Greg Iles - Blood Memory

“Give me your cell phone, Mom.”

She refused to speak on the way home from the cemetery, but she passes me the phone. Then she gets out of the car, her purse over her shoulder, and waits for me. As I dial Sean’s number in New Orleans, Billy Neal walks through the arbor and disappears into the rose garden without looking back.

“Detective Sergeant Regan.”

“It’s me, Sean. Do you have my autopsy report?”

“Not yet.”

“Why not?”

“I’ll be honest with you, Cat. I don’t know if I’m going to be able to get it. The FBI has closed ranks on this thing. They’re not giving the task force crap. It’s like the old days when the Feds never shared anything.”

Grandpapa is saying something to Mom, but she hasn’t moved away from the car. I shut my eyes, trying to press down a sense of grim futility. “Sean, you get me that fucking report.”

I hang up. I’d like to back out of the parking lot and drive straight to Michael Wells’s house, but I can’t let Mom face Grandpapa alone. Not after what I told her at the cemetery. As soon as I get out of the car, Grandpapa is up out of his chair and screaming at me. His face is red, his eyes blazing.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, Catherine?”

The sight of my grandfather angry still turns my insides to jelly, but today I stand my ground. “What are you talking about?”

“You want to dig up your father’s goddamn corpse?”

I can’t believe it. Either Michael lied to me when he said he didn’t mention my name to his attorney, or someone in the chancery judge’s office leaked word of my inquiries to my grandfather. That has to be it. I called the judge’s chambers during the ride from Dr. Cage’s office to my mother’s shop, so that I’d have some idea of a time frame on exhumation when I discussed it with my mother. But Mom and I never got that far. And now what I had planned as a discreet little operation has, like everything else, become known to my grandfather.

“Well?” he roars. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

Remarkably, my mother interposes herself between Grandpapa and me. This may be a first. “Don’t shout at her, Daddy,” she pleads. “Cat’s not herself right now.”

“What do you mean?” he bellows.

“She’s dealing with some problems.”

He grits his teeth and nods angrily. “Oh, I know she’s got problems. She’s had problems her whole life, just like Ann. I’ve spent half my life cleaning up their problems, but today it stops. Today, I’m done. Today, I’m doing some bud-nipping, before this girl causes this whole town a problem it can’t afford.”

“What are you talking about?” I ask.

“The casino, goddamn it! I’m talking about the salvation of this city. We are one hairsbreadth from federal certification of the Natchez Indian Nation. And there’s not a damn thing the state gaming commission can do to stop it. But you ”-he jabs a thick forefinger in my direction-“you could blow the whole thing right out of the water with your questions and theories and getting tied up in the middle of mass murder. And now you want to dig up Luke Ferry’s decomposed body for the whole town to read about in the newspaper? Well, I’m telling you right now, that’s not going to happen. Unless it’s part of an official criminal investigation, you need your mother’s approval to dig that body up.”

Mom almost cowers when he glances in her direction, and I know that she’s not about to give me what I need. But I will not cower. I’m done with that. I take a step toward my grandfather. “Then I guess I’m going to have to make this a criminal investigation. I didn’t want to, but you’re not leaving me any choice. I’ll get the Natchez police out here, and I’ll drag the FBI into it, too, before I’m done. I’ll turn Malmaison into a three-ring circus, if that’s what it takes to find out the truth.”

“The truth ?” Grandpapa echoes. “You think it’s the truth you’re after?”

“That’s all I’ve ever been after! But all you’ve given me is lies. Every new story was just another lie to keep me from digging any deeper. What are you afraid of, Grandpapa? What can’t you bear to have anyone find out about you?”

He glances at my mother again, then looks at the ground. When he finally raises his head, his eyes burn into mine. “It’s not myself I’ve been trying to protect. It’s you. The bottom of this damn mystery you’re so keen to solve is something I prayed you’d never have to know, and I’ve done everything in my power to keep it from you. But you won’t let this go. You’ll tear down this house, this family, everything I’ve built to get what you want. You’ve proved that. So…you want the truth?”

A strange thrumming has started in the back of my head. But there’s no turning back now. “I do.”

“You want to know who killed your father?”

“Yes.”

“You did.”

The sound of rain is so vivid that I put up my hands to shield my face. My mother and grandfather suddenly waver in my vision, as though we’re all standing underwater. I want to speak, but there’s nothing left to say. With two simple words all my questions have been answered. Every piece in the chaotic puzzle of my life has finally fallen into place. The long black train that plowed silently over me in the gleaming kitchen of Arthur LeGendre has circled around again. The great black face of its engine roars out of nowhere, blotting out the scene before me: people, grass, trees, and sky. In the last instant before impact, searing images pass behind my eyes: the New Orleans murder victims, naked and mutilated; Nathan Malik lying dead in a motel bathtub, a human skull in his lap; Ann sprawled on the floor of the clinic with two skull-and-crossbones symbols drawn on her abdomen, her stuffed turtle beside her. But nowhere do I see my father’s face. I try to summon it, but all that appears is a necklace of ears, a sculpture of a hanged man, photographs of naked children, and two black shadows fighting above me in the dark.

And then I see nothing at all.

I’m running.

Harder and faster than I’ve ever run in my life. Tree trunks flash past the way they used to when I rode horses on the island, but it’s only my legs hurling me forward, my feet flying from something too terrible to face.

You want to know who killed your father?

No! I want to turn back time. Push back the days to the point before I began asking questions-questions to which I thought I wanted answers.

Now I know better.

Some things it’s better not know. Pearlie’s voice.

Michael Wells’s house appears between the distant trees. The sight of it brings a strange feeling of hope, the way a thief might feel sighting a church, his sole chance at sanctuary. I sprint harder, and soon the shining blue rectangle of the Hemmeters’ swimming pool appears. But the Hemmeters’ are gone now. The pool, like the house, belongs to Michael. Too many changes…

I stumble down to the concrete patio that surrounds the pool, my eyes plumbing its blue depths. Part of me wants only to slip beneath the surface, to lie on the bottom and hold my breath while my heartbeats get further and further apart, stretching into ever increasing increments of time, eventually reaching infinity. But that’s not the way it happens. Deprived of oxygen, the heart will eventually beat harder and faster, struggling to feed the starving tissues until at last it squirms frantically and uselessly in the chest. I would kick to the surface then. Not even a death wish can suppress instinct honed over millions of years. That takes coercion. Or a suicide method from which there is no turning back. Like intravenous morphine. That probably plunged Ann into blissful sleep so fast that any second thoughts quickly faded into oblivion. But I doubt she’d have turned back, even if she could.