Читать книгу Blood Memory - Greg Iles - Страница 15

My mother is waiting in the kitchen of the slave quarters, sitting at the heart-pine breakfast table. She’s dressed impeccably in a tailored pants suit, but she has dark bags under her eyes, and her auburn hair looks as though she drove all the way from the Gulf Coast with her windows down. She looks older than when I last saw her—a brief lunch in New Orleans four months ago. Still, Gwen Ferry looks closer to forty than fifty-two, which is her true age. Her elder sister, Ann, once had the same gift, but by fifty Ann’s troubled life had stolen the lingering bloom of youth. At one time the two sisters were Natchez royalty, the beautiful teenage daughters of one of the richest men in town. Now only my mother carries what’s left of that banner, occupying the social pinnacle of the town: president of the Garden Club, a deceptively courteous organization that once wielded more power than the mayor and the board of aldermen combined. She also owns and operates an interior design center called Maison DeSalle, which caters to the small coterie of wealthy families that remain in Natchez.

She stands and gives me a side hug, then says, “What in the world is going on? I’ve always asked you to come home more often, and now you show up without even a phone call.”

“Glad to see you, too, Mom.”

Her face wrinkles in displeasure. “Pearlie says you found bloody tracks in your bedroom.”

“That’s right.”

She looks perplexed. “I went in there and didn’t find a thing on the floor. Just a bad smell.”

“You went into my room?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

The coffeemaker bubbles on the counter, and the aroma of Canal Street coffee hits me. Trying to suppress my exasperation, I say, “I’d appreciate you not going in there anymore. Not until I’m finished.”

“Finished with what?”

“Testing the rest of the bedroom for blood.”

Mom interlocks her fingers on the table, as though trying to keep from fidgeting. “What are you talking about, Catherine?”

“I think I’m talking about the night Daddy died.”

Two splotches of red appear high on her cheeks. “What?”

“I think those footprints were made on the night Daddy died.”

“Well, that’s just crazy.” She’s shaking her head, but her eyes have an unfocused look.

“Is it, Mom? How do you know?”

“Because I know what happened that night.”

“Do you?”

She blinks in confusion. “Of course I do.”

“Weren’t you knocked out from taking Daddy’s pills?”

Her cheeks go pale. “Don’t you talk to me like that! I may have taken a sedative or two in those days—”

“You weren’t addicted to Daddy’s medicine?”

“Who told you that? Your grandfather? No, he’s out of town. You’ve been talking to Pearlie, haven’t you? I can’t believe she’d say something so hurtful.”

“Does it matter who I’ve been talking to? We have to tell the truth around here sometime.”

Mom straightens up and squares her shoulders. “You need to take some of your own advice, missy. There’s no doubt about who’s told the most lies in this house.” With trembling hands she turns and pours a cup of coffee from the carafe. Maybe the hand tremor is a family trait.

I take a deep breath and slowly let it out. “We got off on the wrong foot, Mom. How’s Aunt Ann doing?”

“She’s married another bastard. Third time in a row. This one’s hitting her.”

“Did she tell you that?”

“I have eyes. God, I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t even want to think about it. I need sleep.”

“Maybe you’d better skip that coffee, then.”

“If I don’t drink this, I’ll get a caffeine headache.” She takes a steaming sip and makes a face. “You ought to know about addictions.”

I fight the urge to snap back. “I’ve been sober for nearly three days.”

She looks up sharply. “What’s the occasion?”

I cannot tell her that I’m pregnant. Not yet. As my eyes seek out the floor, I feel a soft hand squeeze my upper arm.

“Whatever it is, I’m with you,” she says. “When we know better, we do better. That’s what Dr. Phil says. Like me and those sleeping pills.”

“Dr. Phil? Mom, please.”

“You should watch him, honey. We’ll watch this afternoon. Before my nap. Dr. Phil always relaxes me.”

I can’t listen to any more of this. I need to be out of the kitchen. “I’ve got a fax waiting in Grandpapa’s office. I’ll see you in a few minutes.”

“He should be home soon,” she says. “You know he doesn’t like people in his private office when he’s not there.”

“When’s he due back?” I ask, heading for the door.

“Today is all I know.”

I start to leave, then stop at the kitchen door and turn back. “Mom, do you have anything personal left of Dad’s?”

“Like what? Pictures? What?”

“Like an old hairbrush.”

“A hairbrush? What on earth for?”

