Blood Memory. Greg Iles

the family name?”

      Of course. The family name matters more than anything, even justice. I want to ask him the final question I put to Pearlie. But Grandpapa always saw my father as weak, and if he’d believed that fatal rifle shot had been self-inflicted, he wouldn’t have concealed from anyone this vindication of his instincts—not even to protect the family name. Because he didn’t really see my father as part of the family. And yet … there could be factors I know nothing about. My mother, for example.

      “Did you really see a prowler that night, Grandpapa?”

      His eyes widen, and for a moment I’m certain my blind shot has struck home. Before he speaks, he reaches out and drains the last of his Scotch. “Exactly what are you asking me, Catherine?”

      “Did Daddy shoot himself that night? Did he commit suicide?”

      Grandpapa raises a hand to his chin and massages the flesh beneath it. His eyes are unreadable, but I see a shadow of conflict in them. “If you’re asking me whether I think Luke was capable of suicide, my answer is yes. He was severely depressed a good deal of the time. But that night … everything happened just as I said. He died trying to protect his home and family. I’ll give the boy that.”

      Only when I exhale do I realize how long I’ve been holding my breath. I feel such relief that it takes a supreme act of will not to get up and take a slug of vodka from the bottle on the sideboard. Instead, I stand and gather my fax pages from the table.

      “You hardly draw anything from your trust fund nowadays,” Grandpapa remarks. “You don’t spend money anymore?”

      I shrug. “I like earning my own.”

      “I wish the rest of the family would take a page from your book.”

      I take this for what it is, a thinly veiled insult to my mother and aunt, but most of all to my father. “You really didn’t like him, did you? Daddy, I mean. Tell the truth.”

      Grandpapa’s eyes don’t waver. “I don’t think I made a secret of that. Perhaps I should have, but I’m no hypocrite.”

      “Why didn’t you like him? Was it just oil and water?”

      “A lot of it was the war, Catherine. Luke’s war. Vietnam. His mental problems, I guess.”

      “He was wounded, too, you know.” I still recall the line of holes in Daddy’s back, caused by shrapnel from a booby-trapped artillery round. I always got chills when he removed his shirt.

      “Luke’s physical wound wasn’t his problem.”

      “You don’t know what he went through over there!” I cry defensively, though I don’t really know either.

      “That’s true,” Grandpapa admits. “I don’t.”

      “I heard some of the things you used to say to him. How Vietnam wasn’t a real war. How it wasn’t nearly as tough as Iwo or Guadalcanal.”

      He stares curiously at me, as though wondering how an eight-year-old child could remember something like that. “I did say those things, Catherine. And in the time since, I’ve realized I might have been wrong. To an extent, anyway. Vietnam was a different kind of war, and I didn’t understand that then. But by God, I saw things in the Pacific that were about as bad as a man can see, and I didn’t let it paralyze me. A few men did—good men, some of them—and I guess maybe Luke was like them. Shell shock, the doctors called it then. Or battle fatigue. I’m afraid we just called it, well—”

      “Yellow!” I finish, trying to resist a rush of emotion. My cheeks are burning. “Why didn’t you tell Daddy you’d seen good men react like the way he did? You called him yellow to his face. I heard you! I didn’t know what you meant then, but I did later.”

      Grandpapa folds his still-powerful hands together and fixes me with an unrepentant gaze. “Listen to me, Catherine. Maybe I was too hard on your father. But at some point it doesn’t matter what you’ve gone through. You have to pull up your bootstraps and get on with living. Because one thing’s for sure, nobody else is going to do it for you. Your father’s job was to provide for you and your mother, and at that job he failed miserably.”

      I’m almost speechless with fury. “Did you really want him to succeed?”

      “What does that mean? I gave him three different jobs, and he couldn’t handle any of them.”

      “How could he? You despised him! And didn’t you just love being the big man, the one who paid for everybody’s food and shelter? Who controlled us all?”

      He settles deeper into his chair, his chiseled features hard as the face of a mountain. “You’re distraught, my dear. We’ll continue this at another time. If we must.”

      I start to argue, but what’s the point? “I have to get back to New Orleans. Please don’t go into my old bedroom before I get back. You can’t see anything without special chemicals. And please don’t let anyone else go in there. Mom’s liable to try to scrub the place from top to bottom with 409.”

      “Don’t worry, I’ll keep the room secure. Test anything and everything you like.”

      I collect my papers and walk to the study door.

      “You seeing anybody that looks like a potential husband?” Grandpapa asks.

      A wave of heat shoots up my spine.

      “I’m wondering if I’m ever going to see some children around here before I die.”

      If he knew I was pregnant now, he probably wouldn’t even care that I’m not married. “I wouldn’t worry about that,” I say without turning. “You’re going to live forever, aren’t you?”

      I open the door to find Grandpapa’s driver staring at me, an open leer on his face.

      “Hey,” he says.

      I brush past Billy Neal without a word, but as I walk away, I hear him mutter something that sounds like “Frigid bitch.”

      On any other day I would turn back and bite his head off, but today … it’s just not worth it.

      Today I keep walking.

       TWELVE

      I’m twenty miles south of Natchez when the Valium starts to soothe my frayed nerves. Sean has called twice, but I didn’t answer. I needed a few minutes to decompress after meeting with my grandfather, and to prepare for questioning about Nathan Malik by the FBI. Whatever the reality of the night my father died, I have to put it aside for now and think about my two years in medical school. They will soon be the subject of intense scrutiny by the FBI.

      The facts are simple enough. As Michael Wells heard through the grapevine, I had an affair with a married professor and it got out of hand. After four months, I tried to end it. He wouldn’t let me. To emphasize my point, I slept with an ER doctor the professor knew. The professor promptly attempted suicide. He didn’t end his life, but he did end his teaching career, and also my days in medical school. My grandfather could probably have used his influence to get me reinstated, but the truth was, I didn’t want to go back. Certainly not like that.

      The FBI will want to know all about Nathan Malik—or Jonathan Gentry, as I knew him then—but I don’t remember much. I was drunk a lot of that time. What I do remember about those years begs a question. Why have I always involved myself with married men? Therapists tell me it’s the impossibility of such relationships that draws me. Single guys always fall in love; they end up possessive and wanting me forever. I don’t want permanence—I didn’t back then, anyway—and married men are a pragmatic solution. They’re romantic, sexually experienced, and committed elsewhere. I’m well aware of the Freudian implications of my lifestyle. I grew up mostly without a father, so I’m attracted to older men. What of it? The moral issue