Greg Iles - True Evil

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.

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.