“I was hoping you might have some of his hair. Sometimes people keep a lock of hair when they lose a loved one?”

She’s suddenly frozen in place, her eyes wide. “You want it for a DNA sample.” A statement, not a question.

“Yes. To compare to the blood on the floor of the bedroom.”

“I don’t have anything like that.”

“The carpet is the same one as when I lived here, isn’t it?”

The two red circles have darkened on her cheeks. “You don’t remember it?”

“I just wanted to be sure. Is the bed the same?”

“For God’s sake, Catherine.”

“Is it?”

“The frame is the same. I had to get rid of your mattress.”

“Why?”

“Urine stains. You wet the bed so often when you were a child.”

“I did?”

Puzzlement in her eyes now. “You don’t remember that?”

“No.”

She sighs wearily. “Well, it’s best forgotten. Just part of being a child.”

“What did you do with the mattress?”

“The mattress? I’m sure Pearlie had Mose take it to the dump.”

“I saw Mose outside earlier. I can’t believe he still works here.”

“He refuses to quit. He’s not as strong as he used to be, but he’s still going.”

I hate to push her, but what do I have to lose now? “I know it’s a long shot, Mom, but do you think Daddy ever donated to a sperm bank or anything like that?”

My mother stares at me as though she can’t believe I’m her child.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I have to do this. I have no choice.”

After a long look, she turns away and takes a sip of coffee.

Knowing that no words from me will make her feel better, I walk outside and make my way across the garden to the rear of Malmaison’s left wing. My grandfather’s study is on the ground floor.

Entering the mansion, I walk with bored familiarity past priceless antiques, eventually making my way to the library, which functions as my grandfather’s study. Patterned after Napoléon’s library, it’s a world of dark wooden columns, rich upholstery, and broad French doors that open onto the front gallery. Civil War muskets are mounted on the ceiling beams, and twin crystal chandeliers light the room. Leather-bound volumes line the shelves, with paintings suspended on velvet cords in front of them. A few of the canvases show English hunting scenes, but most depict Civil War battles—Confederate triumphs all. The room’s only concession to modernity is a long cypress table beside my grandfather’s rolltop desk. On it stand a computer, printer, copier, and fax machine. The fax tray is empty. I take out my cell phone and speed-dial Sean.

“Cat?” he says over the chatter of the squad room.

“I’m standing by the fax machine,” I tell him. “Nothing’s come yet.”

“I’m sending it through now. There’s a decent amount of public information on Malik, but it’s mostly scholarly stuff. When you get right down to it, it’s hard to get a feel for what makes this guy tick.”

“When is the task force going to talk to him?”

“They still haven’t decided. Like you said, they feel they have some time before he hits again. Nobody wants to screw this up.”

“Okay. I’ll get back to you if I notice anything interesting.”

“Hey?” Sean says.

“Yeah?”

“Get back to me anyway. I miss you.”

I close my eyes as a wave of heat runs up my neck. “Okay.”

I hang up, then sit at my grandfather’s desk and wait for the fax to come through. The room smells of fresh cigars, old leather, good bourbon, and lemon oil. Intrigued by Michael Wells’s story of a front company buying up downtown Natchez, I consider poking through my grandfather’s desk, but it’s locked.

Tired of waiting for Sean’s fax, I pick up the phone, dial information, and get the number of Dr. Harold Shubb in New Orleans. Before second thoughts can stop me, I let the number automatically connect, then identify myself as a fellow dentist to Dr. Shubb’s receptionist.

“Just one moment, Doctor,” says the woman.

After a brief pause, a man who sounds excited to be taken away from his operatory chair comes on the line. “Cat Ferry! I always knew this call would come. I look forward to it and dread it at the same time. Has there been a plane crash?”

Dr. Shubb has naturally assumed that I’m calling to activate the volunteer disaster identification unit. “No, Harold. I’m calling about something just as serious, though.”

“What’s going on? What can I do for you?”

“Have you been following the recent murders in town?”

“Sure, yeah, of course.”

“There’s a bite mark angle to the case.”

“Really? I hadn’t heard that.”

“The police are keeping it from the public. What I’m about to tell you, you can’t mention to a soul.”

“Goes without saying, Cat.”

“We—that is, the task force working the case—we have a suspect. He’s one of your patients, Harold.”

Stunned silence on Dr. Shubb’s end of the line. “Holy God. Are you kidding me?”

