Greg Iles - Blood Memory

Michael turns down his radio. “That’s a pretty broad question. Pregnancy in twelve-year-olds is relatively common in Mississippi.”

“But what’s the youngest a girl can conceive?”

“The youngest? Well, I’m not an OB. But pediatricians classify precocious puberty as secondary signs-that’s breast tissue and pubic hair-appearing before age eight in African-American girls and nine in whites.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No. But they can’t conceive at those ages. I’m not saying it’s never happened. Why do you ask?”

“I’m wondering if my aunt Ann could have gotten pregnant at age ten.”

Michael says nothing for a few moments. “You’re thinking your grandfather impregnated her?”

“Maybe. And I’m thinking that emergency appendectomy on the island might not have been an appendectomy at all.”

“Wow. That would prove he’s the one, all right.” There’s a pause, then Michael says, “When would this have happened?”

I do some quick math. “Like 1958.”

“No way. No pregnancy at ten years old. The average age of onset of menses has been declining steadily for decades. Today? Maybe one in a million that young. In 1958, forget it. I see your line of reasoning, but I think you’re into the Twilight Zone with this theory.”

I don’t know whether I feel relieved or not. “I’m sure you’re right. My mind’s just spinning with all this.”

“Ann hasn’t called you back yet?”

“No.”

“How far are you from New Orleans?”

“Ninety miles.”

“You’re taking Sean with you to see Malik, right?”

“Right. Don’t worry, Michael, really.”

“I’m going to worry until you call me and tell me the meeting is over and you’re okay.”

His concern brings a smile to my face. “I’ll definitely call you, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Bye for now.”

“Bye.”

I take the Audi off cruise control and accelerate to eighty-five. Faces swirl endlessly through my mind like a Mobius strip-my grandfather, Ann, my mother and father, Billy Neal, Jesse and Louise-but speculation as to their true relationships is meaningless. In less than two hours, I’ll be face-to-face with the man who can tell me the exact nature of his relationship with my troubled aunt, and probably the identity of the man who molested me.

At this point, that’s all I care about.

Malik instructed me to telephone him when I was five miles outside New Orleans, but I didn’t do it. Instead I pulled off I-10 at Williams Boulevard, one of the first exits at Kenner-the westernmost suburb of New Orleans-and drove to a liquor store.

I’ve been inside once, but I didn’t buy anything. I stood staring at the bottles of Grey Goose, peering at the blue-and-white image of geese flying over the French Alps. I know that bottle like I know my own face. The French flag, the frosted glass, the blue cap. My right hand rose to a 750-milliliter bottle as though commanded by a hypnotist, but at the last moment I turned and hurried out of the store.

Now I’m sitting in my parked car in front of the store, my cell phone cradled in my shaking hands. The cashier probably thinks I’m casing the place for a robbery. Or maybe she’s seen her share of recovering alcoholics fighting the same impulse.

It’s not the physical withdrawal that’s making me shake now.

It’s Malik.

I promised Michael I would take Sean with me to the meeting, but I haven’t called him. I won’t be seeing Sean again. I don’t think I need him for this anyway. The odds that Dr. Malik wants to hurt me are very low, and I am armed. What has me shaking is the possibility of finally learning the truth about myself. Whatever Malik knows, it will irrevocably change my perception of myself.

But that’s what you came for, right? says a voice in my head.

With a soft curse, I get out, walk to the pay phone beside the liquor store, and punch in the number Malik told me to call. It rings four times, but just as I think it’s going to click over to voice mail, he answers.

“Catherine?”

“Yes.”

“Are you five miles out?”

“No, I’m parked in front of a liquor store on Williams Boulevard.”

“Are you near the airport?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I’m in a motel a mile away from it. The Thibodeaux. It’s a dump with an orange sign, about a mile past the airport turn, on the right. Do you think you can find it?”

“I think I’ve seen it before.”

“All the rooms are on the ground floor. I’m in room eighteen.”

“Should I just pull up to the room?”

“Yes. I’ll be watching for you.”

I start to hang up, but I sense that he’s waiting for something. “Dr. Malik?”

“Yes?”

“Do you know who abused me?”

“Yes and no.”

Shit. “Still playing games with me?”

“You’re the one who knows that answer, Catherine. Remember what I told you about trauma. The memory is repressed but intact. It’s indelible. It’s waiting for you to dredge it up. And I’m going to help you.”

“Today?”

“Today. In a few minutes, I’m going to take you across the river Lethe. To the underworld. Then I’m going to lead you back to the world of light. When you return, you’ll be whole again. You’ll have your soul back. Your memory, too.”

My palms are cold and coated with sweat. Malik’s words have not lessened my anxiety but increased it.

“Don’t be afraid, Catherine. Are you on your way?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you drinking?”

“Stone fucking sober.”

He chuckles softly. “I’ll see you when you get here.”

The phone goes dead.

I take a last look at the door of the liquor store-WE CARD EVERYBODY-then get back in my car and start the engine. Before I back out of the lot, though, I open my purse, take out my bottle of Valium, and roll one yellow pill into my damp palm. With my left hand on my tummy, I whisper, “Forgive me, baby girl. Just one more,” and dry-swallow the pill. Then I back out and join the stream of traffic headed toward the airport.

Malik was right. The Thibodeaux Motel is a dump. A low strip of rooms with a sagging roof and a row of bright orange doors. Three vehicles in the parking lot, all wrecks. I park four doors down from room eighteen and get out. The air stinks of aviation fuel and fast food. There’s plenty of traffic on Williams, but if I hold the Walther along my right leg, it’s almost invisible.

A 727 roars low overhead as I walk toward the door. Raising my left hand to knock, I hear the sound of rain sweeping toward me. It can rain without a moment’s notice in New Orleans, but today the asphalt is baking in bright sunlight. It’s my hallucination again…rain on a tin roof. The rattling sound is louder than the cars passing on the road thirty yards away.

Screw it. The end of that hallucination is on the other side of this door.

I chamber a round in the Walther, then knock hard on the orange door. It moves inward a few inches with the force of my blow.

“Dr. Malik?”

No reply.

Now I wish I’d called Sean. This is where pride gets you. Bringing my gun to chest level, I kick open the door and rush into the room, checking the corners for threats.

The room looks just as I imagined it: ratty green carpet, two double beds, a TV on a stand, a lavatory beneath a mirror on the far wall.

No Malik.

I cross the room and kick open the bathroom door, the Walther extended in front of me.

Malik is lying in the bathtub. He’s fully clothed-all in black, of course-and the white tiles above his bald head are spattered with blood and brain matter.

My initial shock balloons into terror when I realize the blood is still running down the tile. Whoever killed Malik could still be close by. As I whirl back toward the room, the gun in Malik’s right hand registers in my mind.