True Evil

by Greg Iles

  “I remember.”

  “They’ve got a brand-new critical-care hospital down there. The new hematology chief is named Pearson. He came down from Stanford, where he did some groundbreaking work. They’ve got a terrific bone marrow transplant program, but they’re still a ways from getting their NCI designation, which was always a dream of mine.”

  “Do you know of anyone at UMC who’s working on the kind of stuff we’ve been talking about?”

  “Which stuff? Retroviruses? Bone marrow transplant? Radiation?”

  “All of it.”

  “I don’t know of any ongoing retrovirus trials there, but I’m not the best guy to talk to. I’d give Ajit Chandrekasar a call. First-rate virologist, and I was damned lucky to have him. There’s another guy there, multiple specialties…I used him for difficult histology and culture stuff. His name was…Tarver. Eldon Tarver. I don’t know if he’s still around.”

  “I’ve got it.”

  Chris heard a female voice in the background. “They’re calling for me, buddy. Did I help you at all?”

  “You scared the shit out of me.”

  “Can’t you tell me why you need this stuff?”

  “Not yet. But if someone I know turns out to be right, I’ll have some reportable cases you can write up for the journals.”

  Connolly laughed. “I’m always happy to do that. Keeps the research money flowing.”

  Chris hung up and looked down at his notes. He’d been a fool to resist Alex’s theories. She might lack medical training, but she had evolved her hypothesis by observing empirical evidence and had thus come to an improbable but quite possible conclusion. He had discounted her ideas on the basis of professional prejudice, nothing more. He felt like the pompous French physicians who had ridiculed Pasteur when the country doctor claimed anthrax was caused by a bacterium. But Chris wasn’t like those doctors. Shown the error of his ways, he would become a zealous convert. After all, his life was at stake.

  CHAPTER 28

  Alex sat in a low chair opposite the desk of one of the two associate deputy directors of the FBI. One of those deputy directors she considered a friend; the other had long ago revealed himself to be an enemy.

  That man was the one she was facing now.

  Outside of the Bureau’s Washington headquarters, Mark Dodson was said to have been eugenically bred as a bureaucrat. He had spent little time in the field, because he’d set his sights on FBIHQ from the beginning. By judicious use of his family’s political connections, Dodson had insinuated himself into the Bureau’s halls of power with almost unprecedented speed. He’d honed his skills in the ethically bankrupt, cover-your-ass environment of Washington, until his character consisted only of what remained after countless compromises made not for the good of the service, but for advancement in the Bureau’s rigidly delineated hierarchy. His title said it all: Associate Deputy Director, Administration.

  Dodson had taken a set against Alex early during her Washington service. She had no idea why this should be so, but in the Byzantine corridors of the J. Edgar Hoover Building, one could never be quite sure why anything was so. After the fiasco at the Federal Reserve bank, Dodson had pushed relentlessly to have her fired. Had it not been for the intervention of Senator Clark Calvert—Alex’s staunchest supporter—Dodson might have rammed his agenda through. Today, however, there would be no last-minute charge by the Seventh Cavalry, and Alex had only herself to blame. Dodson stared across his desk with open satisfaction.

  “You had a good flight, I trust?”

  “Can we not play games?” Alex asked wearily. “Can we just not do that? I’m really too tired.”

  The good humor instantly left Dodson’s face. He leaned across the desk and spoke in a harsh voice. “Very well, Agent Morse. Tomorrow morning at nine a.m. you will meet with three representatives of the Office of Professional Responsibility. Before the interview, you will be ordered to take a drug test. Failure to submit to that test will constitute grounds for dismissal from the Bureau. Failure to answer every question truthfully and fully will also constitute grounds for dismissal. Do you understand?”

  Alex nodded once.

  “You’re not going to skate this time,” Dodson went on, prodding her for a reaction.

  She gave him nothing.

