True Evil (24 page)

Alex jumped at the chirp of her cell phone, which was tucked in her purse on the floor. Without letting go of her mother's hand, she stretched out her other arm and retrieved the phone.

"Hello?" she said softly.

"It's Will, darlin'. How's she doing?" Will Kilmer had stayed with Margaret until Alex arrived from Natchez, a demonstration of true devotion to a partner's wife, who would never know the difference.

"No better, no worse."

"Did she keep sleeping after I left?"

"Not all night, but she slept more than I did."

The old detective sighed angrily. "Damn it, girl, I told you last week you need to take a break from this case. Take a horse pill and sleep for twenty hours straight. That damn Rusk isn't going anywhere. But you're too big to listen to me now."

Alex tried to chuckle for Will's sake, but she couldn't manage it.

"Anyhow, I've got some news that's going to wake you up," Kilmer said.

"What is it?"

"Remember William Braid?"

"Sure. The husband of victim number five."

"I told you last week that I'd gotten reports about him drinking heavily."

Margaret began to snore. "Uh-huh. And you said his mistress left him."

"Right."

"Well, what's he done now?"

"Looks like he tried to off himself."

A shiver of excitement brought Alex fully awake. "How? When?"

"Last night, at home in Vicksburg. That's what the Vicksburg police think, anyhow."

"Go on."

"Braid was diabetic. Last night, or sometime between last night and this morning when his maid found him, he shot himself full of enough insulin to put him into a coma. A permanent coma."

"Holy shit," Alex breathed. "Could it have been an accident?"

"Possible, but Braid's doctor said it's unlikely."

"Holy
shit.
This could be what we've been waiting for. This could be our break."

"Could be," Will said in the cautious tone of an old hunter who has watched a lot of game slip from his grasp.

"It was guilt," Alex thought aloud. "Braid couldn't handle the reality of what he'd done to his wife."

"She died hard. Worse than most of the others."

"We need to find out everything we can about Braid's last few days. Do you have any operatives in Vicksburg?"

"Know a guy over there who does matrimonial work. Owes me a couple of favors."

"Thanks, Uncle Will. I'd be dead in the water without you."

"One more thing," Kilmer said. "I've got a guy willing to spend two nights at the Alluvian Hotel for you. His wife has always wanted to go up there and see the place. If you'll pay the cost of their room, they'll pay the rest."

"How much is the room?"

"Four hundred."

"For two nights?"

Will chuckled softly. "One."

Alex summoned a mental image of her last surviving bank account, then shoved it out of her mind. She had to do whatever it took to get Chris Shepard on her side. "Do it. I'll pay."

"Are you going back to Natchez today?"

"I don't have a choice. Shepard's my only chance."

"You making any headway there?"

"He'll come around. Nobody likes to find out their whole life is a lie."

Will sighed in agreement. "Tell your mama I'll be by sometime today."

Alex looked at her mother's sagging face. Her mouth hung open, and drool ran steadily onto the pillow. Alex had the absurd impression that the fluid in the IV bag was being drooled out of her mother's mouth at exactly the same rate that gravity was pushing it into her veins. "I will."

"Hey, little girl…you okay?"

"Yeah. I just…I'm sitting here looking at Mom. And I can't believe someone would intentionally do this to another person. Much less a person they once loved."

She heard the raking sound of Will's emphysema. When he spoke again, it was in the voice of a cop who had put in twenty years with his eyes wide-open. "Believe it, darlin'. I've seen human beings do things God couldn't create a bad enough hell for. You look out for yourself, you hear? You're the last child your daddy left on this earth, and I don't want you throwing your life away trying to avenge the dead."

"I'm not doing that," Alex whispered. "I'm trying to save Jamie."

"We'll do that one way or another," Will said with certainty. "You just be careful. I got a feeling about this case. These are bad people we're messing with. And just because they've killed slow in the past don't mean they won't strike quickly if you threaten them. You hear me?"

"Yes."

"All right, then."

