True Evil

by Greg Iles

“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 cit
y, 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?”

  “Are you in New Orleans now?”

  “Sí.”

  “Drive up to Jackson, Mississippi. I’m on my way there now, nonstop flight. And, no, the Bureau doesn’t know.”

  “What would we do at this meeting?”

  “I want you to meet this doctor. Listen to him, then listen to me. I need your brain, John. Your experience with homicide. It’s three hours by car. Please tell me you’ll come.”

  After a long silence, Kaiser said, “Where do you want to meet?”

  Alex suggested the Cabot Lodge near the University Medical Center. Kaiser said he could make no promises, but that he would try to be there. Then he hung up.

  Energized by the prospect of Kaiser’s assistance, she started to dial Chris. Then she remembered the balcony photograph. Chris would demand to see the video as soon as he heard of its existence. What would he do after he saw it? Drive to Shane Lansing’s office and beat him senseless? Get drunk and simply shut down from despair? She had seen men react both ways, and there was no way to predict the reaction. Of course, she could “forget” to mention the photo when she asked Chris to meet Kaiser, but she would pay a price for that later. No…she should let Chris deal with the pain now. That way, by the time he got to Jackson, he might be as committed as she to nailing Andrew Rusk and his accomplice. Alex glanced around the cabin again, then speed-dialed Will Kilmer.

  CHAPTER 35

  Chris and Ben were sitting on the leather couch in Chris’s medical office when the cell phone rang. Chris had taken eight hundred milligrams of ibuprofen, and his head was still pounding. Ben’s headache was just as bad. Chris was starting to worry about food poisoning, but neither of them had any gastrointestinal symptoms.

  “It’s that hospital phone,” Ben said. “Are you going to answer it?”

  Truthfully, Chris didn’t feel like it. But since there was no way Alex could have landed in Jackson yet, the call had to be important.

  “Dr. Shepard,” he answered for Ben’s benefit.

  “Chris,” said Alex, “I need to talk to you. Are you alone?”

  “Hang on.” He touched Ben on the thigh. “You lie down here. I’m going to turn off the lights and go in my bathroom to take this call. Okay?”

  Ben nodded dispiritedly.

  Chris switched off the lights and stepped into his private cubicle. “Okay, go ahead.”

  “Will sent me a digital photograph a few minutes ago. It’s a still image captured from a videotape. He’s probably e-mailing the video to your address right now. It’s not something that you want to see, but you need to see it.”

  “What is it?” he asked, fear roiling his gut.

  “It was shot last night at the Alluvian Hotel.”

  Chris wanted to curse, but Ben would pick up the fury in his voice, even through the door. He looked at himself in the bathroom mirror. His eyes looked like those of a stranger. “Okay, thanks,” he heard himself say. “I’m going to check my e-mail.”

  “Can you stay on the phone while you do it?”

  He rubbed the base of his throbbing skull. “I’d rather not. Is there anything else?”

  “Yes. I need you to come to Jackson this afternoon. Tonight at the latest.”

  “Why?”

  “To meet an FBI agent named John Kaiser. He’s going to help us.”

  “Who is he?”

  “One of the top agents in the Bureau. Kaiser’s a specialist in serial murder.”

  “Why would he help you? I thought they fired you.”

  “They’re going to. But Kaiser owes me big. Just watch the video, Chris. After you see that, you’re going to want to do something. The best thing you can do is come to Jackson. You owe it to yourself, and to Ben.”

  “I can’t go anywhere, even if I wanted to. Ben is sick. I had to pick him up from school.”

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  “He’s got a headache. A bad one.”

  There was a pause. “You told me earlier that you had a headache, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah. Since this morning.”

  “Huh.”

  “I need to go, Alex.” Chris hung up, pocketed the phone, and left the bathroom.

  “Who was that?” asked Ben.

  “A doctor in New York that I’m consulting on a case.”

  “A lady doctor?”

  Chris sometimes forgot how acute the senses of children were compared to those of adults. “That’s right. How’s your head?”

  “It still hurts. Where does she want you to go?”

  “Jackson. I sent a patient up there.”

  Ben looked pensive. “Can we go home now?”

  “Not yet, buddy.” Chris sat beside him and looked at the screen saver on his computer. It showed Ben sliding into home plate during a game last year. Th
e boy had already grown four inches and put on ten pounds. Chris squeezed Ben’s arm. “Son, I need to bring a patient in here. Let’s take you out to Mrs. Jane’s office. You can play games on her insurance computer, okay?”

  Ben shrugged apathetically.

  Chris led him to the front office, then returned to his own. On the way back, Holly tried to steer him into one of the examining rooms, but he held up his hand to ward her off.

  Back at his desk, he typed in his password and opened his e-mail account. The newest message had come from wkilmer@argusoperations.com. He opened the mail, which simply read, I’m sorry, Doctor Shepard. Sincerely, Will Kilmer. At the bottom of the message was an icon indicating that a file was attached. Chris opted to save the file to his hard drive. A little meter popped up on his screen, indicating the pace of the download. His blood pressure mounted in synchrony with the right-moving meter; then the process was complete, and he opened Windows Media Player.

  He sat with his forefinger poised over the mouse button, painfully certain that opening this file would change his life forever. He felt like one of the patients who sat anxiously on the sofa across from his desk, afraid to ask for the test results on the sheet of paper in the doctor’s hand. But there was no use putting it off, not in either case. There was nothing to be gained, and a hell of a lot to lose.

  “Fuck it,” he muttered, and opened the file.

  First he saw only a steel balcony rail in what appeared to be an enclosed courtyard, shot from about twenty feet below it. A half-open French door stood behind the rail. The cheep of crickets came from Chris’s computer speakers, but there was no other sound. Maybe the hum of an air conditioner. Then a woman’s laughter shattered the silence, chilling Chris to the core of his being. Even before he saw her, he knew. A muffled female voice protested something, but not too seriously. Then the door flew inward, and Thora shot from the door to the balcony rail, as though she’d been pushed.

  She was stark naked.

  Squealing like a sorority girl at a Chippendales show, she tried to run back inside, but a man eclipsed in shadow barred the door. He grabbed her arms and spun her back to the rail. Chris’s hands clenched into fists as Shane Lansing stepped onto the balcony, his penis jutting out from his body. Before Thora could turn again, he grabbed her hips and plunged into her from behind. She gasped, squealed once more, then gripped the rail and braced herself against his thrusts. Her muscles stood out in stark relief as she endured what quickly became a brutal onslaught, her mouth hanging open, her eyes almost bulging from her head. Chris had seen her look that way during the final kick of a marathon, when she tested the very limits of her endurance. She began to grunt in time to Lansing’s lunging hips, her face more animal than human. When she began to moan, her catlike howls reverberating off the courtyard walls, Chris glanced worriedly at his office door. He reached for the volume knob on his speakers, but before he could turn it, Lansing covered Thora’s mouth with his hand, yanked back her head, and began pounding her taut abdomen against the rail. As Chris waited for the inevitable climax, a wave of nausea suddenly overcame the shock that had held him rooted to his chair. He jumped up and ran into his private bathroom, where he dropped to his knees and ejected what remained of his lunch into the toilet.