Blood Memory

boat engine; it’s revving like a chain saw cutting its way across the surface of the river. If it were daylight, I might think it was a chain saw-sound travels amazing distances over water-but nobody’s cutting trees at this hour.

That revving sound is an outboard motor. Probably the Evinrude on the old bass boat I decided to leave on the island.

Jesse has come looking for me.

Chapter 30

Kicking up onto a wave crest, I see a flashlight bobbing up and down about thirty yards away. It’s hard to believe my pursuer could get this close by design, but maybe he heard my scream. If it is Jesse Billups, he probably knows the river well. I try to calm myself with logic: the odds of his sighting me in this maelstrom are low. As long as I keep my head down.

Pulling the deflating legs of my jeans beneath my arms, I lie flat on the surface and stop kicking. The whine of the motor gets louder, then dies, only to return again closer to me. Jesse must be as scared as I am. A submerged log could tear off his propeller, leaving him without power, or smash the side of his fiberglass boat and dump him into the river with me. His rifle wouldn’t do him any good there. I wonder if he can swim. His cousin Henry admitted he couldn’t. But Jesse was in the army. The 101st Airborne. They teach men to parachute in the Airborne. Do they teach them to swim? Maybe. It doesn’t really matter, though. If I can get him into the water with me, I can kill him.

All I have to do is get close enough to tangle him up. Like a squid drowning a sperm whale. Even if he were choking me, I could drag him under and keep him there until his brain winked out like an old lightbulb. It’s a strange thing to contemplate. The only person I’ve ever thought about killing before is myself.

The motor revs suddenly, not twenty yards from my right ear. Sucking in a lungful of air, I duck my head and drop three feet underwater, clinging only to the jeans pocket that holds my cell phone. I hear the prop spinning, a high-pitched whine like a kitchen blender. The boat doesn’t seem to be moving, though, only holding its position in the river. Did Jesse catch sight of me in the waves?

For two minutes I float like the fetus in my womb, listening to the spinning prop. He must have seen me. Why else would he remain in one place? Surfacing slowly, I raise my eyes above the water. This time a white shaft of light slices through the rain like the eye of God. For an instant I think it’s a push boat, but the beam is too near the water. No…it’s a Q-Beam spotlight mounted on a pivot on the bass boat’s hull. Whoever is piloting that boat either just remembered that spotlight or just discovered it. Maybe the gunman isn’t Jesse Billups. The foreman of the island would have switched on that spotlight as soon as he launched the boat.

The Q-Beam rakes over the waves like a searchlight in a prison movie. First this way, then that, occasionally returning to one spot or another in the frothing waves. Once, when the light lingers upstream, I see the massive root-ball of a tree moving in the glare. Half the twisted roots are above the water, and by the size of them, the tree itself must be eighty feet long.

The drone of the motor rises, and the searchlight moves closer to the tree. Its white beam probes the tangled root structure, its operator obviously looking for a stowaway on this natural vessel. Without warning, the light whips back around toward me. Submerging again, I feel my jeans adding to my weight.

The air in them is gone.

I need to reinflate them, but whipping them over my head right now would be like waving a flag. Like most of my decisions, my next is made purely by instinct. Carefully removing the Ziploc containing my cell phone from my pocket, I let the jeans sink in the river. Then I kick toward the bass boat, using the spotlight as my guide. My goal isn’t the boat itself-or the man in it-but the tree floating toward it.

After thirty seconds underwater, I surface to check my progress. The boat is fifteen feet in front of me, its pilot invisible behind the spotlight. Taking a gulp of air, I drop back under the waves and swim past the boat.

When I surface ten meters beyond it, the tree arrives like a scheduled bus. With my right hand I reach out and catch a trailing root. It’s like catching hold of a ski rope being towed by a speedboat. The root bloom is the bow of my adopted ship, the branches far behind me its stern. The trunk is easily four feet in diameter, which tells me it’s probably a willow uprooted by high water. As the monster trunk drifts downstream, I climb from its submerged roots to the dry roots above the waterline. Suddenly the waves that were thrashing me around the river are merely scenery. I’m riding atop an eighty-foot willow like Cleopatra on her royal barge. The rifleman in the bass boat is already behind me, and though he could return to search this tree again, the tangle of roots and mud could easily conceal me.

I can see much more from this vantage point. The riverbank to my left-the eastern bank-is enveloped in darkness. But on my right, a haze of faint bluish light reflects off the clouds. That light is Louisiana Highway 1. That light is civilization. And the river, true to its course, is driving the tree beneath me straight toward the far bank of the bend beneath those lights. In about three minutes, I should be able to leap from these roots and swim no more than three hundred yards to shore.

Even the rain doesn’t bother me here. The roots above my head shield me from most of it. Flipping over the Ziploc to check my cell phone, I see its screen glowing green in the darkness. It shows three bars under the antenna icon.

I have service again.

It’s surreal. Riding down the Mississippi River in the root-ball of a floating willow tree, I can call any telephone in the world. Some people in this situation might call the Coast Guard, which maintains stations along the river. But my main concern is no longer reaching the opposite bank. It’s catching a ride when I get there. Besides, the nearest Coast Guard station is probably thirty miles away, at New Roads. And what would I tell them to look for? A floating willow tree in a storm? A bass boat with its spotlight on? They’d never find the former, and the bass boat would go dark and disappear long before a Coast Guard vessel could catch it.

While deciding whom to call, I realize my screen shows four missed calls. Paging through screens, I see that one was from Sean, one from Dr. Goldman, one from Michael Wells, and one from Unknown Caller. I check the battery to make sure I have adequate power, then listen to the messages.

Sean: Hey, it’s me, I’m sorry about not answering before. I was with Karen. We’re talking about the whole divorce thing, and about you. It’s complicated. Look, there’s something you need to know. Nathan Malik isn’t in jail anymore. He made his bail. A million bucks. The FBI had him under surveillance, but Malik drove out to Lakeside Mall and pulled some kind of switch in the Dillard’s store. They lost him. They should have let us tail him. Anyway, you need to watch your back. Malik hasn’t been declared a fugitive, but if he leaves the state, he will be. He’s already the target of a covert statewide manhunt here, and they’ll be doing the same thing in Mississippi. His data’s gone out nationally as a BOLO. You need to know, because the guy obviously has some kind of fixation on you. Don’t come back to New Orleans, Cat. And even in Natchez you should-Shit, Karen’s coming.

There’s a click, and the message ends.

So Malik is free again. Where is he now? I wonder. Could he be the man behind me in the bass boat? Sean’s message was time-stamped 6:11 P.M. It’s conceivable that Malik could have driven from New Orleans to DeSalle Island in that time, but how would he even know where it was? Or that I was coming here?

The next message is from Dr. Goldman. In her eerily calm voice, Hannah says, Catherine, I’m very concerned about the things you told me in our earlier conversation. I want to see you as soon as possible. Call me any hour of the day or night. I consider this a crisis, and I want you under my direct care. The time for distance is over. This is the most dangerous and the most hopeful moment in your life. Please call me.

The next message says, Cat, this is Michael Wells. I got your cell number from your mother. I’m done with work now, and I’d really like to talk to you. You didn’t sound good on the phone earlier. That stuff about repressed memories…all that. I’m not sure what you’re dealing with, and you may be fine now. I just want you to know I’m here for you. As a friend, a doctor, whatever you need. My home number is four four five, eight six six three. Call me, okay? No pressure.

No pressure. God, how those words sound good to me.