  “I mean, what the hell were you thinking down there?” Dodson asked. “As far as I can tell, you’ve been carrying on a one-man murder investigation in Mississippi. You’ve broken so many rules and laws that I don’t even know where to begin. You’ve also influenced serving agents to break rules and laws, and it pains me to say that they have probably done so out of misguided loyalty to you. Do you have any comment, Agent Morse?”

  Alex shook her head.

  “Is there some purpose to your silence?” Dodson asked with narrowed eyes. “Are you attempting to communicate the fact that you despise me?”

  Her eyes flashed. She hoped he could read her mind.

  Dodson jabbed a forefinger at her. “You won’t look so goddamned high-and-mighty at tomorrow’s meeting. You’ll be living proof that even blue flamers can crash and burn.”

  Alex studied her fingernails. Two had broken in last night’s struggle. “Are you finished gloating?”

  Dodson leaned back in his seat. “Lady, I’m just getting started.” He was about to go on when the phone on his desk buzzed. He reached out and pressed a button. “Yes, David?”

  “Director Roberts’s office just called, sir. The director would like to speak to Agent Morse personally.”

  Dodson’s face tightened. He leaned forward and pressed the button again, then picked up the telephone and said something too low for Alex to hear. She heard him say, “Now? Right now?” Then, as she watched in amazement, Dodson hung up the phone and spoke without meeting her eyes.

  “You’re to go to the director’s office immediately.”

  She stood and waited for the deputy director to look up at her, but he never did. She left Dodson’s office and walked down the hallowed corridor to the office of newly appointed FBI director John B. Roberts.

  The director’s office was considerably larger than Dodson’s. His window overlooked Pennsylvania Avenue, just as J. Edgar Hoover’s had done. But Hoover had watched the inaugural parades of seven presidents pass beneath his window, whereas no FBI director since had enjoyed anything like that kind of tenure. Some hadn’t even lasted long enough to learn the names of their SACs. Alex wondered how long Roberts would survive.

  A dark-haired man of fifty-five, Roberts had been appointed to lead the Bureau after the initial wave of post-9/11 reforms had stalled. His predecessor had spent almost two hundred million dollars on a new nationwide computer system that never worked, while terrorists roamed the country with sacks of cash to keep them off the digital grid. The street buzz on Roberts was good; as a U.S. attorney, he had taken on some of the largest corporations in the country, proving again and again that they had colluded to defraud American consumers and investors.

  To Alex’s surprise, Roberts wasn’t the only senior officer in the room. Seated in a club chair to his left was a ruggedly handsome man of forty-eight, Associate Deputy Director Jack Moran. Moran handled investigations, not administration, and he had been a good friend to Alex during her Washington years, often running interference to keep Dodson off her back. Though there was little that Moran or anyone else could do to save her today, it warmed her heart to see him here.

  “Hello, Alex,” Moran said. “You look tired.”

  “I am.”

  “I don’t believe you’ve met the new director. John Roberts, Alex Morse.”

  Alex stepped forward, held out her hand, and said, “Special Agent Alex Morse, sir.”

  Roberts took her hand and gave it a firm shake. “Special Agent Morse, I regret extremely the circumstances in which we now find ourselves. I’m a close friend of Senator Clark Calvert, and I’m well aware of the great service that you performed for his family.”

  The director was referring to Al
ex’s career-making case, a kidnapping-for-ransom of a U.S. senator’s daughter. The Bureau’s play had ended in a dangerous standoff in rural Virginia, but after nine hours of nerve-racking negotiation, Alex had talked the barricaded kidnappers into releasing their four-year-old hostage. To preserve the illusion of the invulnerability of government officials, no word of this incident had reached the media, but Alex’s career had been kicked into overdrive. Even now, her work that day was paying dividends.

  “I’ve asked you here today,” Director Roberts said, “to find out whether there might be mitigating or extenuating circumstances that I’m unaware of—circumstances that might justify your recent behavior.”

  Alex knew that her amazement showed on her face.

  “Please have a seat,” said the director. “Take your time and think about my question.”

