Blood Memory. Greg Iles

“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