“‘Over the course of two interviews with Dr. Tarver, I realized the nature of Michael’s problem. His client was guilty. Tarver didn’t come right out and state this fact, but it was plain to me. I had never encountered such arrogant self-assurance in my life, not even from my father, and that’s saying a lot. In the end, no charges were brought against Dr. Tarver, mainly because no forensic evidence of murder could be produced, despite two separate autopsies, one by a renowned pathologist. In fact, the second autopsy was what convinced the police that no murder had in fact occurred. But I knew different.’
“Do you want me to go on?” Kaiser asked.
Alex looked at Chris, whose eyes were closed. “Do you want me to turn off the speaker?”
“No.”
“Go ahead, John.”
“‘I had no further contact with Dr. Tarver until almost two years later, when I encountered him during a weekend hunting trip at the Chickamauga Hunting Camp. During that weekend, I found myself alone with him for an extended period. He asked several forward questions about my divorce practice, questions that I took to be a strange sort of overture. Strangely sure that I could trust Tarver, I decided to step out on a limb. I remarked that, after years of experience in my field, I had come to believe that in certain cases involving wealthy clients, a timely death would be a preferable alternative to divorce. Dr. Tarver’s response was instantaneous: “I think you mean an untimely death, don’t you?”
“‘That was the beginning of our partnership. Under the influence of a moderate amount of alcohol, Dr. Tarver assured me that he could kill anyone without leaving a forensic trace. He looked on this, he said, as a sort of professional challenge and claimed that every pathologist had at some point in his life had thoughts along those lines. It was only natural, he said.
“‘Before we left Chickamauga that weekend, the basics of our plan had been worked out. I had wealthy clients coming to my office every week, begging me to spare them a huge settlement and get them more time with their children. I could judge which clients had sufficient hatred and anger to consider actually eliminating their spouses. Dr. Tarver and I would have as little contact as possible. After securing a go-order from a client, I would initiate contact by sending a false spam message to one of his e-mail accounts. The next day I would park my car at the Annandale Golf Club and play eighteen holes of golf. There would be a large packet in my trunk when I arrived. When I left, the packet would be gone. That packet contained everything about the intended victim, and all of it supplied by the victim’s spouse: medical history, daily schedule, car keys, house keys, vacation plans, security codes, e-mail passwords, everything. That was the only “contact” Tarver and I ever had, and even that involved no face-to-face interaction. It could never be proved or traced because Dr. Tarver wasn’t a member of that club. He had a friend who played golf there almost every day, and Tarver could go as a guest whenever he chose. He opened the trunk with a key I gave him that first weekend at Chickamauga. I have only spoken to Dr. Tarver a few times in the past five years, and those times by pure happenstance. But together, he and I have murdered nineteen people.’”
“Nineteen,” Alex breathed. “I knew there were more.”
“Wait,” said Kaiser, his voice quickening. “While I was reading that, Kelly handed me a note. A deputy sheriff in Forrest County just spotted Andrew Rusk’s powerboat. It’s being towed on a trailer behind a black Dodge pickup truck on Highway 49.”
Chris looked at the cell phone with something like hatred.
“Did he see the driver?” Alex asked.
“A bald man with a gray beard and a bright birthmark on his left cheek.”
Alex’s heart began to race. “Jesus God, we’ve got him.”
“No, we don’t. We know where he was fifteen minutes ago.”
“The deputy’s not trying to stop him, is he?”
“No. Forrest County’s on the way to the Gulf Coast, right?”
“Could be. That’s near Hattiesburg. It’s the back way to the Coast. Did you ever get an exact location on those GPS coordinates?”
“Yes,” said Kaiser. “That location is in the Gulf of Mexico. Twenty-four miles south of Petit Bois Island.”
“Past the reach of the Coast Guard.” Alex looked at her watch. “Two p.m. is less than two hours away.”
“Don’t worry. You’re going to be there.”
Alex caught her breath. “Seriously?”
“You and me, babe.”
She felt as though a steel band had been cut free from her chest.
“I’ve got a chopper on standby,” Kaiser said, panting as though he were running. “You get upstairs to the UMC helipad. We’ll take six SWAT guys from Jackson and link up with some of my guys from the New Orleans office.”
“I’m hanging up now. Don’t you dare leave me behind, John. I don’t care if the director forbids you pain of termination. You set that chopper down on the UMC roof.”
“I’ll be there in ten minutes. You be waiting.”
“Go,” she said, and hung up.
Chris was watching her, his body completely still.
“I need to go with him, Chris. I don’t want to leave you alone, but—”
“I’m all right. I have—”
Three soft knocks sounded in the room. Then the door opened a crack and a voice Alex didn’t recognize said, “Hello? Chris Shepard?”
“Yes,” she called, walking to the door.
It opened before she reached it, revealing a handsome man in his early forties with two children standing in front of him, a boy and a girl.
“I’m Penn Cage,” said the man, extending his hand. “Tom Cage’s son. Are you Alex Morse?”
She nodded and shook the hand.