Alex hung up, her eyes on her mother's jaundiced face. What more could she do here? She stood and kissed a yellow cheek, then let go of her mother's hand.

Time to move.

CHAPTER 20

Andrew Rusk had finally hooked the big one. He knew it as surely as that time off Bimini when the big swordfish had hit his bait and run like a jet ski tearing across the waves. He had Carson G. Barnett himself sitting opposite his desk, a larger-than-life man of forty-six, a millionaire so many times over that he'd quit counting. A legend in the oil business, Barnett had made and lost three fortunes, but right now he was in an up cycle—
way
up.

For the past hour, Barnett had been describing his marital situation. Rusk was wearing his most concerned look and nodding at the appropriate places, but he wasn't really listening. He hadn't had to listen for quite a few years now. Because the stories were all the same: variations on a theme—a very tired one. The only time Rusk pricked up his ears was when Barnett slid into the business side of things. Then the lawyer made sure he recorded every syllable. But right now was the worst part…a melodramatic soliloquy on how misunderstood Barnett was.

Rusk knew where the oilman was going long before he got there. Rusk could recite the lines of this movie without even thinking.
She hasn't grown at all since the day we got married. Not emotionally or psychologically or intellectually or sexually,
the softer ones would qualify. Quite a few would add,
Her ass, on the other hand, has grown like a goddamn baby elephant.
Another universal refrain was
She doesn't understand me.
And of course the grand-prize winner:
She doesn't even
know
me!

In Rusk's experience, the opposite usually proved true. In most cases, the wife knew the husband
too
well—knew him more deeply than he wanted to be known, in fact—and understood him better than he did himself. Therefore she did not ooh and aah every time he bragged about his latest business triumph, and she complained long and loud when he disappointed her, which was often. She no longer thought he was brilliant (or even smart), or imaginative in bed, and he certainly wasn't funny anymore—not to someone who had long ago heard every pathetic joke he'd ever memorized, and most of them twice.

And then of course there was the mistress. Some clients came right out and admitted they were having an affair; others tried to hide it, to appear noble and self-sacrificing. Rusk had come to respect directness more than anything else. Men and women who were considering divorce were always walking time bombs of frustration, guilt, lust, and near-psychotic levels of rationalization. But no matter who sat in that chair opposite him—a brilliant physician or a redneck barely able to total up his investment portfolio—they finally figured out a couple of things. One, there was no pain-free choice. Whatever they decided to do, someone was going to suffer. The only real question was, would they endure the suffering themselves by giving up their paramour and staying in the marriage? Or would they pass the suffering on to their spouse and children by breaking up the family? Rich or poor, here was the essential agony of divorce.

Rusk had come to believe that once children entered the picture, women were less inclined to sacrifice family in the search for happiness than men. This didn't mean they wanted happiness less—only that they were less willing to buy it at the expense of others. But this was based on anecdotal evidence from a limited geographic area. Rusk had no interest in the dynamics of divorce in New York or Los Angeles—he didn't live in those places. Besides, he figured that the motives of a bunch of damn Yankees were about as neurotic and self-obsessed as a Woody Allen movie, only without the laughs.

Carson Barnett's marital problems had their own particular twist, and would not be without interest to an anthropologist or sociologist. But to a lawyer, they meant little. However, Carson Barnett was very rich, and in Rusk's view—as in his father's—the rich were entitled to a fuller hearing than people of more limited means. Mrs. Barnett—Luvy, Carson called her—had begun the marriage as a Baptist, but this had played no bigger part in her life than the fact that she was a Chi-Omega. But sometime after the kids were born, Luvy's interest and involvement in the church had increased exponentially. Around the same time, her interest in all matters sexual had decreased in direct proportion. Carson had suffered through this as best he could for a while, and then, like any red-blooded male, he had sought relief wherever he could find it.

"If there ain't no food in the freezer, you go to the store," he boomed. "Ain't that right, Andy?"

"Yes, it is," Rusk agreed.

"I mean, even a dog knows that. If there ain't no food in his dish, he goes on the prowl. Don't he?"

