by Greg Iles
Johnese smiled and said, “I shore appreciate it, Doc. Dr. Cage is all right, ain’t he?”
“He’s fine. We’re just backed up this morning.”
The handyman looked down at his tanned forearm as Holly applied a bandage. “That’s pretty good work for a young fella. You keep at it and listen to Dr. Cage, and you can’t go far wrong.”
“I’m with you there,” Chris said, patting him on the back.
Chris left the surgery, walked into his office, and shut the door behind him. Sitting in his chair, he massaged his temples with his thumbs, then tried to work the muscles at the base of his neck. This brought no relief. He reached into his desk and popped another Advil, upping the dose to eight hundred milligrams.
“That ought to do it,” he muttered.
He’d intended to call the University Medical Center to try to speak to a couple of the doctors Pete Connolly had mentioned, but he was in no mood to do that now. He leaned back in his chair, recalling Ben’s fright this morning when he’d discovered Will Kilmer sound asleep in the easy chair in the den. Ben had raced back to Chris’s bedroom and shaken him awake. But once Chris had explained that Kilmer was a distant cousin who was passing through town on his way to Florida (and once Ben saw that his dad wasn’t worried), the boy put it out of his mind and started getting ready for school. Kilmer had apologized profusely and quickly left the house.
On the way to school, Ben told Chris he’d seen three empty beer bottles beside “Cousin Will’s” chair. Chris hadn’t seen the bottles, but he figured that was why Kilmer had fallen asleep before reaching the guest room. Not much of a watchdog, he thought wryly. The only question remaining was what he’d say to Thora if Ben mentioned their visitor.
“Dr. Shepard?” Holly’s voice intruded into his reverie like a shout.
As he jumped in his chair, Chris wondered if he might be getting a migraine. He’d never had one before, but the hypersensitivity to sound and light seemed to signal the onset of something in that line. “What is it, Holly?”
“You’ve got patients waiting in all four rooms.”
Chris rubbed his eyes and sighed heavily. “I’m on my way.”
“Are you okay?” she asked, breaking through the professional barrier, which she didn’t observe much anyway.
“Yeah. I’ve just got a headache.”
The nurse nodded. “I’ll try to pace things a little better today.”
Chris heaved himself out of his chair, put on his stethoscope, and walked into the hall. Between his door and that of Exam Room 1, he felt a surge of sympathy for Alex Morse. Right about now, she was probably watching her career get flushed down the toilet. He wished there were something he could do to help her. If only she could be patient, there might be. But Alex had been under so much strain for so long that patience seemed not to be an option for her.
Just as he’d done on the day he met Alex, Chris lifted a chart from the file caddy on the door and walked into the examining room. What awaited him was not a mystery woman with a scarred face but a 280-pound man with a pilonidal abscess. Chris forced a smile, steeled himself against the coming stink, and went to work.
Alex sat in a straight-backed wooden chair before a stone-faced tribunal of OPR officials. There were two men and a woman, the men bookending the woman behind a long table. They had introduced themselves at the opening of the proceedings, but Alex had paid no attention to their names. Nothing she said today would change the outcome of this hearing, and taking part in their little charade would only demean her further.
Almost no FBI agent got through his or her career without a few OPR reviews. Usually they resulted from minor infractions of the rules, and sometimes from tattletale gossip anonymously provided to the OPR by jealous fellow agents (common enough behavior to have a slang term describing it: jamming). But today’s hearing was different. One of the worst offenses in the eyes of the OPR was “lack of candor,” which meant deception of any kind and degree by an agent, including trivial lies of omission. Judged by this standard, Alex’s offenses were grave. She had not yet been ordered to take a polygraph, but she had been placed under oath.
One of the male officials had recounted all the charges that Associate Deputy Director Dodson had leveled against her, then added a few technicalities for good measure. It was all the equivalent of an auditory blur until the woman held up a copy of the threatening text message Alex had sent to Andrew Rusk yesterday during her initial fury at being called to Washington. She had no idea how Mark Dodson could have come into possession of that message, but she was an old enough hand not to ask. The bureaucrats behind the table would tell her nothing. But now they were coming to a part of the proceeding that she could not ignore.
“Special Agent Morse,” said the woman, “do you have anything to say on your behalf before we close this hearing?”
“No, ma’am.”
