Blood Memory by Greg Iles Page B

didn’t—”
    “Didn’t recognize me, I know. I’ve lost eighty pounds in the last two years.”
    I survey him from head to toe. It’s difficult to reconcile what I see before me with my memories of high school, but there’s just enough of the old Michael left to recognize. It’s like meeting a man in the real world whom you first encountered as a cancer patient on steroid therapy—bloated and soft then, but now miraculously recovered, healthy and hard.
    “My God, you look…well, hot. ”
    Michael’s blush returns, redder than before. “Thanks, Cat.”
    He was three years ahead of me at St. Stephen’s, then at the University Medical Center in Jackson. “Did you stick with pediatrics?” I ask, searching my mind for details.
    He nods. “I was practicing in North Carolina, but St. Catherine’s Hospital came up and recruited me. This town was desperate for more pediatricians.”
    “Well, I’m glad you came back. You own this house now?”
    “Yep.”
    “I used to swim here all the time.”
    He smiles. “Mrs. Hemmeter told me.”
    “Did she? Well, do you like it? The house, I mean.”
    “I do. I like being at the back of the neighborhood. It’s no Malmaison, of course.”
    “Be glad it’s not. You don’t want the upkeep on that place.”
    “I can imagine. Did you ever live anywhere else in Natchez?”
    “No. My dad came back from Vietnam with post-traumatic stress disorder. He couldn’t hold a job, so my mom came home from college, and they moved into one of the slave quarters. I was born four years later. We never left after that.”
    “What did your father do before the war?”
    “He was a welder.”
    “Is that where his sculpting came from?”
    “Yes.” I’m surprised Michael remembers that. After two years of wandering the woods and watching television, my dad fired up his welding equipment and began sculpting metal. In the beginning he produced huge, horrid pieces—Asian demons cut from steel and iron—but as time passed, his work mellowed and became quite popular with some collectors.
    “Is that a rock down there?” Michael asks, pointing into the water.
    “Yes. Your rock. I used it to keep me submerged. I’m a free diver.”
    “What’s that?”
    “I dive deep in the ocean using only the air in my lungs.”
    Michael looks intrigued. “How deep?”
    “I’ve been to three hundred and fifty feet.”
    “Jesus! I scuba dive a little, and I’ve only been to ninety feet with tanks.”
    “I use a weighted sled to help me get down quickly.”
    “That’s one extreme sport I’ve never heard of.”
    “It’s pretty intense. As solitary as you can be on this planet, I think.”
    He squats beside the pool, his eyes filled with curiosity. “Do you like that? Solitude, I mean?”
    “Sometimes. Other times I can’t stand to be alone. Literally.”
    “I learned to fly five years ago. I’ve got a little Cessna 210 out at the airport. That’s where I get my solitude.”
    “Well, there you go. Flying scares me to death. If I got into your Cessna, I’d need a doggie bag in the first two minutes.”
    Michael laughs and blushes at the same time. “You’re just trying to save my pride.”
    “I’m not. Flying scares me, especially small planes.” I look toward the trees that conceal Malmaison. “Have you met my grandfather yet?”
    He smiles in a way that’s hard to read. “The lord of the manor? Yeah. He still comes to the occasional staff meeting at the hospital, even though he’s more of a wheeler-dealer than a surgeon these days, from what I hear.”
    “For a lot of years now. By the time he was forty, surgery was just a prestige hobby for him.”
    Michael glances toward the woods, as though my grandfather might be watching us. “I saw him out running one day. He didn’t recognize me. I tell you, he’s a tough old man. He’s what, seventy?”
    “Seventy-seven.”
    “God. He can run me into the ground. And he doesn’t have that old-man jog, either, you know? He runs.