True Evil (39 page)

"Yes, sir."

"Well, if that's so, tell me what question I'm about to ask you."

Rusk waited a few moments so as not to make it seem too easy. Then he said, "How much is this going to cost me?"

"Goddamn," muttered Barnett, laughing softly. "I can't believe it."

"Human nature. The same all over."

"I guess so. What's your answer?"

"My answer is ‘What do you care?' It's a hell of a lot less than your net worth."

"But still pricey I bet."

"Oh, it'll hurt," Rusk conceded. "But a lot less than the fucking you'll take if you go the other way."

"You know, you pitch this kind of thing to the wrong man, and he's liable to beat the shit out of you."

"Hasn't happened yet. I'm a pretty good judge of character."

"A good judge of bad character," said Barnett. "It's a damn low thing what we're talking about. But nobody can say she didn't ask for it."

Rusk sat in silence. He wasn't thinking about Carson G. Barnett or his doomed wife. He was thinking about Eldon Tarver, MD. He had been unable to reach Tarver since their meeting at the hunting camp, seventy-two hours ago. Tarver had neutralized the threat from William Braid, as promised. But he must have done something to Alex Morse as well. Otherwise, why would Morse have sent the threatening text message? Rusk felt he had done right by turning over the message to the Bureau. His FBI contacts had painted a picture of Morse as a rogue agent, already in deep trouble because of the Federal Reserve bank debacle, and with powerful enemies in the Hoover Building. The Bureau as a whole represented no danger to him or Tarver; the obsessive Morse on her own was the threat. Every little straw Rusk could pile onto that particular camel's back would push her spine closer to breaking. Being out of contact with Tarver was disconcerting, but he could not afford to let Barnett get away. They could earn two to four times their normal fee for this job. All he had to do was close the deal. And to do that he had to broach the time issue. For some, it was a deal breaker. For others, not. Barnett seemed an impulsive man, but he might possess surprising reserves of patience.

"What you doing?" asked Barnett. "Look like you're in a goddamn dreamworld."

"I assume that your intent is to proceed?" Rusk asked.

"I'd like to hear a few more details first."

It was a natural question, but again it conjured images of a grand jury listening to taped testimony.

"Mr. Barnett, have you had any contact with any law enforcement agency about this matter?"

"Hell, no."

"All right. There's something you need to understand. No one is going to murder your wife. She will die of natural causes. Do you understand?"

There was a long silence. "I guess I do. How fast would it happen?"

"Not fast. You want fast, hire a nigger from west Jackson. You'll be in Parchman prison three months from now."

"How fast, then?"

"The likely time frame is twelve to eighteen months."

"Jesus."

"If it can be sooner, it will be. But you should prepare yourself for that wait."

Barnett was nodding slowly.

"Another thing. It won't be pretty."

"How bad?"

Rusk didn't like to use the C-word if he could help it. "Terminal illness, obviously. There doesn't have to be a lot of pain, but it takes some fortitude to handle it."

"What about the legal side of things? The divorce and all?"

"There won't be a divorce. There won't be any legal side. You and I will not meet again after today. One week from now, I will park a silver Chevrolet Impala in the lot of the Annandale Country Club. In the trunk you will find a legal-sized envelope with printed instructions regarding payment. Payment is handled in different ways, but in your case, it will be made using rough diamonds."

Barnett looked as if he was about to ask a question, but Rusk held up his hand.

"That will all be in your instructions. When you pick up that envelope, you will leave me a box in that trunk. Inside the box will be a complete copy of your wife's medical history, including everything you can find out about both sets of grandparents; copies of all the keys that have any importance in your wife's life—cars, houses, safe-deposit box, home safe, jewelry boxes; blueprints of your house; the passwords of your security system and any passwords required to get access to your computers; also, a weekly schedule of your wife's activities, including any planned trips in the next three months; in short, that box should contain everything remotely related to your wife's life. Do you understand?"

Barnett was staring at him with horror on his face. The reality was sinking in at last. "You want me to hold her arms while you stick the knife in."

