Blood Memory (25 page)

“What? Can you leave home now? Can you come get me right now?”

“I may be able to, yeah.”

“I’m an hour away from you. Maybe more.”

Silence. “I can send somebody.”

One more knife in the stomach. “Don’t worry about it, Sean. Take care of your wife and kids. Good-bye.”

“Cat—”

I hang up before he can finish. He can’t help me now. He never really could.

Rolling onto my stomach, I lay my palms flat on the ground and push myself to my feet. The glow of the highway looks about a mile away.

I start walking.

I’m sitting against the wall of an abandoned gas station on Highway 1, wearing only my underwear and waiting for Michael Wells to save me from the mosquitoes that are making a feast of my blood. The river coated my skin with a rank, oily film, but the mosquitoes here must be used to it. If I don’t have West Nile virus by tomorrow, it will be a miracle. The narrow overhang above hardly protects me from the rain, but I don’t mind the rain tonight. It’s the only thing relieving the stifling heat. The dark is another matter. The only light comes from a diffuse glow behind the thunderclouds, and the occasional glare of headlights flying up the highway.

Michael told me to watch for a black Ford Expedition, but it’s hard to get a look at the passing cars without exposing myself. Since I’m on the opposite side of the river from the man who was trying to kill me, I’m probably safe from him for a while. But if I stand on this highway wearing only my bra and panties, I’m asking to get raped. Besides, it’s only been an hour or so since I called Michael. He couldn’t be here yet unless he drove ninety or faster.

The moment I leaned against this cinder-block wall, a deep fatigue settled into my limbs. It wasn’t exhaustion from swimming the river. I feel disconnected from everything, even from myself. There’s a hollowness in my heart that must be the beginnings of grief. I’ve lost so much today. Sean—by my own choice if not by his. My father, who remained alive in my heart for all the years since his death, finally began to die this afternoon when Grandpapa told me what he’d done. My mother, who somehow could not protect me from my father’s secret desires. Even Pearlie, who kept so much from me all these years. I’m not even sure I want to know what she knew and when.

And then there’s me, the woman who despite alternating bouts of elation and depression managed to work her way to the top of her field. She isn’t who I thought she was at all. Part of me was always a sham. The public persona—the superachiever who brooked no nonsense from anyone—was a professional doppelgänger who protected a little girl filled with self-doubt, who secretly drank vodka almost around the clock to numb a pain she didn’t understand, and who needed a man to protect her from dangers that existed mostly in her head. Yet somehow that bundle of contradictions added up to someone who functioned efficiently in the world. Someone I liked reasonably well. But now the formless pain I always ran from has a face. And that face belongs to my father. Suddenly, the wild emotional gyrations of my past make sense. I am no longer a mystery. I’m an
Oprah
show.

My cell phone is ringing.

The screen reads,
UNKNOWN CALLER
.

I’m afraid to answer, as though by doing so I’ll allow the caller to see where I am, like the Eye of Sauron seeing Frodo when he put on the One Ring. But that’s crazy. After a quick breath, I press
SEND
.

“Is this Catherine Ferry?” asks a precise voice.

My body goes rigid. “Dr. Malik?”

“Yes. I didn’t want you to think I was ignoring you. We can’t speak for long, I’m afraid, but we should get together soon. I’m sure you’ve been going through some difficult times since our last conversation.”

“I have,” I admit, my hands already shaking.

“That’s only to be expected, Catherine. Have you been having dreams? Flashbacks? Anything like that?”

“All of the above. I found out this morning that I was sexually abused as a child.”

“I suspected that when you were a medical student. Dr. Omartian was twenty-five years your senior, after all. There were other signs, too. We can discuss all this, but I’m afraid it will have to be at a later date.”

“My grandfather killed my father.”

Silence. “Who told you that?”

“Grandpapa. He says he caught Daddy molesting me.”

“Why would he tell you something like that after all these years?”

“I was on the verge of discovering it anyway.”

A pause. “I see.”

A pair of headlights flashes out of the dark and blows past the gas station. The glare doesn’t touch me for more than a second, but being illuminated at all makes me shiver. “You know the task force is hunting you?”

