True Evil

by Greg Iles

“Are you ready to tell me where they are?” Tarver asked softly.

  Rusk nodded. “I’ll tell you. But what about Lisa?”

  “After I leave, drive her to the emergency room. Tell them you were watering your lawn. She went outside to switch off the faucet, and she felt something hit her. Once she got inside, you saw the puncture marks. Use your imagination, Andrew. Just make sure she tells the same story you do.”

  Dr. Tarver reached out with his free hand and pulled Rusk’s chin until they were looking eye to eye. “It’s time.”

  Rusk felt physical pain as he spoke the words, or perhaps the emotional shock was so severe that it caused pain. “Under my bed,” he whispered. “In a flight case, like yours.”

  Tarver laughed. “You keep them under your bed?”

  “I buried them like you said. I dug them up this afternoon.”

  “Good decision, Andrew.”

  Tarver walked around the desk and stuffed the second cottonmouth into the croker sack with its mate. Then he resealed the tape over Rusk’s mouth and walked out of the study.

  A soft mewling rose from the other side of the desk. Knowing Lisa as he did, Rusk could not begin to fathom what must be going on in her mind, if indeed any rational mind remained. He was surprised how desperately he wanted to help her, but the duct tape made it impossible.

  A creaking floorboard announced Dr. Tarver’s return. Grinning though his beard, the doctor set the heavy flight case down on Rusk’s desk with a bang. It was bright white, and twice as thick as a normal briefcase.

  Tarver pulled a corner of the tape from Rusk’s mouth. “What are they worth, Andrew? I know you have at least half your money tied up in business deals. I opened it in the bedroom. These looked like about ten million to me.”

  “Nine point six.”

  Tarver resealed the tape, then picked up the croker sack from the floor and stuffed it into his backpack. Pulling a small knife from his pocket, he knelt over the spot where Rusk assumed Lisa lay. Had he lied? Was he about to sever Lisa’s carotids?

  “I’m cutting the tape on her wrists about three-quarters through,” the doctor said calmly. “She should be able to rip it the rest of the way in a few minutes, if you can keep her conscious. She looks a little shocky to me.”

  Rusk heard a faint slap. Then Tarver said, “Stay awake, sugar tits.”

  As Rusk struggled against the tape binding his arms, the doctor got to his feet, shouldered his backpack, picked up the flight case, and strode out of the study.

  Rusk felt as though he had been raped. He flexed his jaw muscles hard, and the tape came loose.

  “Lisa!” he cried. “Can you hear me?”

  She didn’t respond.

  “I know you can hear me. Rip the tape off your hands. You’ve got to do it before you pass out. You’ve got to save us, baby.”

  Still no response.

  Rusk heard shifting body weight. Relief coursed through him. “Rip the tape off your mouth! Use your teeth! Come on, honey, do it!”

  More movement on the floor. Then he heard the blessed sound of adhesive coming loose. A low, inhuman moan filled the study.

  “Lisa? Are you loose? Do your feet! Honey, can you hear me?”

  Now the sound of tape coming loose was continuous. Rusk flashed back to the high school autumns when he’d had to unwind what seemed miles of tape from his ankles after football games. Lisa was doing almost the same thing now. Soon she would be free. He was surprised at how little he felt the loss of the diamonds compared with the joy of surviving and the prospect of getting Lisa medical attention.

  “That’s it, honey. He didn’t think you had it in you, but I knew you could do it.”

  The ripping stopped, replaced by the sound of heavy wheezing.

  “Get up, sweetheart. Get up and get me loose.”

  The woman who stood up on the other side of the desk was almost unrecognizable. An hour before, Lisa Rusk had been a woman of rare beauty who had glided through life without trauma of any kind. Her eyes had shone with the complacent bliss that could only exist in the young. But the woman standing across from him now looked like a refugee from a war zone, someone who had been dragged through the pit of hell and violated in ways unknown and unknowable. Her pupils were pinned against globes of white shot with blood. Her mouth hung open as from a mindless stupor, and her left breast swung free, smeared with blood and yellowish fluid.