"He does indeed." Rusk gave an obligatory laugh.

He had seen this pattern many times. Men who sought sexual relief went through a period when they would screw anyone who'd drop their pants for them. And surprisingly, this didn't usually impact the family at all. In fact, things seemed to run more smoothly all around. The trouble started when the man—or woman—found someone who was "different" from the rest, a "soul mate" (this term could almost trigger spontaneous vomiting in Andrew Rusk), or a relationship that was "meant to be." When love reared its ugly head, divorce was soon to follow. Barnett was telling a similar story right now, and his "soul mate" had proved to be a sweet young thing who worked over at the barbecue place on Route 59, a restaurant where he'd done quite a few oil deals in the past—
big
deals, too—scribbling out a map of the prospect on a cocktail napkin and sealing the agreement with a handshake.

"Anyhow," Barnett said, as big drops of sweat rolled down his neck, "I love that little girl like nobody's business. And I aim to marry her, one way or another."

Rusk liked Barnett's choice of words. Because despite the man's crude way of expressing himself, Barnett was speaking in a kind of code—a code that Andrew Rusk was silently fitting into a particular system of moral calculus, one evolved over years of listening to frustrated people, most of them men. Everybody got angry during a divorce; it was axiomatic. Most people even got homicidally angry for a day or two. But the majority of those people soon got over their anger and resigned themselves to the fact that life from then on was going to be one long compromise.

But
some
people refused to compromise. Especially the very rich. It was probably a matter of habit as much as anything. Whatever the case, Carson Barnett had already fallen into line with a couple of essential laws of Rusk's system, and they were coming to the part of the conversation in which the lawyer could play a meaningful part.

"So you want to divorce your wife," he said in a somber tone.

"Yessir, I do. I never thought it would come to this, but by God she's drove me to it."

Rusk nodded sagely. "A lot of attorneys would discourage you, Mr. Barnett. They'd encourage you to seek counseling."

"Call me Carson, Andy. Please. And let me stop you right there. The only counseling Luvy would try was her pastor, and one visit was more than I could stomach. You never heard such hogwash in your life. I stood up and told him Jesus doesn't have a damn thing to do with our marriage, and the Lord was lucky for it."

Rusk smiled in appreciation of his client's rustic wit. "I'm not going to discourage you, Carson. Because I can see that you're in love. Truly in love."

"You got that right."

"True love is a wonderful thing. But I can tell from all you've told me, and from your manner, that you anticipate some trouble from Luvy with this idea of splitting up."

"Oh, hell, yes," Barnett said with a look of something like fear in his eyes.

Rusk had a feeling that Luvy Barnett was a formidable woman.

"Luvy don't even believe in divorce, Andy. Says it's a sin. Says it's the root of all the evil in this world."

"I thought money was the root of all evil."

Barnett snorted. "Luvy don't have nothing against money. No, sir. No problem with money
at all.
"

"Isn't that convenient?"

"You said it, brother. I talked to her about filing under irreconcilable differences, like my buddy Jack Huston did. Jack's wife and Luvy was best friends a few years back. But, no, she wouldn't hear of it."

"What did Luvy say exactly?"

"She said I didn't have no grounds to divorce her, and she wasn't going to give me one. She says if I try to go to court, she'll deny me as much time as she can with the children, seeing how I'm a sinner and a terrible role model for them. Course if I stay with her and try again, I'm just an all-around great guy. How about that?"

"She wants you to martyr yourself for the children."

"You said it, brother! Jesus all over again. Only you can forget the kids. I'm supposed to give up everything for
her.
"

"Has Luvy said anything about the financial side of things?"

Barnett gritted his teeth for some time before answering. "She claims she doesn't want any money for herself—beyond half of what I earned while I was married to her—but she wants everything she can legally get for the children, which means all future production from the wells I hit while we was married, or even prospects I mapped out while I was married to her."

Rusk shook his head as though rendered speechless by the enormity of Luvy's greed.