The woman frowned like a reproachful church matron, then conferred quietly with her colleagues. A stenographer sat patiently at a desk to Alex’s right. Alex filled the time by studying the stenographer’s shoes. They were low heels from Nine West, or maybe Kenneth Coles, if she’d saved her money—still a far cry from the Manolo Blahniks covering the feet of the OPR bitch behind the table. It took Italian leather to shoe ambition like that in the Washington OPR.
“Special Agent Morse,” said the woman, “as a result of this preliminary hearing, we are suspending you from all further duties until final and formal disposition of your case. You will turn in your credentials and your weapon, and all further contact with the Bureau should be handled through your attorney.”
Alex said nothing.
The woman glanced at the stenographer. “I’m going off-the-record.”
The stenographer’s fingers rose from her machine.
“In view of your exemplary record,” said the Blahnik-shod woman, “—excluding the incident at the Federal Reserve bank, of course—I regret extremely that we’ve been forced to take this action. It’s my understanding that an effort was made to come to a compromise whereby your termination would not be necessary.”
Alex suffered silently through the pregnant pause that followed this remark. The triumvirate of bureaucrats stared for what seemed an eternity. How, they must have been wondering, could someone voluntarily walk away from the agency to which they were giving their lives?
“I’m sorry you chose not to take advantage of that offer,” said the woman.
Alex lifted her purse off the floor, removed her FBI identity card and her Glock, then walked forward and laid both on the table.
“You don’t turn those in to us,” said the woman. “You turn them in on the first floor.”
Alex turned away and walked to the door.
“Agent Morse,” the woman called after her. “You’re not to leave Washington until this matter has been fully resolved. Agent Morse?”
Alex walked out, leaving the door open behind her. For good or ill, she was free now.
Chris was examining a man in congestive heart failure when Jane knocked at the door and told him he needed to come to the phone.
“It’s the secretary at St. Stephen’s, Doctor. The middle school.”
Alarm hit Chris with surprising force. “Is it Ben? Has something happened?”
“Nothing terrible. Just a headache, but it’s bad enough that he wants to come home.”
“A headache?” Chris echoed. “I’ve got a headache, too.” He walked into the reception area and took the receiver Jane handed him.
“Dr. Shepard? This is Annie out at St. Stephen’s. Ben’s had a headache all morning, and I think it’s bad enough that he ought to go home. I knew your wife was out of town, so I called your office.”
Everybody knows everything in this town. “Is he having visual disturbances or anything like that?”
“I don’t think so. All I know is, he came to see me during recess, and Ben wouldn’t do that unless he was really hurting.”
“I’m on my way. Please keep
him in the office until I get there. Is he there now?”
“Here he is.”
“Dad?” said a shaky voice.
“Hey, buddy. Your head hurts?”
“Uh-huh. Real bad.”
“I’m coming to get you right now.”
“Where will you take me? Mom’s not home.”
“You can stay at the office with me. Miss Holly will take care of you. Okay?”
“Okay.” The relief in Ben’s voice was plain.
Chris hung up and started toward his office. Then he stopped, reversed direction, and walked down the hall to Tom Cage’s office. The white-bearded doctor was saying good-bye to a drug rep.
“Excuse me, guys,” Chris cut in. “Tom, I’ve got to run pick up Ben from school. He’s got a bad headache. Can you hold the fort while I’m gone? My rooms are full.”
“No problem. Take off.”
Chris tried to recall who was in each room. “I’ve got Mr. Deakins in three with congestive heart failure. I’ve got Ruth Ellen Green in four with a diabetic neuropathy—”
“They’ll tell me what’s wrong,” Tom said with a smile. “Go take care of Ben.”
As Chris shook Tom’s hand, the drug rep said, “Are you the guy who punched out Shane Lansing?”
Chris reddened. He and Tom had not yet spoken about this, though Tom must have heard about it by now. “We had a little disagreement. Nothing major.”
The drug rep stuck out his hand. “Well, I want to shake your hand. I hate that arrogant son of a bitch.”
This was risky talk for a detail man, especially in front of two doctors, but the rep probably knew that Tom wasn’t the type to talk out of school.
“I’d guess Lansing had it coming,” said Tom, giving Chris a private wink. “Let the man go, Tony.”
The rep grinned and withdrew his hand.
As Chris strode down the hall, he heard the rep imploring Tom to prescribe whatever drug he was hawking that day.
