'Jesus.'
'If it can be sooner, it will be. But you should prepare yourself for that wait.'
Barnett was nodding slowly.
'Another thing. It won't be pretty.'
'How bad?'
Rusk didn't like to use the C-word if he could help it. 'Terminal illness, obviously. There doesn't have to be a lot of pain, but it takes some fortitude to handle it.'
'What about the legal side of things? The divorce and all?'
'There won't be a divorce. There won't be any legal side. You and I will not meet again after today. One week from now, I will park a silver Chevrolet Impala in the lot of the Annandale Country Club. In the trunk you will find a legal-sized envelope with printed instructions regarding payment. Payment is handled in different ways, but in your case, it will be made using rough diamonds.'
Barnett looked as if he was about to ask a question, but Rusk held up his hand.
'That will all be in your instructions. When you pick up that envelope, you will leave me a box in that trunk. Inside the box will be a complete copy of your wife's medical history, including everything you can find out about both sets of grandparents; copies of all the keys that have any importance in your wife's life-cars, houses, safe- deposit box, home safe, jewelry boxes; blueprints of your house; the passwords of your security system and any passwords required to get access to your computers; also, a weekly schedule of your wife's activities, including any planned trips in the next three months; in short, that box should contain everything remotely related to your wife's life. Do you understand?'
Barnett was staring at him with horror on his face. The reality was sinking in at last. 'You want me to hold her arms while you stick the knife in.'
'This is between you and your conscience, Mr. Barnett. If you have any doubts, you should express them now, and we should not go forward. I want to be clear. If you agree to go forward now, there will be no turning back. From the time you leave this building, you will be subject to surveillance, to insure my safety and that of my associates.' Rusk took a deep breath of wet, dense air. 'Would you like some time to think about your answer?'
Barnett was cradling his face in his hands. His dark hair was plastered to his skull, and his big shoulders appeared to be shaking. Rusk wondered if he had pushed too hard. Sometimes he offered prospects tea and sympathy, but with his anxiety about Tarver simmering in his gut, he hadn't the patience for it.
'How long would a divorce take?' Barnett asked in a cracked voice.
'If your wife agrees to file under irreconcilable differences, sixty days. If she doesn't, it could take forever.'
'She won't agree,' he said, his voice desolate. 'She won't.'
'We've reached the point where I can't advise you, Carson. If you're unsure, we could let the box be your decision. If the box is there a week from today, I'll know we're going forward. If it's not, I'll know the opposite.'
'What if you went to get the box and found the sheriff waiting by your car?' Barnett asked in a stronger voice.
'It would be a shame about your twins.'
Barnett came off the bench quicker than Rusk could react. The oilman slammed him against the wall and seized his throat with a hand like an iron claw. Rusk was six inches taller than Barnett, but the fury burning behind the oilman's eyes left no doubt that he could rip the lawyer's heart out if he chose.
'That's not a threat,' Rusk croaked. 'I just want you to be aware that my associates aren't the kind of people you cross.'
Twenty seconds passed before Barnett released his grip.
'Is that a yes or a no?' Rusk asked, massaging his voice box.
'I've got to do something,' said Barnett. 'I guess this is it. I'm not going to give up the one woman in this world who can bring me some peace.'
There was nothing else to say. Rusk knew better than to offer his hand; you didn't shake hands over a deal as unholy as this. He gave Barnett a curt nod, then reached for the doorknob.
'How do I get into the car?' Barnett asked. 'The Impala.'
'I'll leave a spare key on the left front tire of your car when I leave here.'
'You know which vehicle I'm in?'
'The Hummer,' Rusk said.
'The red one,' Barnett clarified.
Rusk held up his hand in acknowledgment on his way out.
CHAPTER 34
Alex spent the first hour of her return flight in shock, sipping vodka and reliving incidents from her truncated career. Her sense of being on the outside, of no longer being a player in the critical events of the nation, was overwhelming. But somewhere over eastern Tennessee, she found herself unable to remain disconnected any longer. After the flight attendants finished their beverage service, she leaned against the window and surreptitiously switched on her cell phone, keeping an eye out for roving glances. This was against the law, and she no longer had FBI credentials to flash for special treatment. Finally, the phone connected to a network and three voice-mail messages popped up. She covertly held her phone to her ear and dialed voice mail.
The first message was from Will Kilmer: 'I figured I'd hear from you this morning, girl. Since I didn't, I'm guessing it's bad news. But you can't let that get you down. About four this morning, my man in Greenwood shot a video of Thora Shepard and that surgeon in flagrante delicto. I'm e-mailing a clip of the video to your computer, and I'm gonna send a captured still to your cell phone. No sign of Andrew Rusk or anybody else suspicious in Greenwood. But that video's a doozy, girl. I feel bad for the doc. He's a nice guy. Anyway, I hope I'm wrong about the hearing. You get your tail back home. Your mama's still hanging on, and we miss you.'
Alex felt alternating waves of relief and sadness, but she had no time to reflect. The second message was from Chris Shepard's receptionist: the rental car information Alex would need in Jackson. She scrawled it on the back of an FBI card from her purse, then leaned against the window.
When she heard the voice on the third message, her heart nearly stopped. The speaker was John Kaiser, one of the top field agents in the entire FBI. Kaiser had spent several years working serial homicides for the Investigative Support Unit in Quantico, Virginia, but had returned to normal duty at his own request some years ago. Widely respected throughout the Bureau, Kaiser had spent the past few years based in New Orleans, where he'd solved an art-related murder case that made international news. Alex had tried to reach Kaiser ten days ago, when she'd first realized what she might be dealing with, but he hadn't returned her calls. Agents at the New Orleans field office claimed he was on an extended vacation with his wife, a war photographer named Jordan Glass, so Alex had dropped it.
'Alex, this is John,' said Kaiser. 'I'm only just now getting back to you because I've been working undercover. I haven't even been able to contact Jordan for the past six weeks. When I heard your messages, I couldn't believe it. I want to hear what else you have. You've got my cell number. Call me anytime.'
Alex tried to control the emotions welling up within her. There was enough relief to bring tears to her eyes. But then a terrible thought struck her: Kaiser had probably left that message before hearing that she'd been suspended.
She slumped down in the seat and cradled her face in her left hand. Of all the people in the world whose help she could have wished for, Kaiser was the man. Not only that, he owed her.
Two years ago, Kaiser had been taken hostage by a pair of New Orleans homicide detectives under investigation for murder. For decades the NOPD had been crippled by a system of graft so pervasive that it tarnished the city's national reputation. In the early 1990s, several Crescent City cops were convicted of murder, and the federal government almost took over the policing of the city. Ten years later, the corruption was still deep- rooted. Kaiser had been pursuing some detectives who were facilitating the flow of hard drugs into the city, when
