True Evil (12 page)

Eldon watched the sunlight play upon the coral's overlapping scales, each scale part of a perfect minuet of indescribable beauty. There had been no corals in Tennessee. You had to go east to North Carolina or south to Mississippi to find them. But during his long walks in the wilderness around Jackson, he had seen three or four in the past few years. It was one of the hidden pleasures of this much-maligned state.

The serpent's body curled around his arm in a fluid figure eight, a perfect symbol of infinity. His adoptive father's congregation had believed snakes to be incarnations of Satan, but the twin serpents on the caduceus that Eldon wore on a chain around his neck were far more representative of the reptile's true nature, at least in the symbolic realm. Serpents symbolized healing because the ancient Greeks had seen their skin-shedding as a process of healing and rebirth. Had the Greeks understood microbiology, they would have observed much deeper links between serpents and the secret machinery of life. But even the ancients had understood that snakes personified the fundamental paradox of all medicinal drugs: in small doses they cured, while in large ones they killed. He held the coral snake up to his face and laughed richly, then opened the Nike bag, slid the snake inside, and zipped it shut.

Turning toward the distant clearing where he'd parked his car, Dr. Tarver experienced a sense of fulfillment that far exceeded that which he had felt upon finding the dead birds. Indeed, he felt blessed. Americans lived in constant fear, yet they never really knew how close they were to death at all hours of the day and night. If you wanted to find death, you hardly had to go looking for it.

Stay in one place long enough, and it would find you.

Dr. Tarver's journey to his laboratory took him north along Interstate 55, east of the main cluster of office buildings that surrounded Jackson's great capitol dome. To his left, the AmSouth tower jutted up from the low skyline of the capital city. His gaze moved along the sixteenth floor, to the blue-black windows of the corner office. Eldon had driven along this interstate and checked those windows almost every day for the past five years. But today was the first time that sunlight had ever flashed back from the office like a silver beacon, reflecting off the aluminum foil that he had named as an emergency signal all those years ago.

The muscles of his big chest tightened, and his breathing shallowed. There had been bumps in the road before—small matters of planning, or miscommunication. But never had anything justified the use of this signal. The foil meant real trouble. Eldon had chosen this primitive method for precisely the same reason that intelligence agencies did. If you were truly in danger, possibly even blown, the worst thing you could do was contact your associates by any traceable method. Unlike a telephone or a computer or a pager, the foil was nonspecific. No one could ever prove it was a signal. Not even the NSA could train cameras on every square inch of land from which that square of foil could be seen. No, the foil had been a good idea. So had the prearranged meeting. Andrew Rusk knew where to go; the question was, could he get there without being followed?

What could the emergency signal imply other than unwanted interest on the part of someone? But who? The police? The FBI? At the most fundamental level, it didn't matter. Dr. Tarver's first instinct was to eliminate the source of the danger. Only Andrew Rusk knew his identity, or anything about his recent activities. And Rusk could not be trusted to keep silent under pressure.

The lawyer thought he was strong, and by the standards of the early-twenty-first-century yuppie he might be. But that particular subspecies of
Homo sapiens
had no clue to the true nature of strength or hardship. No idea of self-reliance. Seconds after seeing the aluminum foil, Eldon was thinking of finding a comfortable perch overlooking one of the streets Rusk drove every day and putting a large-caliber bullet through the lawyer's cerebral cortex. Only by doing this could he insure his own safety. Of course, if he killed Rusk, he would never know the nature of the threat. Killing Rusk would also mean activating his escape plan, and Dr. Tarver wasn't ready to leave the country yet. He still had important work to do.

He glanced down at the Nike bag on the front seat beside him. The prearranged meeting place was thirty miles away. Did he have time to run the birds out to his lab? Should he risk meeting Rusk at all?
Yes,
answered his instinct.
Not one death has yet been called murder by the police. Not publicly anyway.
Even logic dictated that he should risk the meeting. No one could trap him in the place he had designated.