“You know me, Tony.” Dr. Cage laughed. “I’m happy to accept all the free drugs you’ll give me, but I’m going to prescribe the cheapest drug that works for the patient.”
Chris smiled as he darted into his office to retrieve his keys. Alex’s cell phone was blinking on the desk. She’d left three voice messages in the last fifteen minutes. As he walked out to his truck, he speed-dialed her.
“Chris?” she answered.
“Yeah, what’s up?”
“I’m history.”
“They fired you?” he asked in disbelief.
“Pending final disposition of my case. But I’m basically a private citizen now, just like you.”
Shit. “What are you going to do?”
“I’m supposed to stay here in the District.”
“Didn’t you tell me you have a condo up there?”
“Yes. But I don’t want to go there. I can’t.”
“What do you want to do?”
“Come back to Mississippi and keep working the case.”
“What’s stopping you?”
“They’re monitoring my credit cards. Probably my cell phone, too. But they don’t know I have this phone.”
Chris got into his truck, backed out, and pulled onto Jefferson Davis Boulevard, thinking quickly. “How soon can you fly out?”
“I could go straight to the airport.”
“Then I’ll book you a flight. I mean, I’ll get my secretary to do it.”
“Chris, you—”
“No argument, okay? Do you want to fly into Baton Rouge or Jackson?”
“Jackson. There’s a nonstop flight.”
“I can’t pick you up,” he said, thinking of the two-hour drive each way. “But I’ll rent you a car.”
“Thank you, Chris. I don’t know what I would have done. Did Will show up last night?”
“Yeah. We got along great.” He thought of adding, He drank three beers and fell asleep in my den, but Alex was having a bad enough day. “Will sure thinks the world of you. Call me when you land, okay?”
“I will.”
He hung up and stepped on the gas, heading south toward St. Stephen’s. He couldn’t remember the last time Ben had had a headache. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had one either.
That kind of coincidence was almost never random.
CHAPTER 33
Wearing only a towel around his trim waist, Andrew Rusk opened the glass door of the Racquet Club steam room and walked into an almost impenetrable cloud of water vapor. Behind him a club employee slapped a DO NOT ENTER CLOSED FOR REPAIRS sign on the door. Rusk waved his hand through the cloud, trying to disperse enough steam to catch sight of his quarry, Carson G. Barnett.
“Rusk?” said a deep voice, low and utterly devoid of good humor.
“Yes,” he said. “Carson?”
“I’m in the corner. Over by these goddamn rocks. Damn near burned my pecker off a second ago.”
Rusk could tell by the latent anger in the oilman’s voice that this would be a tough meeting. But anger wasn’t a bad sign. Anger meant that Barnett was considering going forward; he had come to the meeting after all. Rusk had to get rid of the steam. He had to be sure Barnett wasn’t wearing a wire.
He walked to the corner where Barnett’s voice had spoken and knelt by the machine that controlled the steam. The air was thick with the scent of eucalyptus. At last the control knob appeared, and he dialed it back 50 percent.
When he stood up, he caught sight of Barnett’s bulldog countenance floating in the whiteness. The man’s jaw was clenched tight, and he glowered at Rusk through the haze.
“I been thinking about what you said,” Barnett muttered.
Rusk nodded but said nothing.
“You got a pair of balls on you, boy.”
Still Rusk did not respond.
“I reckon you got ’em from your daddy. He had a pair, too.”
“Still does.”
“I don’t reckon I’m the first one who ever heard that pitch you made me.”
Rusk shook his head.
“You ain’t sayin’ much today. Cat got your tongue?”
“Would you mind standing by the door, Mr. Barnett?”
“What?” The tone suspicious. Then: “Oh.”
The big man got up and walked into the clear air by the glass door.
“Would you mind removing your towel?”
“Shit,” grunted Barnett. He pulled off the towel and stood glaring. Rusk’s eyes moved quickly up and down the oilman’s stumpy body.
“You wanna see where I burned it?” Barnett asked.
“Would you turn around, please?”
Barnett did.
“Thanks.” Rusk recalled the unpleasantness of Eldon Tarver making him strip. “Mr. Barnett, you would be surprised at the people who have heard that pitch before, and even more surprised at those who have taken me up on it.”
“Anybody I know?” Barnett climbed onto the top bench.
“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 s
ilence. 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.”