Mortal Fear. Greg Iles

I begin the anthem adored by most humans under three and reviled by most above that age. Holly sits entranced. She actually resembles Drewe more than Erin. The Scots–English genes apparently overpowered the Cajun. I give the Barney theme a soul-gospel ending; Holly claps and giggles, and even Margaret lifts the brim of her hat and applauds.

      “Did you hear about Karin Wheat?” my mother-in-law asks me softly.

      While I consider my answer, she takes a sip of half-melted Bloody Mary, shivers, and says, “Gruesome.”

      “I did hear about that,” I say noncommittally, feeling Drewe’s gaze on the back of my neck.

      “I was just reading Isis,” Margaret goes on. “I’ll bet one of her crazy fans killed her. That book was chock full of perversion.”

      “Didn’t stop you from reading, though, did it?” Bob snickers. “What’s happening on the porno box, Harper?”

      “Porno box” is Bob’s nickname for the EROS computer. “Same old seven and six,” I say, though I would give a lot to know whether the Strobekker account has gone active in the last few hours and, if so, whether the FBI was able to trace the connection.

      Bob shakes his head. “I still don’t get why anybody—even sex maniacs—would pay that much money for a box that won’t even transmit pictures.”

      “Actually, it will now,” I tell him. “There was so much demand for it, Jan Krislov decided to give in.”

      “I’ll be damned.”

      Erin slips on a terry cloth robe and leads Holly away from this conversation onto the perfectly manicured lawn. Bob keeps all eight acres as immaculate as a golf green and does all the work himself.

      “I heard on A Current Affair that the killer cut off her head,” Margaret adds.

      I force myself to look disinterested.

      “This is one time I’m gonna surprise you pinko-liberals,” Bob says with good humor. “I’ll guarantee you it was a white man killed that writer woman.”

      Drewe raises her eyebrows. “Why do you say that?”

      “’Cause a nigger don’t kill that way,” Bob replies seriously. “Oh, they’ll cut you, or shoot you. But it’s an impulse thing. A nigger gets mad quick, kills quick, gets over it quick. He’s likely to be feeling sorry about it five minutes after he did it. White man’s different. A white man can nurse a hate a long time. A white man likes to hate. Gives him a mission, a reason to live. And a murder like that thing in New Orleans—mutilation, I mean—it takes a long time to build up an anger like that.”

      We are all staring intently at Bob Anderson.

      “’Course, it was New Orleans,” he adds philosophically. “God knows anything can happen there.”

      After a thoughtful silence, Margaret asks Drewe about some policy change at one of the Jackson hospitals. Drewe and Patrick both have staff privileges there, and strong opinions about the issue. Every now and then Bob chimes in with an unsolicited expert opinion. While they banter back and forth, my eyes wander back to Erin and Holly. They move like exotic animals over the dappled lawn, Erin graceful as a gazelle, Holly like a sprite risen from the grass. As I watch, I let my eyes take on the thoughtful cast I have practiced so often at this gathering. Everyone assumes I am thinking about bond trades or commodities. Before long, Bob will ask me if I made any killings this week.

      But for now I am granted a dispensation.

      I try to keep my mind clear, but the effort is vain. As always, my secret rises unbidden. It is always there, beating like a second heart within my brain. The ceaseless tattoo grows louder, pulsing in my ears, throbbing in my temples, causing little storms of numbness along my upper forearms. These are parasthesias; I looked up the symptom late one night in one of Drewe’s medical books. Parasthesias are caused by extraordinary levels of stress. Everyone has a different tolerance, I suppose. What would terrify an equestrienne would not faze a bull rider.

      I have carried my secret for a long time, and consequently thought I had learned to live with it, like a benign growth of some sort. Then, three months ago, I discovered that my secret had far more frightful consequences than I ever imagined. That my guilt is far greater than my capacity for rationalization.

      And my skill at deception is crumbling.

      Beyond this, I have an irrational feeling that my secret has taken on a life of its own—that it is trying to get out. It flutters at the edge of Patrick’s consciousness, polishes the fine blade of Drewe’s mistrust. I sometimes wonder whether she knows already but lives in a denial based on fear even greater than mine. Is this possible? No. Drewe could not know this thing and not act. Look at her, sitting in the black iron lawn chair, speaking with calm authority, words precise, back straight, green eyes focused.

      Erin joins hands with Holly as they dance across the grass, now closer, now farther away. They spin like dervishes in the August heat. The drone of medico-political conversation presses against my eardrums, blending with the sound of Bob’s bees in Bob’s bushes. Comparing Drewe and Erin now, I see beyond the physical. Their innermost differences are stark, essential. They can be divided by single words: Drewe is control, Erin chaos. Drewe is achievement, Erin accident. Erin’s eyes catch mine for the briefest instant. I try to blank my mind, to shake my preoccupation and smile.

      But I cannot.

      She spins more slowly, her eyes catching mine each time she turns. What is in those eyes? Compassion? I believe so. In these fleeting moments I sense an intimacy of such painful intensity that it seems almost in danger of arcing between us—of ionizing the air dividing our eyes and bodies and letting that which resides separately in both our souls unite, as someday it inevitably must. What is this power that burns so for unity? That threatens to declare itself without invitation? What is it but the truth? A knowledge that Erin and I alone possess, of things as they really are.

      And what is the truth of things as they really are?

      Holly Graham is my daughter.

       NINE

      “Did you sense something wrong with Patrick?” asks Drewe.

      We are already five miles from her parents’ house, rolling down the two-lane blacktop toward our farm, which is still ten miles away. With every mile we cover, my anxiety lessens.

      “No,” I answer. “He seemed like his usual weekend self. Glad to be away from the hospital, wishing he was playing golf instead of sitting at your parents” house.”

      Drewe clicks her tongue. “I think he and Erin are having problems.”

      “What?” I say a little too sharply. In fact, I know Erin and Patrick are having problems. “They seemed fine to me.”

      Drewe looks at me, but thankfully her gaze is only on half power. “I guess you’re right. Sometimes I just get the feeling that Erin’s new life—her domesticity, I mean—is really just a front. That in her mind she never really left New York and all that other stuff behind.”

      “New life? It’s been three years, Drewe. That’s a lot of commitment just for an act.”

      She smiles. “You’re right. God, Holly gets more beautiful every week, doesn’t she?”

      “She sure does.”

      “And Erin’s so good with her. Did you hear her jump on Daddy about his racism? I think she really embarrassed him.”

      “Impossible.”

      She punches me on the shoulder. “I was pretty impressed with you, too.”

      “What do you mean?”

      “You had Holly wrapped around your finger.”

      Here