"This is between you and your conscience, Mr. Barnett. If you have any doubts, you should express them now, and we should not go forward. I want to be clear. If you agree to go forward now, there will be no turning back. From the time you leave this building, you will be subject to surveillance, to insure my safety and that of my associates." Rusk took a deep breath of wet, dense air. "Would you like some time to think about your answer?"

Barnett was cradling his face in his hands. His dark hair was plastered to his skull, and his big shoulders appeared to be shaking. Rusk wondered if he had pushed too hard. Sometimes he offered prospects tea and sympathy, but with his anxiety about Tarver simmering in his gut, he hadn't the patience for it.

"How long would a divorce take?" Barnett asked in a cracked voice.

"If your wife agrees to file under irreconcilable differences, sixty days. If she doesn't, it could take forever."

"She won't agree," he said, his voice desolate. "She won't."

"We've reached the point where I can't advise you, Carson. If you're unsure, we could let the box be your decision. If the box is there a week from today, I'll know we're going forward. If it's not, I'll know the opposite."

"What if you went to get the box and found the sheriff waiting by your car?" Barnett asked in a stronger voice.

"It would be a shame about your twins."

Barnett came off the bench quicker than Rusk could react. The oilman slammed him against the wall and seized his throat with a hand like an iron claw. Rusk was six inches taller than Barnett, but the fury burning behind the oilman's eyes left no doubt that he could rip the lawyer's heart out if he chose.

"That's not a threat," Rusk croaked. "I just want you to be aware that my associates aren't the kind of people you cross."

Twenty seconds passed before Barnett released his grip.

"Is that a yes or a no?" Rusk asked, massaging his voice box.

"I've got to do something," said Barnett. "I guess this is it. I'm not going to give up the one woman in this world who can bring me some peace."

There was nothing else to say. Rusk knew better than to offer his hand; you didn't shake hands over a deal as unholy as this. He gave Barnett a curt nod, then reached for the doorknob.

"How do I get into the car?" Barnett asked. "The Impala."

"I'll leave a spare key on the left front tire of your car when I leave here."

"You know which vehicle I'm in?"

"The Hummer," Rusk said.

"The red one," Barnett clarified.

Rusk held up his hand in acknowledgment on his way out.

CHAPTER 34

Alex spent the first hour of her return flight in shock, sipping vodka and reliving incidents from her truncated career. Her sense of being on the outside, of no longer being a player in the critical events of the nation, was overwhelming. But somewhere over eastern Tennessee, she found herself unable to remain disconnected any longer. After the flight attendants finished their beverage service, she leaned against the window and surreptitiously switched on her cell phone, keeping an eye out for roving glances. This was against the law, and she no longer had FBI credentials to flash for special treatment. Finally, the phone connected to a network and three voice-mail messages popped up. She covertly held her phone to her ear and dialed voice mail.

The first message was from Will Kilmer: "I figured I'd hear from you this morning, girl. Since I didn't, I'm guessing it's bad news. But you can't let that get you down. About four this morning, my man in Greenwood shot a video of Thora Shepard and that surgeon in flagrante delicto. I'm e-mailing a clip of the video to your computer, and I'm gonna send a captured still to your cell phone. No sign of Andrew Rusk or anybody else suspicious in Greenwood. But that video's a doozy, girl. I feel bad for the doc. He's a nice guy. Anyway, I hope I'm wrong about the hearing. You get your tail back home. Your mama's still hanging on, and we miss you."

Alex felt alternating waves of relief and sadness, but she had no time to reflect. The second message was from Chris Shepard's receptionist: the rental car information Alex would need in Jackson. She scrawled it on the back of an FBI card from her purse, then leaned against the window.

When she heard the voice on the third message, her heart nearly stopped. The speaker was John Kaiser, one of the top field agents in the entire FBI. Kaiser had spent several years working serial homicides for the Investigative Support Unit in Quantico, Virginia, but had returned to normal duty at his own request some years ago. Widely respected throughout the Bureau, Kaiser had spent the past few years based in New Orleans, where he'd solved an art-related murder case that made international news. Alex had tried to reach Kaiser ten days ago, when she'd first realized what she might be dealing with, but he hadn't returned her calls. Agents at the New Orleans field office claimed he was on an extended vacation with his wife, a war photographer named Jordan Glass, so Alex had dropped it.