A new possibility arced through Eldon's mind. What if Rusk had put up the aluminum foil as
bait
? What if he'd somehow been caught and, in exchange for leniency, was offering up his accomplice on a platter? There might be cops waiting at the lab right now. Eldon could afford to lose the birds. West Nile was an unpredictable virus, highly variable in patient populations, depending on preexisting immunities, cross-immunities, other factors. The possibility of capture outweighed any possible gain in research. Dr. Tarver gripped the wheel tighter, exited I-55 at Northside Drive, then got back onto the elevated freeway, heading south.

What about the coral snake, though? He hated the idea of ditching it with the birds. Perhaps it should attend the emergency meeting. Or should he do as he'd once done after his briefcase was stolen from his car at the mall? Park his unlocked car in a remote section of the lot with an expensive bag on the seat. In the chaotic free-for-all of crime that was Jackson, a thief had stolen the bag in less than thirty minutes. Dr. Tarver had always imagined the look on the felon's face when he expectantly opened the bag and found not plunder but a coiled whip of muscle and deadly fangs.
Instant karma, shitbird…

A wicked smile glittered in his beard. It was funny how seemingly unrelated events revealed hidden significance as time passed. The foil on the building and the coral snake might well be connected in some Jungian web of synchronicity. Maybe the snake was somehow the resolution of the problem signaled by the foil.

He unzipped the bag and waited for the yellow-banded head to emerge. Ten miles melted beneath his tires before it did. When the first red band slid out of the bag, Dr. Tarver took the coral's head between his thumb and forefinger and drew its body out of the bag. Children were sometimes bitten by corals because the snakes were so beautiful that kids couldn't resist picking them up. Were corals not naturally so secretive, there would be a lot more dead children in the American South.

The serpent hung suspended for a moment, then coiled itself around the doctor's big forearm for the second time. A euphoric rush dilated his blood vessels. Unlike chemically induced highs, the reaction caused by the sliding of scales against his bare skin never lost its potency. He felt the thrill of a young boy holding a gun for the first time: the intoxicating power of holding death in your hand. The death of others, the ability to bring about your own…

As he drove southward, Dr. Tarver reveled in the proximity of eternity.

CHAPTER 9

Even after three shots of vodka, Chris found himself unable to sleep. At 5 a.m. he finally gave up. He slid silently out of bed and dressed in the closet, then walked out to the garage, loaded his bike onto the rack on his pickup, and drove twenty minutes to the north side of town. There, under a violet sky, he topped off his high-pressure tires, mounted his carbon fiber Trek, and started pedaling north on the lonely gray stripe of the Natchez Trace.

The windless air had felt warm and close while he was filling his tires, but now his forward motion cooled him to the point of a chill. This far south, most of the two-lane Trace was a tunnel created by the high, arching branches of the red oaks that lined the parkway. The effect was that of a natural cathedral that extended for miles. Through the few breaks in the canopy Chris saw a yellow half-moon, still high despite the slowly rising sun. He pumped his legs with a metronomic rhythm, breathing with almost musical regularity. Small animals skittered away as he passed, and every half mile or so, groups of startled deer leapt into the shelter of the trees.

A warm, steady rain began to fall. Landmarks rolled by like a film without a sound track: Loess Bluff, with its steadily eroding face of rare soil; the split-rail fence that marked the ranger station at Mount Locust; the high bridge over Cole's Creek, from which you could see Low Water Bridge, the site of some of Chris's happiest childhood memories. After he crossed the high bridge he got serious, pumping his thighs like a Tour de France rider, trying to work out the accumulated anxiety of the past eighteen hours. The thing was, you couldn't work out anxiety arising from circumstances that remained outside your control, and Special Agent Alex Morse was definitely not under his control. He jammed it all the way to the end of this stretch of the Trace, then made a 180-degree turn and headed back southwest.

Out of the whisper of tires on wet pavement came a faint chirping. It took him fifty feet to recognize the sound of his cell phone. Half the time he had no reception out here; that was one reason he chose the Trace to ride. Reaching carefully backward, he dug his cell phone from the Gore-Tex pouch hanging beneath his seat. The LCD said UNKNOWN CALLER. Chris started to ignore the call, but the early hour made him wonder if one of his hospital patients was in trouble. It might even be Tom Cage, calling about the mystery case on 4-North.