“Yes.”

“They think you killed the victims in New Orleans.”

“Yesterday you thought that yourself.”

He’s right. I’m not sure what I think now. I only know that as I speak to this man whom the police and the FBI believe killed five men in brutal and premeditated fashion, I feel calmer than I have in days.

“Do you still believe that, Catherine?”

“I don’t know. If the murders are true sexual homicides, I don’t think you did it. But if they’re something else…maybe you did.”

“What else would they be?”

“Punishment.”

A long pause. “You’re a perceptive woman.”

“That hasn’t helped me much.”

“It may yet.”

“What was the video equipment for? The stuff the police found in your secret apartment?”

“Public education. I’ll speak to you again soon, dear. I have to move now.”

Separation anxiety pierces me like a blade. “Dr. Malik?”

“Yes?”

“Someone tried to kill me tonight.”

Silence.

“Was it you?”

“No. Where did this happen?”

“In the middle of nowhere. An island in the Mississippi River.”

More silence. “I can’t help you with that.”

“Do the murders in New Orleans have anything to do with me? With my life in Natchez?”

“Yes and no. I have to go now, dear. Be careful. Trust no one. Not even your family.”

With one click he’s gone.

I’m still holding the phone to my ear when a black Expedition wheels into the parking lot and blinks its headlights three times. I stay where I am until Michael Wells climbs out.

“Cat?” he yells. “It’s Michael!”

“Over here.” Keeping my back against the wall, I push myself erect with my legs and walk toward the Expedition.

Michael looks worried as I approach the Expedition, but then he smiles. “Every time I see you, you’re in your underwear.”

“Seems that way, doesn’t it?”

He reaches into the vehicle and hands me a T-shirt, a pair of warm-up pants, and some slippers about five sizes too large for my feet.

“Thanks. Do you have a towel or something? I don’t want to ruin the pants. I’ve got a lot of blood on my leg.”

He opens the passenger door and helps me up onto the seat. Then he bends over the ragged hole in my thigh. “Damn. I’ll have to suture that when we get back. For now we’ll just clean and cover it.”

From a paper bag on the floor he takes a bottle of Betadine, soaks some gauze with it, and presses the soggy ball into my wound. After a few seconds, he removes the gauze and squirts half a tube of Neosporin into the hole, then covers it with a large Band-Aid.

“Most of my patients need a Tootsie Pop after this.”

“Do you have one?”

He reaches into his glove box and, with a magician’s flourish, whips out a chocolate Tootsie Pop. This actually brings a smile to my lips.

“How about we get the hell out of here now?” he says.

I nod gratefully.

Michael shuts me into the passenger seat and gets behind the wheel. As I pull the clothes over my underwear, he makes a three-point turn and skids back onto the highway, headed north.

“How did you get down here?” he asks.

“In my car. It’s on the other side of the river.”

“Do we need to get it?”

I would like to have my car back. But to get it, we’d have to cross the ferry at St. Francisville. That’s the only way across the Mississippi River between Natchez and Baton Rouge—other than the ferry at Angola, which is used only for prison business—so it’s an ideal ambush site for whoever was trying to kill me on the island. If the gunman waits for me near my parked Audi, he risks being caught if I bring the cops back with me. But the ferry is a choke point with plausible deniability. If I push my luck and try to cross there, he could get lucky.

“No. I’ll get it tomorrow.”

“Okay. Take it easy now. I’ll have you back in Natchez in an hour.”

I recline my seat and take a few deep breaths. With the air conditioner on, I feel like I’m resting in a suite at the Windsor Court.

“I don’t want to pry into your business,” Michael says, “but what the hell happened to you today? You sounded bad when you called my office this afternoon.”

“I got some bad news.”

“Okay.”

He doesn’t ask for details, but I don’t see much point in holding back the rest of it. “Just before I called you, I found out that I was sexually abused as a child.”

He nods slowly. “I thought it must be something like that, when you asked about repressed memories. I’ve been reading up on the subject today. You got me curious.”