“No.” I hear his breathing, shallow and irregular.

“May I ask who it is?”

“Not yet. This is an informal call, Harold.”

Another pause. “I’m not sure I understand.”

“The FBI is probably going to contact you today—officially—to get a look at any X-rays you might have on this patient. The NOPD, however, wants you and me to have an informal conversation a little sooner than that.”

Dr. Shubb processes this. “I’m listening.”

“I’m worried that any specific discussion we have about X-rays or teeth could later wreck the chance of a conviction.”

“You might be right. If you don’t have a court order, I mean. All this HIPAA privacy crap is driving me insane.”

“I’m sure. Look, what I was thinking was that we could have a general conversation about this patient, but without getting into his mouth. Would you have a problem with that?”

“Fire away. I won’t tell a soul.”

I pray this is true. “The suspect’s name is Nathan Malik. He’s—”

“A shrink,” Shubb finishes. “Holy shit. He’s a psychiatrist, not a psychologist, and he makes sure you know that in the first five seconds. I’ve seen Malik quite a bit. Done two root canals on him so far this year. MDs hardly ever take care of their teeth, you know that. I just …”

Harold Shubb falls silent. Then he whistles long and low, as if only now realizing the implications of our conversation. I fight the urge to describe the bite marks on the victims. In less than a minute, we could probably confirm or eliminate Nathan Malik as the killer of the NOMURS victims. But in a case this sensitive, procedure must be followed to the letter.

“What kind of guy is he, Harold?”

“An odd duck. Smart as hell. A little intimidating, if you want to know the truth. Knows something about everything. Even teeth.”

“Really?” It’s rare for MDs to know much about dentition.

“I know you’re going to think your call influenced me to say this, but the guy makes me a little uncomfortable. Not much for small talk, though he has a smart-ass sense of humor. But what he really gives off is intensity. Total intensity. You know the type?”

“I think so. Has Malik talked about his background?”

“Not much. I think he’s from Mississippi originally. Like you.”

“Really? Does fifty-three years old sound right?”

“About right. He’s in good shape, except for his teeth. I could check my records—”

“Don’t do that,” I say quickly.

“Right … you’re right. Shit, I’m getting nervous just talking to you.”

“We’re almost done, Harold. Do you know anything about Malik’s modes of therapy? What he specializes in? Anything?”

“Repressed memories. Physical and sexual abuse of women. Men, too, I think. We’ve had several conversations about it. He’s an expert at helping people recover lost memories. Uses drugs, hypnosis, everything. It’s controversial stuff. Lots of litigation in that area.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“I’ll tell you this. If Nathan Malik is your guy, I hope you have some rock-solid evidence on him. He won’t be intimidated by the FBI or anyone else. When it comes to things like patient privacy, he’ll go to jail before he’ll tell you a damn thing. He’s a fanatic about it. Hates the government.”

I jump as the fax machine beside me hums to life. “That rock-solid evidence may be sitting in your X-ray files right now, Harold.”

He whistles again. “I hope so, Cat. I mean—”

“I know what you mean. If it’s him.”

“Exactly.”

“Look, the FBI doesn’t need to know about this conversation.”

“What conversation?”

“Thanks, Harold. I’ll see you at my next seminar?”

“Can’t wait.”

I ring off and watch the paper spool out of the fax machine. Someone has typed a detailed summary of the available information on Dr. Nathan Malik. I have an almost overwhelming urge to go to my grandfather’s sideboard and pour a quick shot of vodka before reading it, but I manage to strangle the impulse. As the second sheet emerges from the fax machine, I glance down, then grip the table to stay on my feet.

At the bottom of the page is a black-and-white photo of Nathan Malik, a bullet-headed, bald man with deep-set black eyes. On some men, baldness conveys an image of weakness or advancing age, but on Nathan Malik the bald pate seems more a challenge than a weakness, the way it did on Yul Brynner. Proud, piercing, and defiant, his eyes silently order you back a step. Malik’s nose was broken at some point in his life, and his lips curl in a wry smile that expresses only contempt for the camera. He has the arrogant disdain of an aristocrat, but that’s not what has taken my breath away. What did that was the eyes. I first saw them—and this face—nearly a decade ago, at the University Medical Center in Jackson, Mississippi.