"Alex, this is John," said Kaiser. "I'm only just now getting back to you because I've been working undercover. I haven't even been able to contact Jordan for the past six weeks. When I heard your messages, I couldn't believe it. I want to hear what else you have. You've got my cell number. Call me anytime."

Alex tried to control the emotions welling up within her. There was enough relief to bring tears to her eyes. But then a terrible thought struck her: Kaiser had probably left that message before hearing that she'd been suspended.

She slumped down in the seat and cradled her face in her left hand. Of all the people in the world whose help she could have wished for, Kaiser was the man. Not only that, he owed her.

Two years ago, Kaiser had been taken hostage by a pair of New Orleans homicide detectives under investigation for murder. For decades the NOPD had been crippled by a system of graft so pervasive that it tarnished the city's national reputation. In the early 1990s, several Crescent City cops were convicted of murder, and the federal government almost took over the policing of the city. Ten years later, the corruption was still deep-rooted. Kaiser had been pursuing some detectives who were facilitating the flow of hard drugs into the city, when one of his informants wore a wire to a meeting in the French Quarter. The wire was discovered, and Kaiser burst in to try to prevent his informant from being killed. Kaiser himself was taken hostage, and the detectives barricaded themselves in an apartment on Royal Street. Alex had been doing some extra training in Atlanta at the time, but her rep within the Bureau was at its peak. A Bureau jet flew her to Lakefront Airport, which was right next door to the New Orleans field office, and then she was rushed to the French Quarter in the SAC's personal car. The negotiation lasted just seven hours, but her psychological duel with the sociopathic detectives proved the most grueling of her career. Twice during the ordeal she had believed that Kaiser was about to be executed, and once had even believed him dead. She learned later that one of the detectives had held his weapon to Kaiser's head and discharged it at a slight angle, which resulted in permanent hearing loss in the FBI agent's right ear but preserved his life. Kaiser had overheard the entire negotiation, and he gave Alex sole credit for saving his life. The two detectives were still serving out the sentences that resulted from the deal that ended the incident.

Alex thought of Kaiser, she realized that a digital image had been downloading to her phone. After it finished, she studied the tiny screen with absolute concentration. Though the resolution was poor, the picture showed a nude blond woman standing with her elbows on a balcony rail, while a naked man thrust into her from behind. The woman was unmistakably Thora Shepard. The balcony glinted dull silver, as though made of steel, and its architectural look gave Alex the feeling she was seeing a balcony of the Alluvian Hotel. If a still photo carried this kind of punch, what would watching the video do to Thora's husband?

She took several deep breaths, then called John Kaiser's cell phone.

"Kaiser," he answered.

"It's Alex Morse, John."

He didn't respond at first. Then he said, "I heard what happened this morning. I'm sorry."

"Not a good day, amigo."

"Something's fucked up when this kind of thing goes down."

"I'm afraid you're the only one who thinks so."

"I doubt that. Do you plan to stop working your case?"

She hesitated. "Are you going to report anything I say today?"

"You know better than that."

"I can't stop, John. I know I'm right, and now the doctor who's the next target believes it, too. He started out skeptical, but now he knows. This case is crazy. You wouldn't believe the crime signature. It's a team scenario—a lawyer and a medical professional—and they're killing people by giving them cancer."

"Cancer," Kaiser said softly. "Alex, are you sure?"

She closed her eyes. "Positive."

"What's the motive?"

"I think it's mixed between the perpetrators. But at bottom, it's a divorce attorney saving rich clients millions of dollars by killing their spouses."

There was a long silence. "What exactly do you want me to do?"

"You're not supposed to do anything."

Dry laughter came through the ether. "Let's say I don't know that. What would you want me to do then?"