  “Lisa, can you hear me?”

  Her mouth closed and opened three times, but no sound emerged.

  She’s in shock, Rusk thought desperately. Holy shit. “Cut me loose, Lisa! I’ve got to get you to the hospital. There’s a pocketknife on the end table by the sofa. The one I got for a wedding present.”

  A flicker of recognition in her eyes? Yes!

  She turned toward the sofa. Then, with the slow tread of a zombie, she walked toward the end table. She bent down. But when she came up, she was not holding the pocketknife. She was holding the golf club.

  “Lisa? Get the knife, honey. That’s a golf club you’re holding.”

  She looked down at the putter as though unable to identify it. Then she said softly, “I know.”

  As she walked toward the desk, Lisa lifted the putter high above her head. Then she swung it in a long, roundhouse arc. Strapped immobile to the chair, Rusk could only tense as the flashing silver club smashed into his cranium.

  CHAPTER 49

  Alex let go of her mother’s limp hand and quietly left the hospital room. She had sat there for the best part of an hour, talking quietly most of the time, but her mother’s face had not even twitched in response. Margaret Morse’s sedation was deep, and justly so. She had reached the point where an ending was better than continuing—or it would have been, were Alex in the same situation.

  Alex’s hospital slippers hissed along the floor as she passed the five doors that separated her mother’s room from Chris’s. Her head throbbed incessantly. The ER doctors had given her over-the-counter Tylenol, which hadn’t even dented the pain that accompanied her concussion. To her surprise, she found Chris awake when she entered his room. As she leaned over his bed, she saw tears on his face. She took his hand.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I just talked to Mrs. Johnson.”

  Fear awakened in the pit of Alex’s stomach. The same fear she felt when she thought about Jamie.

  “Ben’s pretty upset,” Chris went on. “Thora hasn’t called him, and he’s picked up from my voice that there’s something wrong.”

  Alex laid her hand carefully on his arm. “You need to know some things.”

  His eyes instantly became more alert.

  “Will overheard Thora telling Andrew Rusk to call off the hit on you.”

  Chris started to rise from the bed, but Alex pushed him back with ease. It frightened her to realize that he had become so weak so fast. She squeezed his hand. “It’s time to arrest her, Chris.”

  Confusion filled his eyes. “She tried to call it off?”

  “Only because she knew you were onto her. Frankly, I think she needs to be arrested for her own protection. She’s a threat to Rusk and Tarver. They might kill her just to keep her quiet. And not only that.”

  “What else?”

  “I’m worried that in her present state, Thora might be a threat to Ben.”

  Chris’s eyes widened. “I don’t think she’d physically hurt him.”

  “Given the pressure she’s under? She could be suicidal. What if she decided to take Ben with her?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t think she’d…hell, I guess I’m the worst person to ask. I’ve been completely wrong about her so far.”

  “Thora’s sick, Chris. But you didn’t know that. You couldn’t.”

  “I’m a doctor. I should have seen some clue.”

  “We’re all blind when it comes to people we love. I’ve done the same thing myself.”

  “Who would take care of Ben if Thora’s arrested?”

  “Mrs. Johnson?” A
lex suggested.

  Chris shook his head. “I’d rather Tom Cage and his wife do it. Tom will know what to do if things get crazy.”

  She nodded. “I’ll call him for you. You lie back and take it easy.”

  “I don’t want Ben to see his mother arrested.”

  “I know you don’t. And I don’t think he will. But the alternative could be a lot worse.”

  Chris stared up at her with ineffable sadness. Alex had only seen sadness like that on the night James Broadbent confessed his feelings to her. After working closely with her for three years, Broadbent had become convinced that Alex was the love of his life. He was no wide-eyed boy, but a highly decorated FBI agent of forty with a loyal wife and two children. In a voice cracking with pain, Broadbent had told Alex that he could never abandon his family, but neither could he go on without telling her about his feelings. Because he couldn’t endure being close to her without possessing her, he’d planned to put in for a transfer the next week. But he never did. Two days after his confession, James Broadbent was dead.

