didn’t drink when I was growing up, so I thought she was clean. But apparently she was taking my father’s prescription meds for years. Why are you asking these questions?”

“They’re classic markers for an abusive situation.”

His uncanny accuracy about my life makes me want to know more. But to learn more, I’ll have to give more. Can I trust him with my secret self?

Michael reaches out and touches my hand. “You’re shaking, Cat. You don’t have to tell me any more.”

“No, I want to,” I say quickly.

He withdraws his hand and leans back in his chair. “All right, then. Tell me.”

“I’ve always needed certain things during sex,” I say softly. “Pain, for example. Nothing masochistic really, but just…very physical penetration. With fingers, objects…I don’t know. And choking. Sometimes I have this intense desire to be choked during sex.”

Michael is still leaning back from the dinner table, but I sense a new alertness in him. “And?”

“I have a problem reaching orgasm. Even if I get those things I want, it just doesn’t happen for me. On one hand I have this hyper-active sex drive, but on the other, I can’t make it to the point of release. Not with a man, I mean. I can do it alone. But with men, it’s this maddening spiral upward without ever being able to break through.”

“But the men you’re with think you’re the best sexual partner they ever had, right?”

Now I’m really blushing. “They say so.”

“All classic signs of past sexual abuse. Pain was part of your sexual imprinting, just like secrecy. Your father may have put his hands around your throat during sex. Or maybe you just felt you couldn’t breathe during the acts. Maybe that’s what you’re trying to repeat with the choking. That makes me wonder about your free diving, too. Lying on pool bottoms for five minutes at a time to relax ? That would put most people into a coma.”

“I guess it is kind of a red flag.”

“And your sexual performance? That’s the easiest thing of all to understand. From childhood you were trained to please a man sexually. That was the only goal of the abuse, and your survival instinct made you learn it well. So, you’re an expert at giving pleasure. You just can’t feel it yourself.”

“I guess.”

“The good news is that now that you’re aware of the abuse, this therapist you like-Dr. Goldman? — she should be able to make some real progress with you.”

“Maybe. But right now I just want to pretend it never happened. Even if it’s the answer to everything, I don’t want to think about it.”

“Who would? That’s a normal response.” Michael gets up and starts clearing the table. “I’m actually more concerned about this murder case you’re working on. I mean, somebody tried to blow your brains out tonight.”

I carry the glasses to the sink, and he starts rinsing the plates to put in the dishwasher. “I’m not sure that has to do with the murder case,” I tell him.

“What, then? These revelations of abuse? Your father’s been dead for twenty years.”

“What about the Vietnam angle?”

“You think someone’s trying to prevent thirty-year-old atrocities from coming to light? You said Jesse Billups served in a whole different theater of the war than your father. I don’t think that’s it, Cat.”

“Then what?”

“I think the murders in New Orleans are somehow connected to your life here. To your past. Maybe even to your abuse, though I can’t see how. But sexual abuse is the common factor in both situations.”

It’s oddly familiar, standing in a kitchen batting around theories about a murder case with a man. Only the man I’m doing it with is not familiar.

“Both Pearlie and Louise told you that Tom Cage was your father’s doctor here in town. He’s been practicing for more than forty years, and he’s a great guy. You should talk to him about the Vietnam stuff. Do you know him?”

In my mind I see a tall man with a salt-and-pepper beard and twinkling eyes. “I know who he is. I don’t think he likes my grandfather much.”

“That wouldn’t surprise me. Tom Cage is the opposite of your grandfather. He never gave a damn about making money. He just treats sick people. I’ll be glad to call him for you, if you like. Set up a meeting.”

“Maybe tomorrow.”

Michael turns on the dishwasher, then takes a tub of Blue Bell ice cream from the freezer and starts scooping it into two bowls. “This is my reward for doing a good deed tonight,” he says with a smile. “I didn’t ask if you wanted any, because I knew you’d say no. I’ll have to run an extra mile tomorrow morning.”

“I think I already got my workout tonight.”

“No doubt. Hey, who knew you were going to that island today?”

I think about it as we walk to the table. “Pearlie. My grandfather and his driver. Somebody probably told Mom after I was gone. I guess Mose, the yardman, could have found out.”

Michael slowly stirs his ice cream. “Once you were on the island, word probably spread quickly that you were there. But I don’t think it was anybody from that island who tried to kill you. I think somebody followed you there, or found out you went there and went after you.”

“But I don’t get it. What good does killing me do anybody?”

“ Good is a relative term. What good did killing the other five victims do?”

“You’re right. If I knew that, I could solve the case.”

“I know you feel like this Dr. Malik isn’t the killer. But you’re not stable enough right now to make that kind of judgment.”