Greg Iles - Blood Memory

“It’s not a question of strength,” Michael says. “When you first spoke to me about repressed memories, I didn’t give much credence to the idea. But the more I’ve read on the Internet, the more I believe it. I was on Medline earlier. There’s a lot of evidence that during severe trauma, information is encoded in an entirely different way than at other times. They’ve found physiological changes in the amygdalae of people with severe PTSD. Apparently, the neurotransmitters get all out of whack during that kind of trauma, and memories get pushed down into holes and blind alleys. They only make themselves known when that person finds himself-or herself-in a similar situation to the one in which the trauma occurred. Child abuse victims having sex as adults, say. Or combat veterans walking near a car that backfires, or under a news helicopter that flies too low. Those triggers bring back the emotions that were experienced during the trauma, but not necessarily the memories themselves. That’s called body memory. It’s fascinating, really.”

“I’ve definitely experienced that. Especially during sex.”

“What was tonight’s nightmare about?”

I close my eyes and the vision is there, as though engraved on the backs of my eyelids. I relate the dream of the truck, the pond, and Daddy walking on water.

Michael shakes his head. “I’m no expert on dream interpretation, but walking on water is definitely a Christ image. Does Dr. Goldman interpret that kind of thing?”

“Sometimes. I’m sick of talking about all this, Michael. I want to do something.”

“I know. Forgive my amateur detective work, but-”

“I’m sorry about that. I’m just really antsy. I’m getting a little crazy.”

“Just a couple of questions.”

“Hurry.”

“What was your father’s childhood like?”

“They were country people. He grew up out at Cranfield. His dad was a welder. He got killed on an oil rig in the Gulf of Mexico. I think Daddy was nine when it happened. He was raised by his mother for a while, but she died of lung cancer when he was eleven. One of his uncles took him in.”

“Any other kids in that home?”

I see where he’s going now. “I think so, yes.”

“Siblings in the original home?”

“Two older brothers. They were split between a couple of uncles’ homes. The brothers were never close later.”

“What about your grandfather’s childhood?”

I shake my head. “The stuff of legend. Both his parents were killed on the way to his baptism. Head-on collision with a truck. Grandpapa was thrown clear. He actually landed in a patch of clover. Not even a broken bone.”

“You’re kidding.”

“He used to say that his mother saw what was going to happen and threw him out of the window before they hit the truck. But that’s bullshit.”

“Who raised him?”

“His grandfather. In east Texas.”

“And grandmother?”

I shake my head. “The grandfather was a widower.”

Michael nods thoughtfully. “Any other children in that home?”

“One girl, I think. She was my grandfather’s aunt, but she wasn’t much older than he was.”

“How did she turn out?”

“I don’t know. She died when I was young.”

Michael folds his arms and sits silently for a while. “Did your mother ever remarry after your dad died?”

“No.”

“Why not? She was what…thirty?”

“Twenty-nine. She dated some, but nobody was ever good enough.”

“Whose opinion was that? Hers? Yours? Your grandfather’s?”

“Probably Grandpapa’s. Every man in town was intimidated by him.”

“What about your aunt? You said she’s bipolar?”

“Severely manic-depressive. The whole package. Alcoholic, shoplifting charges, promiscuity, three failed marriages. A great role model for me.”

“All that could be a flag for sexual abuse in her past.”

“It could, ” I say in a taut voice. “But bipolarity has a genetic component. My grandfather’s father was supposedly bipolar, the one killed in the car wreck. And I’m cyclothymic. So all that could just be our genes. Not abuse.”

Michael is about to speak again when my cell phone begins vibrating on the nightstand. He picks up the phone and shows me the screen. It’s the same New Orleans number that called last night. I press SEND.

“Agent Kaiser?”

“Yes. Hello, Cat. Sorry to bother you so early.”

Why is he calling me? He probably found out that it was Malik I was talking to last night, and not Sean. “What is it now?”

“I have some information for you. It’s probably going to be a shock, so-”

“Skip the Vaseline, okay? What happened?”

“A couple of things. First, we learned last night that Nathan Malik didn’t pay all his own bail on the murder charge.”

“I don’t understand.”

“A million-dollar bail meant that Malik had to come up with a hundred thousand in cash, and the rest in collateral. On paper he looked fairly wealthy, so when he put up his house across Lake Pontchartrain, we didn’t look too closely at the cash. But your friend Sean had a talk with the bail bondsman last night-just rechecking details. Turns out that most of the hundred thousand was paid by someone else.”

“Who?”

“Your aunt. Ann Hilgard.”

I feel like I’m in a falling elevator, the basement rushing up beneath my legs. The idea that my aunt would pay Nathan Malik’s bail seems utterly beyond belief.

“You have to be wrong.”

“No mistake,” says Kaiser. “Ann Hilgard, nee Kirkland. Resident of Biloxi, Mississippi. Two hours from New Orleans. She brought the bail bondsman a briefcase filled with cash.”

My mouth is open, but I can’t form words. The implications of Kaiser’s revelation are too enormous to grasp. “Why didn’t Sean call me about this?”

“That’s probably something you should ask him.”

No thanks.

“I only learned that she was your aunt a few minutes ago, Cat. Ann DeSalle Kirkland. Daughter of William Kirkland, sister of Gwendolyn DeSalle Kirkland Ferry. Maternal aunt of Catherine DeSalle Ferry, forensic odontologist. Is your aunt a patient of Dr. Malik’s? Is that why you have a special relationship with him?”

“If she is, I hadn’t a clue until ten seconds ago.”

“She’s definitely got the history for it. Confirmed bipolar disorder going back three decades. A string of bad marriages-”

“My God,” I breathe. “No wonder Malik knows things about me. Jesus Christ …”

“We’re trying to locate your aunt,” Kaiser says, “but we’re not having any luck. She’s apparently involved in a bitter divorce. Her husband says she hasn’t been living at home for the past couple of weeks.”

“I saw her in Natchez yesterday. She was…” I trail off, remembering the manic gleam in Ann’s eye.

“What?” Kaiser asks. “She was what?”

Borrowing money from my grandfather. Bail money, maybe? “Talking to my mother about her marital problems. You said you had a couple of things to tell me. What else?”

“We just found one of Nathan Malik’s patients in a coma on the floor of her apartment in Metairie.”

“Male or female?”

Kaiser answers softly. “Female. Her name was Margaret Lavigne. Twenty-seven years old. She lives about three minutes away from you.”

“Was it the same crime signature? Two gunshots with bite marks?”

“No, this was a suicide attempt. We only found her because we’d got her name from the psychologist who referred her to Malik.”

“You mean she wasn’t on the patient list Malik gave you?”

“Exactly. He never really obeyed the court order.”