  Alex leaned down and laid her cheek against Chris’s pillow. “I know it looks hopeless now. But you’re going to have a life again. You’re going to share it with Ben, too.”

  Chris raised his hand and touched her face, careful to avoid the scars. “I can’t see it right now. I want to…but I can’t.”

  “I can. As clearly as I see you now.”

  He closed his eyes.

  After a moment of debate, Alex climbed onto the hospital bed and lay beside him. If Chris noticed, he made no sign. She had thought they would both feel better if they lay together, but as she stroked his still-burning forehead, she was struck by the certainty that he would not live through the night.

  Eldon Tarver pulled the Dodge pickup he’d been saving for his final escape up to the Union 76 truck stop on I-55 South. Ten seconds after he parked, his passenger door opened and Judah sat heavily on the front seat. Judah had a small backpack on his lap. As soon as he closed the door, he opened the pack and took out a small capuchin monkey. The capuchin had a face like a human infant’s. It looked up at Eldon with anxious eyes, then buried its face in Judah’s huge chest.

  “Please don’t be mad,” Judah said.

  Tarver was furious that his brother would disobey him and sneak the monkey out of the lab, but there was likely no harm done. The capuchin hadn’t yet been used as a test animal, nor had it shared any cages with sick animals.

  “Nobody saw the monkey?” Eldon asked, idling a few yards away from the building.

  “Naw.” Judah smiled. “She didn’t make one peep.”

  “Did you wait in the restaurant?”

  “Uh-uh. Spent most of my time in the shower area, by the game room. It didn’t take you as long as you said.”

  Eldon smiled. “Sometimes things just fall right, you know?”

  “Like with this one,” Judah said, rubbing the capuchin’s back.

  Eldon laughed, then pulled out to the frontage road. He drove underneath the interstate, then turned left and accelerated up the ramp onto I-55 North. Before long they would reach the Natchez Trace exit. For several miles, the Trace ran along the Ross Barnett Reservoir, where some beautiful homes faced that stretch of the massive lake.

  “Look in the backseat,” Eldon said. “What do you see?”

  Judah heaved his huge frame around far enough to stare into the rear seat of the pickup. Eldon switched on the overhead light.

  “Looks like a box of rocks,” said Judah.

  Eldon belly-laughed for almost a half mile. “That’s just what it is, Brother! A box of rocks!”

  Judah looked puzzled, but he seemed content to caress the monkey and watch the headlights on the Interstate. By the time they turned onto the Trace, Tarver’s face looked carved from stone.

  CHAPTER 50

  Will Kilmer was sitting in his office when his telephone rang. He’d checked himself out of the hospital and come in early to try to catch up on the cases he’d been ignoring to help Alex, but the heavy backlog and the pain in his wounded back had pushed him to open the bottle of Jack Daniel’s he kept in his bottom drawer.

  “Argus Operations,” he half-groaned, shoving a stack of files to the far corner of his desk.

  “It’s Danny, Will.”

  Danny Mills was an ex-cop Kilmer had assigned to watch Andrew Rusk’s office today. “What is it, Danny?”

  “Rusk hasn’t shown up for work. Usually he’s in at least a half hour before now.”

  “Okay. Stay put. I’ll holler back at you.”

  Will hung up and considered the situation. He could send a man out to Madison County, where Rusk lived—or he could drive out there himself. He hated that idea, because commuter traffic was hell this time of the morning, with the new Nissan plant and all. Plus, according to Alex, the FBI was watching Rusk now. Their involvement might be unofficial, but their point man was John Kaiser, an agent whose reputation Will had long known and respected. Alex had given Will a cell number for Kaiser in case of emergency. After another sip of Jack Daniel’s, Will lifted his phone and punched in the number.

  “Kaiser,” answered a strong voice.

  “Agent Kaiser, this is Will Kilmer calling. I’m not sure you—”

  “I know who you are, Mr. Kilmer. Retired homicide detective, right?”

