Blood Memory. Greg Iles

three seconds I go from mild anxiety to hyperventilation, like an old lady about to faint in church. Which is unbelievable. I can breathe more efficiently than 99 percent of the human population. When I’m not working as an odontologist, I’m a free diver, a world-class competitor in a sport whose participants commonly dive to three hundred feet using only the air trapped in their lungs. Some people call free diving competitive suicide, and there’s some truth to that. I can lie on the bottom of a swimming pool with a weight belt for over six minutes without air, a feat that would kill most people. Yet now—standing at sea level in the kitchen of a ritzy town house—I can’t even drink from the ocean of oxygen that surrounds me.

      “Dr. Ferry?” says Agent Kaiser. “Are you all right?”

      Panic attack, I tell myself. Vicious circle … the anxiety worsens the symptoms, and the symptoms rev up the anxiety. You have to break the cycle …

      Arthur LeGendre’s corpse wavers in my vision, as though it’s lying on the bottom of a shallow river.

      “Sean?” asks Kaiser. “Is she all right?”

      Don’t let this happen, I beg silently. Please.

      But no one hears my prayer. Whatever is happening to me has been waiting a long time to happen. A slow black train has been coming toward me for a very long time, from very far away, and now that it’s finally reached me, it plows over me without pain or sound.

      And everything goes black.

       THREE

      A female EMT is kneeling over me, reading from a blood pressure cuff strapped to my arm. The deflating cuff awakened me. Sean Regan and Special Agent Kaiser are standing over the EMT, looking worried.

      “A little low,” says the tech. “I think she fainted. Her EKG is normal. Sugar’s a little low, but she’s not hypoglycemic.” The tech notices that my eyes are open. “When was the last time you ate, Dr. Ferry?”

      “I don’t remember.”

      “We should get some orange juice into you. Fix you right up.”

      I look to my left. The stockinged feet of Arthur LeGendre’s corpse lie beside my head. Its legs and torso extend away from me at a right angle, down a different side of the kitchen island. I glance in that direction and see the bloody message again: MY WORK IS NEVER DONE.

      “Any OJ in that fridge?” asks the EMT.

      “Crime scene,” says Agent Kaiser. “Can’t disturb that. Anybody got a candy bar?”

      A reluctant male voice says, “I got a Snickers. It’s my supper.”

      “You on Atkins again?” Sean quips, and nervous laughter follows. “Cough it up.”

      Everybody laughs now, grateful for the release of tension.

      As I get to my feet, Sean reaches out to steady me. A paunchy detective steps forward and hands me his Snickers bar. I make a show of gratitude and accept it, though I know I have no blood sugar problem. This charade is witnessed by a rapt audience that includes Carmen Piazza, commander of the Homicide Division.

      “I’m sorry,” I say in her direction. “I don’t know what happened.”

      “Same thing as last time, looks like,” Piazza observes.

      “I guess so. I’m okay now, though. I’m ready.”

      Captain Piazza leans toward me and speaks softly. “Step out here with me for a moment, Dr. Ferry. You, too, Detective Regan.”

      Piazza walks into the hallway. Sean gives me a warning glance, then turns and follows her.

      The captain leads us into a study off the central hall, where she leans back against a desk and faces us, arms folded, jaw set tight. I can easily imagine this olive-skinned woman facing down armed street punks during her years in uniform.

      “This isn’t the place to talk about complications,” she says, “so I’m not going to. I don’t know what’s going on between you two, and I don’t want to know. What I do know is that it’s jeopardizing this investigation. So here’s what we’re going to do. Dr. Ferry is going to go home. The FBI will handle the bite marks tonight. And unless the Bureau objects, I’m going to request that a new forensic odontologist be assigned to the task force.”

      I want to argue, but Piazza has said nothing about my episode in the kitchen. She’s talking about something for which I have no defense. Something about which Sean told me not to worry. But why am I angry? Adulterers think they’re discreet, but people always find out.

      A patrolman steps into the study and sets my tripod and dental cases on the floor. When did Piazza tell him to pack them? While I was unconscious? After he leaves, Piazza says, “Sean, walk Dr. Ferry back to her car. Be back here in two minutes. And be in my office tomorrow morning at eight sharp. Clear?”

      Sean’s eyes lock with his superior’s. “Yes, ma’am.”

      Captain Piazza looks at me, her face not without compassion. “Dr. Ferry, you’ve done some remarkable work for us in the past. I hope you get to the bottom of whatever this problem is. I suggest you see a doctor, if you haven’t already. I don’t think a vacation’s going to do it for you.”

      She walks out, leaving me alone with my married lover and the latest mess I seem to have made of my life. Sean picks up my cases and starts for the front door. We can’t risk talking here.

      Warm water drips from the oak leaves as we walk down the block in silence. It rained while I was inside, a typical New Orleans shower that did nothing to cool or cleanse the city, only added more water vapor to the smothering humidity and washed more filth into Lake Pontchartrain. The air smells of banana trees, though, and in the darkness the street has a deceptively romantic look.

      “What happened in there?” Sean asks, not looking at me. “Another panic attack?”

      My hands are shaking, but whether from my episode inside, alcohol withdrawal, or the confrontation with Captain Piazza, I don’t know. “I guess. I don’t know.”

      “Is it these particular murders? It started with the third victim, Nolan.”

      I can tell by Sean’s voice that he’s worried. “I don’t think so.”

      He looks over at me. “Is it us, Cat?”

      Of course it’s us. “I don’t know.”

      “I told you Karen and I are talking about seeing a lawyer now. It’s just the kids, you know? We—”

      “Don’t start, okay? Not tonight.” My throat tightens, and a sour taste fills my mouth. “I’m in this situation because I put myself in it.”

      “I know, but—”

      “Please.” I make a fist to stop my right hand from shaking. “Okay?”

      This time Sean heeds the hysteria in my voice. When we reach the Audi, he takes my keys, unlocks the door, and loads my cases into the backseat. Then he looks back up the block, toward the LeGendre house, probably to make sure Piazza isn’t watching us. That he has to do this, even now, is like a knife in my belly.

      “Tell me what’s really going on,” he says, turning back to me. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

      Yes. But I’m not going to play that particular scene here. Not now. Not like this. Even I cling to some fairy-tale dreams, and this wet street after a murder isn’t part of them. “I can’t do this,” I tell him. It’s all I can manage.

      His green eyes widen in a silent plea. They have a remarkable intensity sometimes. “We have to talk, Cat. Tonight.”

      I don’t reply.