I’ve been in this vehicle less than five minutes, but already my head feels fuzzy. “We can talk about it,” I murmur. “I just need to rest my eyes for a little bit.”

“Cat? Wake up!”

I blink awake and look around. I’m sitting in a truck in a brightly lit garage

“Where are we?”

“My house,” Michael says. “In Brookwood.”

“Oh.”

“I wasn’t sure where you wanted to go. I tried to ask you, but you wouldn’t wake up. I stopped by my office for some sutures, then brought you here. Let’s get that cut stitched up. Then I’ll take you to your grandfather’s house.”

Nathan Malik’s words come back to me like a brand burned into my brain:
Trust no one. Not even your family.
“I don’t want to go there.”

“You don’t have to. I’ll take you wherever you want to go. Or you can stay here. I’ve got three extra bedrooms. It’s up to you.”

I nod thanks but say nothing. I don’t know what I want to do. I definitely want my leg stitched up. It hurts like hell, and stitching means local anesthetic. At least I hope it does. “Did you bring some lidocaine?”

Michael shakes his head. “Nah. I figured anybody who can free dive to three hundred feet can handle a couple of stitches without breaking a sweat.”

He looks serious, but after a few moments of eye contact, he reaches into his pocket and brings out a vial of clear liquid.

“The magic elixir,” he says with a smile. “Let’s do it.”

Michael sutures my leg while I sit on the cold granite of his kitchen island. The gleaming room reminds me of Arthur LeGendre’s kitchen, only there’s no corpse lying on the floor. Michael’s house was built in the 1970s, and until Mrs. Hemmeter sold it, the decor was original to the house. Avocado green appliances and heavy brown paneling like that in my old bedroom. Michael has totally redone the place, and with surprisingly good taste for a bachelor.

“This reminds me of my grandfather stitching me up on the island when I cut my knee,” I tell him as he pulls the Ethicon through my skin with a curved needle.

“I guess he always carried his black bag with him?”

“Oh, he has a whole clinic down there. When my aunt Ann was ten years old, the family got trapped on the island in a storm. She had a hot appendix. Grandpapa removed it by lantern light with one of the island women assisting him. That’s one of his hero stories, but it’s pretty impressive.”

Michael nods and continues stitching. “You’d be surprised what you can do when conditions demand it. I’ve been on a few medical mission trips to South America…saw some unbelievable things. OBs sterilizing women one after another in the open air. They stretch them out on benches, cut them open, clip their tubes with special plastic clips, and close them up again.”

“Jesus.”

He laughs. “I wouldn’t recommend it to a suburban housewife, but it does the job.”

Medical mission trips. I have a feeling there’s a lot more to Michael Wells than most people know. “I like what you’ve done with this house.”

“Do you? Your mom did most of it.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No, when I first got to town, I was too busy to breathe, much less decorate a house. I stopped by Gwen’s interior design store one afternoon and hired her to do the whole place.”

“Now I’m not sure I like it.”

He laughs. “You don’t get along with your mother?”

“We do, as long as we don’t see too much of each other.”

He ties off the last stitch, then lays his forceps on the countertop. “You hungry?”

“Starving.”

“Steak and eggs?”

“Are you ordering out?”

“No.” He goes to the refrigerator and brings out a package of rib eyes. “Go sit on that sofa. You’ll be digging into this in twenty minutes.”

The sofa sits against the wall beyond a round table in the dining area. Too far away for conversation, or even to watch Michael cooking. Given my earlier experiences today, I don’t really want to lie on the couch and let my mind wander.

Sliding off the counter, I sit on a barstool and watch Michael. It’s strange to have a man cook for me, though Sean sometimes boils crawfish in my backyard.

“You want to talk about today?” Michael asks, meeting my gaze long enough to let me know he’s genuinely concerned.

“It isn’t just today. It’s the past month. It’s my whole life, really.”

“Can you give me the gist in twenty minutes?”

