Blood Memory: A Novel

Blood Memory: A Novel

“One of America’s greatest storytellers” (Stephen King) and the #1 New York Times bestselling author of Southern Man and the Natchez Burning trilogy returns to his roots in this breathtaking novel of murder and redemption set in New Orleans and Natchez, Mississippi. Some memories live deep in the soul, indelible and dangerous, waiting to be resurrected… Forensic expert “Cat” Ferry is suspended from an FBI task force when she is inexplicably stricken with panic attacks and blackouts while investigating a chain of brutal murders. Returning to her Mississippi hometown, Cat finds herself battling with alcohol, plagued by nightmares, and entangled with a married detective. Then, in her childhood bedroom, some spilled chemicals reveal two bloody footprints…and the trauma of her father’s murder years earlier comes flooding back. Facing the secrets of her past, Cat races to connect them to a killer’s present-day violence. But what emerges is the frightening possibility that Cat herself has blood on her hands… “As Southern Gothic as it gets” ( Kirkus Reviews ), Greg Iles’s Blood Memory “will have readers turning pages at a breakneck pace” ( New Orleans Times-Picayune ). Greg Iles was the author of sixteen New York Times bestselling novels. He is best known for his Penn Cage series, the last of which is Southern Man . Iles’s novels have been made into films and published in more than thirty-five countries. He was also a member of the lit-rock group The Rock Bottom Remainders. He lived with his wife and children in Natchez, Mississippi, until his passing in 2025. Blood Memory Chapter 1 When does murder begin? With the pull of a trigger? With the formation of a motive? Or does it begin long before, when a child swallows more pain than love and is forever changed? Perhaps it doesn’t matter. Or perhaps it matters more than everything else. We judge and punish based on facts, but facts are not truth. Facts are like a buried skeleton uncovered long after death. Truth is fluid. Truth is alive. To know the truth requires understanding, the most difficult human art. It requires seeing all things at once, forward and backward, the way God sees. Forward and backward… So we begin in the middle, with a telephone ringing in a dark bedroom on the shore of Lake Pontchartrain in New Orleans, Louisiana. There’s a woman lying on the bed, mouth open in the mindless gape of sleep. She seems not to hear the phone. Then suddenly the harsh ring breaks through, like defibrillator paddles shocking a comatose patient. The woman’s hand shoots from beneath the covers, groping for the phone, not finding it. She gasps and rises onto one elbow. Then she groans and picks up the receiver from the bedside table. The woman is me. “Dr. Ferry,” I croak. “Are you sleeping?” The voice is male, taut with anger. “No.” My denial is automatic, but my mouth is dry as a cotton ball, and my alarm clock reads 8:20 P.M. I’ve been out for nine hours. The first decent sleep I’ve had in days. “He hit another one.” Something sparks in my drowsy brain. “What?” “This is the fourth time I’ve called in the past half hour, Cat.” The voice brings up a well of anger, longing, and guilt. It belongs to the detective I’ve been sleeping with for the past eighteen months. Sean Regan. An insightful, fascinating man with a wife and three kids. “What did you say before?” I ask, ready to bite off Sean’s head if he asks me to meet him somewhere. “I said, he hit another one.” I blink and try to orient myself in the darkness. It’s early August, and the purple glow of dusk filters through my curtains. God, my mouth is dry. “Where?” “The Garden District. Owner of a printing company. Male Caucasian.” “Bite marks?” “Worse than the others.” “How old was he?” “Sixty-nine.” “Jesus. It is him.” I’m already getting out of bed. “This makes no sense at all.” “Nope.” “Sexual predators kill women, Sean. Or children. Not old men.” “We’ve had this conversation. How fast can you get here? Piazza’s hovering over me, and the chief himself may be coming down for a look.” I lift yesterday’s jeans off the chair and slip them over my panties. Victoria’s Secret, Sean’s favorite pair, but he won’t be seeing them tonight. Maybe not for a long time. Maybe never again. “Any gay angle on this victim? Did he use male prostitutes, anything like that?” “Not even a tickle,” Sean replies. “Looks as clean as the others.” “If he’s got a home computer, confiscate it. He might—” “I know my job, Cat.” “I know, but—” “Cat.” The single syllable is a probing finger. “Are you sober?” A column of heat rises up my spine. I haven’t had a sip of vodka for nearly forty-eight hours, but I’m not going to give Sean the satisfaction of answering his interrogation. “What’s the victim’s name?” “Arthur LeGendre.” His voice drops. “Are you sober, darlin’?” The craving is already awake in my blood, like little teeth gnawing at the walls of my veins.