  She tried to gather herself, to marshal what arguments there might be in her favor, but in the event she couldn’t find any. “I have no excuse, sir,” she said finally. “All I can say in my defense is that I’m convinced my sister was murdered, along with at least eight other people.” Alex saw Jack Moran’s face falling, but she pushed on. “I don’t yet have objective evidence to prove these assertions. All my actions over the past few weeks have been directed toward uncovering such proof. Last night I was almost killed by a man attempting to stop my investigation. The Natchez, Mississippi, police department can verify that.”

  Director Roberts stared at her for some time without speaking. Then he said, “It’s my understanding that neither the Mississippi State Police nor the local police departments in the various towns involved believe that any such murders ever took place. That view is supported by our field office in Jackson.”

  Alex tried to keep all emotion out of her voice. “I know that, sir. But these are not conventional crimes. They are, in effect, very sophisticated poisonings—almost in the sense of biological weapons. The deaths occur so long after the administration of the poison or biological agent that forensic evidence is difficult or even impossible to obtain.”

  “Weren’t some of these deaths the result of cancer?”

  “Yes, sir, they were. Six of nine that I know about. But I believe there have been more. Possibly a lot more.”

  “Alex,” Jack interjected in a gentle voice. “You lost your father last December. Your sister died from an unexpected stroke only a month ago. Your mother is dying of ovarian cancer as we speak. Is it just possible—and I say possible, mind you—that under this phenomenal amount of stress, your mind has latched onto an explanation that’s outside the realm of what’s probable?”

  She didn’t answer immediately. “I’ve thought about that a lot. It’s a reasonable question. But I don’t believe that’s the case. I also believe that I’ve identified the next victim of this killing team.”

  Jack’s chin sagged onto his chest.

  Director Roberts rubbed his left cheek and spoke in a harder voice. “Agent Morse, I want you to listen to me very closely. I would like you to take a voluntary leave of absence from the Bureau. We’ll list your absence as extended compassionate medical leave. During that absence, I’d like you to voluntarily undergo an extensive psychiatric evaluation.” Roberts glanced at Jack Moran. “If you will agree to this, I’ll cancel the OPR interview tomorrow morning, pending the results of your evaluation. I’m making you this offer because of your exemplary record as a crisis negotiator for the Bureau. But as a condition of this offer, you must here and now agree to”—Roberts looked down at a piece of paper on his desk—“‘cease and desist from all efforts relating to the death of your sister; the attorney Andrew Rusk; your former brother-in-law, William Fennell; and your nephew, James William Fennell Jr.’” Roberts looked up at her again. “You must also agree to terminate all contact with former agents of your acquaintance. Such contact can only damage their careers as well as yours. If you agree to these conditions, termination can be avoided. You might conceivably be reinstated as an agent in good standing in this agency.”

  The director sat back in his chair, obviously waiting for an answer. Above his head, the eyes of the president stared down at Alex as though he were waiting, too. Alex studied Moran’s shoes as she mulled over the director’s words. They were cordovan wing tips, new and shiny, a far cry from the Rockports he used to wear in the field. She could not deny that the offer was remarkably generous. In it, she felt the hands of both Jack Moran and Senator Calvert. She didn’t want to disappoint the new director, who was obviously a considerate man. Even less did she want to disappoint Moran, who had done so much for her as a mentor. After a couple of minutes, she looked at the director and spoke in a quiet voice.

  “Do you have a sister, sir?”

  “Alex,” Moran cut in. “Don’t make it—”

  “It’s all right, Jack,” said the director.

  “I don’t mean to be presumptuous, sir. I just want you to understand my position, if you can. You see, as my sister lay on her deathbed, she told me that she’d been murdered by her husband. My sister wasn’t the imaginative type, but I was still skeptical. However, in a matter of days I discovered that her husband did have a motive to get rid of her—a very attractive female motive. Sir, I promised my sister that I would do everything in my power to save her son from his father. And the only way I can see to do that is to solve her murder. As far as I can tell, nobody else is going to do that.” Alex turned up her palms. “So that leaves me here. I promised her, sir. It was her last request. Do you understand?”

