"Blood Memory" - читать интересную книгу автора (Iles Greg)

Chapter 31

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 elsemaybe 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.