I laugh. And then I start talking. I start with my panic attack at the Nolan crime scene, the one prior to Arthur LeGendre’s house. That leads me to LeGendre, then to Carmen Piazza removing me from the task force, and then to my trip back to Natchez and to finding the bloody footprints in my bedroom. I’m talking on autopilot, though, because what I’m really doing is watching Michael cook. He’s good with his hands, and I can tell from the way he uses them that he’s a good doctor. He asks questions during my pauses, and before long I’m telling him about the depression that began in high school, the mania that followed, and my serial monogamy with married men. He’s a good listener, only I can’t tell what he makes of all this. He looks as though he’s hearing nothing out of the ordinary, but inside he may already regret rescuing this particular damsel in distress.

When the steaks and eggs are done, we move to the glass dining table, but I do as much talking as eating. I can’t seem to stop. The funny thing is, he doesn’t try to force me to eat, as most men would. He just keeps watching my eyes, as if they’re telling him as much as my words. I tell him about my father, Grandpapa, Pearlie, my mother, Dr. Goldman, Nathan Malik—even the things Grandpapa told me earlier today. The only thing I don’t tell Michael about is being pregnant. That I cannot bring myself to do.

When at last my stream of words slows to a trickle, he sighs deeply and says, “You want to watch a movie? I rented the new Adam Sandler.”

I’m not sure whether I’m offended or relieved. “Are you kidding?”

He grins. “Yes. You want to know what I really think about all that?”

“I do.”

“I think you’re under more stress right now than most people could stand. I think your life is probably in danger from whoever is behind these murders, not to mention the risk of dealing with your disease without adequate therapy or medication.”

I say nothing.

“Does it piss you off that I said that?”

“A little.”

He holds up his hands, palms outward. “I know it’s not my business. If you don’t want to take your medication, fine. But I know a little bit about being bipolar. I had a good friend in medical school who was that way.”

“I’m not bipolar. I’m cyclothymic.”

“That’s just semantics. Same symptoms, just a question of degree.”

I concede this with a nod.

“What I learned from my friend was that a lot of bipolar people
tell
you they want to get better, but they really don’t. They feel so good during their highs that they’re willing to endure the lows as the price of that euphoria. Even if the lows are so bad that the person is suicidal when they crash.”

“I can’t argue with that. What happened to your friend?”

“He flunked out of med school.”

“Just like me. Is that your point?”

“You didn’t flunk out. They basically kicked you out for causing someone else to try to kill himself.”

“Yep.”

Michael’s face is nonjudgmental. “I don’t think any of that stuff was your fault, Cat. I don’t know too much about the links between childhood sexual abuse and adult psychological problems, because I treat kids. That’s why I knew so little about repressed memories. But I do know about child abuse. I’ve seen a lot of it, especially as a pediatric resident working ERs.”

There’s something in his eyes that reminds me of John Kaiser’s eyes. Knowledge earned through pain. Wisdom never asked for.

“Those cases are the easy ones, though,” Michael says. “The tough cases are the ones where you know something isn’t right, but you’re not looking at genital warts or something obvious like that. Dealing with those cases is how I learned the most surprising things about sexual abuse.”

“Like?”

“Like it’s not usually the physically painful, horrible thing that people imagine. It’s not violent rape or even necessarily a terrible experience in itself. Not in the beginning. If it were, sexual abuse wouldn’t be the invisible epidemic that it is. Sex is pleasurable, even to a child. Adult abusers know that. They seduce the child a little at a time, gradually raising the stakes. The family dynamics are altered in ways it would take Freud years to figure out. Complex power games are played between abuser and victim. You get young girls serving as surrogate wives in the home, sisters competing for the sexual attention of their father, fathers training sons to use women the same way they do. Of course, the reverse happens, too. You get older daughters trying to protect younger siblings by doing anything they can to keep the abusive father focused on them.”

I close my eyes in horror. “I’ll bet this isn’t how you thought you’d be spending this evening.”

Michael spears a piece of cold steak and chews it thoughtfully. “No, but I’m okay with it. I was always curious about you. Why you picked the guys you did in high school. And these repeated relationships with married guys. That’s not hard to figure out now, is it?”

“My therapist tells me I pick unavailable guys so that I can’t become too attached to a man. That way the loss I experienced with my father can’t be repeated.”

“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?”