  The director stared intently at her. “I do have a sister, Agent Morse. And truthfully, I can’t answer for what I would do if I were in your shoes.” Roberts picked up a paperweight from the desk—a glass cube enclosing a clock—and turned it in his hands. “But this is the FBI, and we can’t tolerate the kind of off-the-reservation things you’ve been doing.”

  “I understand, sir. I don’t want to be off the reservation. I’m no rogue agent. I wish you would throw the weight of the Bureau behind me. I’ve got good instincts—Jack can attest to that.”

  Moran nodded with obvious affection.

  “I know I’m right about this. The same way I was right about the Federal Reserve bank, which still bothers some people, I’m afraid.”

  Moran winced at this veiled reference to Dodson.

  Alex touched her scarred cheek as she went on. “I paid a heavy price to go with my instincts on that day. A lot heavier price than my face. And whether you help me or not, I’m going to fulfill the promise I made to my sister. No matter what you do to me, I’m going to get to the bottom of her death. I hope that I’m still an FBI agent on that day, but whether I am or not, that day is going to come.”

  Director Roberts sighed wearily, then looked over at Moran. “I think we’re done here, Jack.”

  Moran got up and escorted Alex into the hall. As soon as the door closed, he put an arm around her shoulders and hugged her tight. She struggled to hold back her tears, but when she felt Jack stroking her hair, a sob broke from her throat.

  “What was it?” she asked. “What finally did it?”

  “The Charlotte apartment. When you broke that lease, Dodson knew you were never going back. He started asking questions in Charlotte, and that was that.”

  She nodded into Jack’s chest, then leaned back and looked into his eyes. “Do you think I’m crazy?”

  “I think you’re exhausted. I’ve been tired that way myself. I had to be hospitalized in Minneapolis once, I was working so hard. By a strange coincidence, that was just after my wife died. You hear what I’m saying? There’s a connection between personal loss and…losing your grip on things. You’ve lost a lot in the past few months, Alex. More than anybody should have to lose.”

  She nodded in agreement, then tried to wipe away her tears. “I concede all that. But—”

  Jack put a finger up to her lips. “Just promise me one thing.”

  “What?”

  “You won’t hurt yourself any more than you have to tomorrow
morning.”

  She laughed strangely. “What does it matter now?”

  Moran squeezed her upper arm. “You’ve still got friends in this building. That’s all I’m saying. Don’t give that prick Dodson the rope to hang you with.”

  Alex nodded, but her mind was already far away. As she pulled away and walked down the hall alone, she saw an image of Chris Shepard practicing baseball with his adopted son. Superimposed over that picture like a descending shadow was a scene of Thora Shepard copulating with Dr. Shane Lansing. Thora’s eyes, blazing with desperate lust, were the brightest things in Alex’s head. Standing in the shadows behind Thora was Andrew Rusk, his face a grinning mask of greed, and behind him, almost beyond the realm of sight, hovered an even darker figure—far more threatening yet utterly faceless.

  “I know you’re there,” Alex murmured. “And I’m going to find you, motherfucker.”

  CHAPTER 29

  While Alex was walking out of the Hoover Building, Eldon Tarver was squatting beside a sandy stream, waiting for his bowels to move. He had spent the last eighteen hours in the woods of Chickamauga, while forty miles away the Natchez police, the Adams County Sheriff’s Department, and the Mississippi Highway Patrol combed the area for a white van that was tumbling along the bottom of the Mississippi River toward Baton Rouge.

  The doctor’s motorcycle was parked beneath a sycamore forty feet away, and his duffel bag lay beside it. Eldon had come down to the stream to escape the sun, and to do his business in peace. As he rocked and strained on his haunches, he kept his eyes peeled for movement near the stream. Snakes liked this kind of ground, down in the cool hollows near water. They needed to drink just as people did. That was one of the secrets of handling them: knowing that they weren’t so different from people. Cold-blooded, yes, but Eldon had learned young that many humans shared this trait. Snakes lived to eat, sleep, and mate, just as humans did. To eat, they had to kill. And to kill, they had to hunt.