True Evil

Tarver dropped several more slices of raw meat into the skillet. Rusk considered using this silence to tell Tarver about EX NIHILO, but somehow the time wasn't quite right.

'I've still only heard about one threat,' murmured Dr. Tarver.

'The second is more direct, but also more manageable.'

'Continue.'

'It's one of our former clients. William Braid.'

'The barge-company owner in Vicksburg?'

'That's the guy.'

'What about him?'

'He's having a nervous breakdown. I kid you not, Eldon. It's from the guilt, from watching his wife die. He's hallucinating, seeing his dead wife in crowds, all kinds of crazy shit. It took her so long to die, you know? He just couldn't stand it. I'm afraid of what he might do. Who he might talk to. His pastor? A shrink? The police, even.'

'Braid called you?'

'He stopped me at the goddamn golf course! He drove by my fucking house yesterday! Lisa just about freaked out.'

Dr. Tarver's face drew taut. 'Was he seen?'

'Only by Lisa, and I played that off.'

'What did Braid tell you at the golf course?'

'He's thinking of killing himself.'

'What's he waiting for?'

Rusk forced a laugh, but he was too worried about his own skin to indulge in levity.

'Why tell you that he's suicidal?' Dr. Tarver reasoned aloud. 'Why not just go ahead and do it?'

'Exactly. I don't think he's the suicidal type. Too much self-regard. I think at the end of the day, he'll lay the blame on us and confess to the police.'

Tarver stared at Rusk awhile, then shrugged philosophically. 'This was bound to happen sooner or later. Inevitable, really.'

'What should we do?'

'Braid has children?'

'Three.'

'You think he forgot your warning? He forgot what happened to his wife?'

'I don't think he cares anymore, Eldon. He's that far gone.'

'These people,' Tarver said with almost tangible disgust. 'So weak. They're like children themselves, really. No wonder women despise men nowadays.'

Rusk said nothing.

'Where was Mr. Braid's precious conscience while he was paying us to murder the old frump?'

The lawyer shrugged. 'He's a Southern Baptist.'

Tarver looked puzzled for a moment. Then he laughed. 'You mean Saturday night is a lot different from Sunday.'

'Worlds apart, my man.'

Tarver scooped the rest of the meat from the crackling skillet and laid it on one of the stones around the fire. 'I used to know people like that.'

'What do you think we should do?'

The doctor smiled. 'We? Is there something you can do to get us out of this?'

Rusk almost blushed. 'Well…I meant-'

'You meant, what am I going to do to save your ass.'

This is going to cost me, Rusk suddenly realized. Big- time.

Dr. Tarver stood erect and stretched his long frame. Rusk could hear tendons popping. Tarver looked like that gray-bearded guy who was always shilling for starving children on late-night TV. Except for the birthmark. That fucking thing was hideous. Get plastic surgery, for Christ's sake, he thought. It's the twenty-first century, and you are a fucking doctor. Of course, he knew quite a few doctors with bad teeth, come to think of it.

'I'll take care of Mr. Braid,' Tarver said in an offhand voice.

Rusk nodded cautiously. He wanted to know when the doctor meant to act, but he didn't want to anger him by asking.

'Will Braid be home tonight?' Tarver asked.

'Yes. I told him I might drive over to talk to him.'

'Moron. What if he told his mistress that?'

'She left him ten days ago. Nobody talks to him now. His kids have been staying with their grandparents for the last two weeks.'

'All right.'

Rusk was breathing easier. No mention of money so far.

'Two hundred fifty thousand,' Tarver said suddenly, as though reading his mind.

Rusk crumpled inside. 'That seems like a lot,' he ventured. 'I mean, he's a threat to both of us, right?'

All humanity went out of Dr. Tarver's face. 'Does Braid know my name?'

'No.'

'Does he know my face?'

'Of course not.'

'Then he's no threat to me. You are the only conceivable threat to me, Andrew. And I advise you not to make me dwell on that.'

'How do you want the money?'

'The safe way. We'll make the transfer here, sometime next week.'

Rusk nodded. A quarter of a million dollars…just like that. All to shut the mouth of one guilt-ridden client. He had to start screening better. But how? It was tough to predict who had the intestinal fortitude to watch someone they'd once loved reduced to a hollowed-out shell before they checked out. Shooting someone was a lot quicker, and loads easier to deal with. One trigger pull, and the source of your temporary madness was lying in the morgue. Three days later she was prettied up for her final appearance in the casket, and then poof-gone forever. That was fine in the old days, of course, the days of Perry fucking Mason. But this was the modern age. You couldn't shoot anyone you knew and get away with it. Nor could you strangle them, poison them, or push them off a hotel balcony. Just about any way you could kill somebody was traceable and provable in a court of law; and spouses and family members were automatically prime suspects in every murder. It was axiomatic: the first thing a homicide detective learned.

No, if you wanted to kill your spouse and get away with it, you had to do something truly ingenious: something that wouldn't even be perceived as murder. And that was the service that Andrew Rusk had found a way to provide. Like any quality product, it did not come cheap. Nor did it come quickly. And perhaps most important of all-as William Braid was proving-it was not for those with weak constitutions. Demand was high, of course, but few people were truly suitable clients. It took a deep-rooted hatred to watch your spouse die in agony, knowing that you had brought about that pain. But on the other hand, Rusk reflected, some people bore up remarkably well under the strain. Some people, in fact, seemed almost ideally suited for the role. They stretched their dramatic wings, donning a suit of martyrdom that they enjoyed all the more for its being unfamiliar. Rusk tried not to judge anybody. That was not his function. His job was to facilitate an outcome that a great number of people desired, but only an elite few could afford.

'If the money bothers you,' Dr. Tarver said, 'think about being gang-raped in Parchman prison for twenty-five years. Or think about sticking your hand inside that bag.' Tarver gestured at the blue Nike bag at his feet. 'Because I could make a strong argument for that. There's no risk to me, and it absolutely guarantees my safety.'

'It would also deprive you of your future income,' Rusk said bravely.