Blood Memory

Chapter 57

“Cat? What’s going on?”

I gasp in relief. I’m almost to Malmaison, and I’ve been trying to reach Sean since I left the funeral home. “I know who the killer is, Sean.”

“Whoa, whoa, which killer are you talking about? Your family stuff, or the New Orleans case?”

“New Orleans!”

“How the hell could you know who the killer is?”

“How do I ever know? Something clicked in my head.”

“What clicked this time?”

I’m tempted to tell him, but if I do, there’ll be no stopping the consequences. And right now I’m not at all sure I want the killer arrested. “I can’t tell you that, Sean. Not yet.”

“ Shit. What are you up to, Cat?”

“I’m coming to New Orleans this afternoon. I want you to meet me at my house. Are you still suspended?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you still have your badge and gun?”

“I’ve got a gun. And I have a badge that’ll do in a pinch. What do you have in mind?”

“I want to talk to the killer before we do anything.”

“Talk to him? About what?”

“It’s not a him, Sean. It’s a her.”

I hear a quick rush of air. “Cat, don’t do this to me.”

“It’s only a few hours. I know it’s hard on you, but you’ll understand when I get there.” I turn into the drive of Malmaison and accelerate down the oak-shaded lane. The iron gate stands open. I drive through it and take the sweeping curve toward the main house.

“Why did you call me?” Sean asks in a strange voice. “Why not Kaiser?”

“Because I trust you.” I’m lying. I picked Sean because-to a certain extent-I can control him.

“Okay. Call me thirty minutes before you get here.”

“Be ready.” As I swing into the parking lot behind the slave quarters, I’m shocked to find Pearlie’s blue Cadillac parked beside Grandpapa’s Lincoln. Shocked and glad. “I need one more favor, Sean.”

“What is it?”

“I know who killed my father, too.”

“Yeah? Who?”

“My grandfather. He’s the one who molested me. Not my father. Daddy caught my grandfather abusing me, and Grandpapa killed him to keep him quiet.”

“Fuck.” In that one curse I hear two decades of homicide experience. “I’m sorry, Cat.”

“I know. This isn’t about that. Look, if I don’t make it to New Orleans for some reason-if I’m dead, in other words-I want you to do something for me.”

“What?”

“Kill him.”

There’s a long silence. “Your grandfather?”

“Yes.”

“Are you serious? You mean take him out?”

“Yep. Remove him from the world.”

The phone hisses and crackles. “That’s asking a lot.”

“If I’m dead, he’ll never be convicted. And I think he’s still doing it. You understand? If you love me, you’ll do it. For me, Sean. And for your own kids. I have to go now.”

“Wait! If something happens to you, how will I know who the killer down here is?”

I think for a minute. “I’ll write it on a piece of paper and put it under the floor mat of my mother’s car. Her name is Gwen Ferry. She drives a gold Nissan Maxima. Good enough?”

I hear him breathing. “I guess it’ll have to be.”

I hang up my mother’s cell phone, then open the console and dig through it. About the only piece of paper big enough is a grocery ticket from Wal-Mart. On its long, narrow back, I scrawl the logical basis for my epiphany at the funeral home. As I lift the floor mat beneath my feet to conceal the note, I pray that Sean doesn’t have to drive to Natchez to find it.