"Dr. Shepard," he said in his professional voice.

"Hello, Doctor," said a strangely familiar voice.

"Darryl?" he asked, almost sure that he recognized his old fraternity brother's voice. "Foster?"

"Hell, yeah!"

"You finally got my message, huh?"

"Just now. I know it's early, but I figured you hadn't changed much since college. Always the first one awake, even with a hangover."

"I appreciate you calling, man."

"Well, that name you mentioned really woke me up. Why in the world are you asking me about Alex Morse? Did you meet her or something?"

Chris debated about how much to reveal. "If you don't mind, I'd rather not say yet."

"Woo-woo-woo," Foster said mockingly. "So what do you want to know about her?"

"Anything you can tell me. Is she really an FBI agent?"

"Sure. Or she used to be, anyway. The truth is, I'm not sure about her official status now."

"Why not?"

"I don't know the lady, Chris, so take all this with a grain of salt. But Alex Morse was a bona fide star in the Bureau. She started out as what we call a blue flamer. Kind of like you in college—A's on everything, always doing more than you had to. She made quite a name for herself as a hostage negotiator. Word was, she was the best. Anything high-profile or hush-hush, the director flew her in to handle it."

"You're speaking in the past tense."

"Absolutely. I don't know the whole scoop, but a couple of months ago, Morse lost her shit and got somebody killed."

Chris's legs stopped pumping. "Who got killed?" he asked, coasting along the pavement. "A hostage?"

"No. A fellow agent."

"How did that happen?"

"Word is, it was a super-tense hostage scene, and Morse flipped out. The Hostage Rescue Team—basically our SWAT guys—was given the order to go in, and Morse couldn't deal with it. She charged back into the scene—apparently to try to keep negotiating—and everybody started shooting. An agent named James Broadbent got his heart blown out by a shotgun. I
did
know Jim personally. He was your all-American guy with a wife and two kids. There was some talk that he was having an affair with Morse at the time, but you never know what's true in those situations."

Chris was trying to absorb this fast enough to ask intelligent questions. "So you don't know if Morse is legit or not," he temporized.

"No. You want me to find out?"

"Can you do it without setting off any alarms in Washington?"

"Maybe. But you need to tell me what this is about."

"Darryl, is there any chance that Morse could be involved in a murder investigation?"

Foster said nothing for a while. "I don't think so. We don't handle murder cases, you know? Not unless there are special circumstances. Civil rights murders, stuff like that."

"On TV it's always FBI agents chasing the serial killers."

"That's Hollywood bullshit. One very small branch of the Bureau
advises
local and state cops on murder cases—if they request it—but they never make arrests or anything like that."

Chris couldn't think of any brilliant questions, and he didn't want Foster to get aggressive with his own. "I really appreciate you calling back, Darryl. Thank you."

"You can't give me any more details than you already have?"

Chris searched his mind for some plausible explanation. "Morse was originally from Mississippi, okay? That's all I can say right now. If anything strange happens, I'll call you back."

"Guess that'll have to do," Foster said, sounding far from satisfied. "Hey, how's that new wife of yours?"

"Fine, she's good."

"Sorry I missed the wedding. But Jake Preston told me she's hot. Like
really
hot."

Chris managed a laugh. "She looks good, yeah."

"Goddamn doctors. They always get the hot ones."

Chris laughed genuinely this time, hearing some of his old friend's personality come through. "Thanks again, Darryl. I mean it."

"I'll call you back when I get the story on Morse. Could be today. Probably tomorrow, though."

"Any time is fine. Hey, where are you living now?"

"Still the Windy City. It's nice this time of year, but I froze my ass off last winter. I'm ready for Miami or L.A."

"Good luck."

"Yeah. Talk to you soon."

Chris stuffed his phone back into the seat pouch and dug in hard. There were cars and trucks moving along the Trace now, most carrying workers who lived beyond the borders of the long but narrow strip of federal land. The speed limit on the Trace was fifty—great for bikers if the commuters had observed it, but none did. Checking his watch, he realized that he probably wouldn't make it home in time to take Ben to school. That would make Thora wonder, but he'd had to do something to dissipate the tension that Morse's visit had caused.