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,
'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 silence. 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.'
