Greg Iles - Blood Memory

I’m not about to give Kaiser the sordid history of my childhood. “Nothing relating to your case.”

“Well, the fact that Luke’s military record was sealed bothered me, so I did some digging on my own.”

My heart is tight in my chest. “What did you find out?”

“Luke Ferry was in a unit called the White Tigers. They made an illegal incursion into Cambodia in 1969. Details are tough to come by, but there’s no doubt that the White Tigers committed war crimes during that period. Two major investigations were conducted by the JAG corps, but all charges were ultimately dropped. The whole thing was deemed too embarrassing for the government. However, I did learn that some veterans of the White Tigers were prosecuted for heroin trafficking after the war. Some as recently as the late 1980s. Your father was murdered in 1981, so I’m not ruling out anything.”

I’m tempted to tell Kaiser that my father was shot by my grandfather, but something holds me back. “Have you found any connection between Malik and drugs?”

“Yes. Malik tortured a Vietnamese prisoner with drugs in 1969. He was a medic then, remember? Apparently he did it on the order of his commanding officer. He was also arrested for selling army pharmaceuticals on the black market in Saigon. The charges were later dropped, and he was returned to his unit. No reason given.”

“Was Malik a member of the White Tigers?”

“Not that I can prove. But a large-scale drug operation needs people all over the country. Again, I’m just not sure what we’re dealing with here.”

“For what it’s worth, I don’t think the murders in New Orleans or my father’s death have anything to do with drugs. I just don’t.”

“Then what?”

Childhood sexual abuse, obviously …“I don’t know, John. Is there anything else?”

“Be very careful if you speak to Malik. You could easily cross the line into aiding and abetting.”

I don’t even respond to this.

“I have to say this, Cat. I’d like you to accept round-the-clock FBI protection.”

“No.”

“You wouldn’t even know we were there.”

“Look, no women have died, okay? It’s men who are at risk from this killer.”

“Until you got shot at tonight, I might have agreed with you. We’re very good at this, Cat. No one would know we were guarding you.”

“Malik would know. I don’t know how, but he would. And he wouldn’t come near me.”

A long silence. “Tell me why you want to talk to him.”

“I don’t know why, to tell you the truth. He just knows something I need to know. I sense that.”

“Remember what curiosity did to the cat.”

I groan. “Yeah, but cats have nine lives, remember?”

Kaiser delivers his retort like a valediction. “From what I understand, you’ve used up most of yours.”

“I need to go, John. I’ll let you know if I learn anything vital.”

I click off before he can say more.

The oily film that the river left on my skin has a sulfurous stink, and I want it off me. I turn the shower taps, and the water heats up fast. Stripping off the T-shirt again, I climb into the tub and stand under the steaming spray.

Except during my drive to the island-when I was pretty much in shock-I haven’t had time to think about what Grandpapa told me this afternoon. Not critically, anyway. What I told Michael is true: when I stop taking my meds, my logical faculties go to hell. So does my short-term memory. But when Grandpapa told me he killed Daddy, it was as though the final piece of a jigsaw puzzle fell into place, completing a picture that had eluded me for most of my life. Only that story resonates emotionally with my past as I know it. According to Michael, accepting that my father abused me means accepting that he didn’t love me. I suppose that’s true, since abusing a child means using it purely for your own ends. But couldn’t Daddy have loved me independently of that? Couldn’t he have loved me, but simply been unable to resist the impulse to touch me? Or is that just wishful thinking?

For some reason, this thought makes me think of Michael. The guy drove out to the boondocks in the middle of the night to rescue me and asked for nothing in return. He even cooked supper for me. Then he gave me a room to sleep in. Using my past experiences with men as a guide, Michael should pull aside the shower curtain about now and climb in with me, saying he just couldn’t resist. But he won’t do that. I’m sure of it.

My ears pick out a strange harmonic from the water spraying from the nozzle. When it stops and begins again, I recognize the tones of my cell phone. Rinsing the soap off my face, I grab the phone, lean away from the spray, and look at the screen. Det. Sean Regan. I don’t really want to answer, but I do want to know if Sean is sleeping at home with his wife or not. I press SEND and say, “Don’t say anything until you tell me where you are.”

“This isn’t who you think it is,” says a precise voice with a trace of humor in it.

My heart is pounding. “Dr. Malik?”

“None other. Are you alone, Catherine? I need to speak to you.”

A current of fear shoots through my veins, not for me but for Sean. “How did you get Sean’s cell phone?”

“I don’t have his phone. I reprogrammed the phone I’m using to mimic Detective Regan’s digital ID information. John Kaiser and the FBI won’t pay so much attention to this call if the ESN belongs to your boyfriend.”

How the hell does he know all that? “Go ahead, then.”

“I’m calling you because I need to leave something with you.”

I turn off the shower and wrap a towel around my chest. “What is it?”

“I’d rather not tell you on the phone. I just need to leave it with someone I can trust.”

“You trust me?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Instinct.”

“You shouldn’t. I’m working with the FBI.”

“Are you?” A hint of sarcasm. “I don’t think so. It has to be you, Catherine. There’s no one else.”

“What about a friend?”

“I don’t have friends. I have patients.”

I feel exactly the same way. “I can relate to that. Patients and ex-lovers. That’s about it.”

Malik laughs softly. “I have only patients.”

I have the distinct feeling that the psychiatrist is telling me his patients are his lovers. “If you’re trying to give me your patient records, I can’t accept them. The FBI named those in a search warrant. They’d prosecute me if I withheld them.”

“It’s not my records.” Malik’s indrawn breath stops suddenly. “It’s a film.”

“A film?”

“A film and the raw materials relating to it. Mini-DV tapes, DVD disks, audiotapes, like that. It’s all in two boxes.”

“What kind of film?”

“I’m making a documentary about sexual abuse and repressed memory.”

This revelation comes as such a surprise that I’m not sure how to respond. Yet it makes perfect sense. Recalling Malik in his all-black getup, it’s easy to see him as some sort of revolutionary film-maker.

“Nothing like it has ever been seen before,” he says with gravity. “It’s the most emotionally devastating thing ever committed to film. If it reaches the screen, it will shake this country to its foundations.”

“What does it show? Actual sexual abuse?”

“In a way. It shows women reliving abuse in a group setting. Some of them obviously regress to a childhood state. Their experiences are shattering.”

“I assume the women are patients of yours. Did they give their permission for you to record them?”

“Yes. They’re part of a very special group. An experimental group. Women only. I formed it after years of watching conventional therapy approaches fail. I chose patients who were at the stage where the eruption of delayed memories was beginning to destroy their lives, and where multigenerational abuse seemed likely. They were highly motivated. I’ve spent seven months working with them, and we’ve done some groundbreaking things.”