Grabbing the first page from the fax tray, I scan the psychiatrist’s CV. Born 1951. Two years in the army, a tour of duty as a medical corpsman in Vietnam. Undergraduate education, Tulane University. Graduated Tulane Medical School in 1979. A residency at Ochsner Hospital. Several years of private practice followed, after which—I feel my heart pounding against my sternum—Nathan Malik took a position on the psychiatric faculty at the University of Mississippi Medical Center in Jackson.

“Jesus Christ,” I whisper.

Malik was at UMC during the two years I was there. I did know him. But something is wrong. I didn’t know the man in this picture as Nathan Malik, but as Dr. Jonathan Gentry. And Gentry wasn’t bald, not even close. Higher up the page, I find what I’m looking for. Nathan Malik was born Jonathan Gentry in Greenwood, Mississippi, in 1951. He legally changed his name in 1994, one year after I was asked to leave medical school. I pick up my cell phone and speed-dial Sean, sweat breaking out on my face and neck.

“You got something?” Sean says without preamble.

“Sean, I know him! Knew him, I mean.”

“Who?”

“Malik.”

“What?”

“Only his name wasn’t Malik then. It was Gentry. He was on the faculty at UMC in Jackson when I was there. He had hair then, but it’s the same guy. I couldn’t forget those eyes. He knew that professor I had the affair with. He actually hit on me a few times. I mean—”

“Okay, okay. You need to get—”

“I know. I’ll leave as soon as I can get out of here. I should be there in three hours.”

“Don’t wait for anything, Cat. The task force is going to want to talk to you bad.”

The calm I experienced in the pool has fled me. I can hardly keep a logical thought in my head. “Sean, what does this mean? How could this be?”

“I don’t know. I’m going to call John Kaiser. You call me when you get on the road. We’ll figure it out.”

Though I’m alone in the room, I nod thankfully. “I will. I’ll talk to you soon.”

“Bye, babe. Hang tough. We’ll get this straight.”

I put down the phone and gather the sheets from the fax tray. There are three now. As I turn toward the study door, it suddenly opens as though of its own volition.

Towering in the doorway is my grandfather, Dr. William Kirkland, his angular face lined with care. His pale blue eyes survey me from head to toe, then take in the room.

“Hello, Catherine,” he says, his voice deep and precisely measured. “What are you doing in here?”

“I needed your fax machine, Grandpapa. I was just about to head back to New Orleans.”

A shorter man in his thirties peers around my grandfather’s broad frame. Billy Neal, the unpleasant driver Pearlie complained about. His eyes flick up and down my body, making private judgments that produce a smirk. Grandpapa gently but forcefully pushes his driver backward, then walks into the library and closes the door. He’s wearing a white linen jacket and a necktie. On the island he dresses like a laborer, but in town he is unfailingly formal.

“I’m sure you don’t want to leave before we’ve had a chance to visit,” he says.

“It’s pretty urgent. A murder case.”

He smiles knowingly. “If it was that urgent, you wouldn’t be in Natchez in the first place, would you? Unless someone was murdered here while I was gone?”

I shake my head.

“That’s a relief. Though I can think of a few locals I wouldn’t mind seeing hurried along to their final reward.” He walks to the sideboard. “Sit down, Catherine. What are you drinking?”

“Nothing.”

He raises a curious eyebrow.

“I really have to go.”

“Your mother told me you found some blood in your old bedroom.”

“That’s right. I found it by accident, but it’s definitely blood.”

He pours himself a neat Scotch. “Human?”

“I don’t know yet.” I glance longingly at the door.

Grandpapa removes his jacket, revealing a tailored dress shirt with rolled-up sleeves. Even at his advanced age, he has the corded forearms of a man who’s worked all his life with his hands. “But you’re assuming that it is.”

“Why do you say that? I never assume anything.”

“I say that because you look agitated.”

“It’s not the blood. It’s the murder case in New Orleans.”

He hangs his jacket on a rack in the corner. “Are you being completely truthful about that? I just spoke to your mother. I know how much the loss of your father hurt you, how it’s haunted you. Please sit down, Catherine. We should talk about your concerns.”

I look down at the faxed pages in my hands. The hypnotic eyes of Nathan Malik stare up at me, prodding me to leave for New Orleans. But then an image of glowing footprints comes into my mind—one tiny and bare, the other made by a boot. A work boot, maybe, or a hunting boot. The NOMURS killings have a claim on me, but I cannot leave Malmaison without knowing more about those footprints.

I take a deep breath and force myself to sit.