  Will sat a little straighter. “Yes, sir.”

  “What you got?”

  “I’ve got a man watching Andrew Rusk’s office—have had for weeks now. And he tells me Rusk is a half hour late coming in this morning. He’s usually regular as clockwork.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yessir. I don’t know what might be happening out at Rusk’s house, because I didn’t send anybody out there last night. Didn’t want to step on your toes.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Kilmer. I’ll find out if anything’s up.”

  “I don’t need to do anything?”

  “Just call with anything else you think I need to know.”

  “Will do.”

  Kilmer hung up. That was the kind of FBI agent he liked: all business, no territorial bullshit about who got credit for what. Will thought about calling Alex, but if she hadn’t called him yet, she must have found some way to get to sleep last night. Maybe Chris Shepard had something to do with that. Will hoped so. The girl had been suffering for a long time, and he didn’t care how she got relief, so long as she finally did. He dragged the pile of files back and opened the one on top.

  John Kaiser climbed into the back of a black Chevy Suburban parked at the edge of Andrew Rusk’s property. Five agents were waiting in the Suburban—three men and two women—all handpicked from the Jackson field office.

  “We don’t have the warrant yet,” he said, “so I’m going to go up and knock on the front door. If no one answers, I want you to spread out and check the windows. See if you can find probable cause for us to go in. Understood?”

  Everyone nodded.

  Kaiser touched the driver’s arm. “Nice and easy.”

  The Suburban rolled smoothly through the trees, circling around to the front of Rusk’s ultramodern home. When it stopped, Kaiser got out and walked up onto the porch. He pressed the bell first, then knocked loudly.

  No one came to the door.

  He rang the bell again, then looked back at the Suburban. Two agents were covering him from open windows.

  Another minute passed.

  “Okay,” he called, already filled with foreboding. “Move out.”

  All the doors opened simultaneously, and the agents dispersed around the house. Kaiser kept knocking. The longer he did, the worse he felt. He’d walked into many a gruesome crime scene during his service with the ISU, and despite his belief that most mythology about “intuition” was exactly that, he had a feeling that something obscene lay behind this door.

  He walked down the porch steps and circled the house. Some agents were getting creative, climbing onto ladders or air conditioners to try to see through the windows. But
when the cry came, it came from the far side of the house.

  Kaiser started running.

  “Around here!” shouted a female agent. “The kitchen!”

  “What is it?”

  The agent drew back from the window, her face pale. “Looks like a female, facedown on the floor. Car keys in her right hand, and a little blood beneath it. That’s the only blood I see.”

  Kaiser pressed his face to the glass. The scene was exactly as the agent had described it. The woman on the floor wore what appeared to be spandex biking shorts, a tank top, and pink flip-flops.

  “Wait five minutes, then call the state police,” he said. “And the sheriff’s department. I believe we’re in the county, not a municipality.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That sure looks like probable cause to me,” Kaiser said.

  “She could be in need of emergency care,” said a male agent beside him. “I think I may have seen movement.”

  “Let’s don’t get carried away. Bring a ram from the truck.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Kaiser watched a burly agent smash the door open, then moved inside with his weapon drawn. Three agents followed and spread out to clear the rooms. Kaiser knelt and checked the fallen woman’s carotid pulse.

  Dead.

  He rose and worked toward the center of the house, all the while wondering what had killed the woman in the kitchen. A sharp cry around a corner ahead of him made him rush forward. He stopped cold.

  An unrecognizable man sat strapped into a chair behind a desk, his face horribly swollen and bloody, his skull obviously fractured. A bloody golf club lay on the desk before him. Could that be Andrew Rusk?

  “What the fuck happened here?” asked a male agent, pointing at lines of blood drops spattering the ceiling.

  “You mean, how the fuck did this happen?” Kaiser corrected him. “Didn’t we have agents watching this place all night?”

  “Yes, sir. Six. I was here myself.”

  “You didn’t hear anything?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Did you kill him?” Kaiser asked in a deadpan voice.

  “No, sir.”