“My father was having some angina this morning,” Penn said, “so I thought Annie and I should drive Ben up to see his dad. I hope that’s all right.”
Only then did Alex realize that the boy standing before her in the school uniform was Ben Shepard. “Oh, yes. I really appreciate it.” She backed out of the way so that Chris could see his visitors.
“Penn?” Chris said from the bed. “What…?”
Cage walked forward and gently shook Chris’s hand. “I thought Ben might like to ride up with Annie and me.”
Alex saw Chris wipe his eyes before the children got close enough to see his tears.
Annie Cage was a well-knit girl of about eleven with tawny hair and wise eyes. She took Ben’s hand to lead him to his father’s bed, and to Alex’s surprise, Ben allowed it.
“Hey, buddy,” Chris said weakly.
Ben’s face was red. He was about to cry. “Are you sick, Dad?”
“Just a little. But I’m going to be fine in a couple of days. How are you doing?”
Ben nodded. “The mayor brought me to see you.”
“I see that. Hello, Annie.”
“Hi, Dr. Chris,” Annie Cage replied.
Penn smiled, then touched Annie’s shoulder and pulled her back toward him. “I think we’re going to let you two visit for a while.”
Chris looked up gratefully.
“Do you need anything?” Penn asked. “A Coke or something?”
“No, thanks.”
“We’ll see you in a while, then.”
With a pointed look at Alex, Penn backed into the hall with Annie in tow.
Chris put his hand on Ben’s shoulder, then looked up at Alex and said, “Go get him. And don’t come back here until you have. Okay?”
Forcing down a rush of emotion, Alex nodded, then waved good-bye and walked into the hall. Penn Cage was waiting for her. Looking down the corridor, she saw his daughter sitting on a bench by the nurses’ station.
“How bad is he?” Penn asked.
“He could die.”
Penn blew air from his cheeks. “Is there anything I can do to help you? I’m not just saying that. I used to be a prosecutor in Houston, and I have a lot of contacts in federal law enforcement.”
Alex sudde
nly realized that Penn Cage was the lawyer who had destroyed a former director of the FBI, by implicating him in a civil rights murder cover-up that dated to the 1960s. “I wish you’d made that offer a week ago.”
Cage’s eyes burned with surprising intensity. “I’m making it now. You tell me what Dr. Shepard needs, I’ll do everything in my power to get it or make it happen.”
Alex glanced at her watch, her mind on Kaiser’s chopper. “Do you know Chris well?”
“Not as well as I’d like. But my father says he’s as fine a man as he’s ever worked with. That’s saying something.”
“I think so, too,” Alex said, surprising herself.
“Don’t let me keep you. Just remember what I said.”
“I will.”
Alex turned and ran toward the elevators. Ten steps down the hall, she passed her mother’s door. Margaret Morse would never know whether her daughter had stopped, and Alex almost kept running. But halfway to the elevators, she slid to a stop, then ran back and darted into her mother’s room. As she had done with Chris, she squeezed her mother’s hand and bent low beside her face.
“Mom?” she whispered. “It’s Alexandra. Jamie’s going to be all right. You can go now.”
She prayed for a sign, a blinking eye or moving finger—but there was nothing. She kissed her mother’s cheek, then fled the room.
CHAPTER 52
The helicopter that touched down on the roof of the University Medical Center was a sleek, white Bell 430, capable of carrying eight passengers plus crew at 140 knots for nearly four hours. Alex had flown into many hostage situations, but rarely in a chopper as powerful as this. A 430 would deliver them to the Gulf of Mexico with time to spare. She bent almost double as she ran beneath the whirling rotors. The familiar whup-whup-whup set her heart racing. She leapt through the open door, took a quick look at the six black-clad SWAT agents behind Kaiser, then strapped herself in beside him.
“Ready?” Kaiser shouted.
She gave him a thumbs-up.
Kaiser smiled as the whine of the engine rose. “These things always remind me of Vietnam.”
“Is that good or bad?”
“Good question.” He squeezed her shoulder in reassurance. “The trick now is taking Tarver alive.”
Alex nodded.
“That’s where you come in. That’s how I sold the director on you being here.”
“So I’m a hostage negotiator again?”
“In a manner of speaking. You’re going to negotiate, only there won’t be any hostages. Or so we hope, anyway.”
“Amen.”
“I’m going up front for a second. I need to speak to the pilot before we lift off.”
Kaiser went forward and leaned down beside the pilot’s helmet. Alex looked out at the sky, gray overhead and piled with black clouds to the east. Feeling a vibration against her thigh, she took out her cell phone and looked at the LCD window. It read: 1 NEW MESSAGE. When she opened the phone, she saw that the message was from Jamie. Finally! She hit READ. The message read, Dad’s packing our stuff! Says we’re moving. 2DAY! Heard him talking 2 HER about Mexico. Can he take me 2 Mexico? He seems scared. I’m scared. Can u come get me? On computer. Dad wont let me call u.
Alex slammed the phone against her leg. Bill’s timing was perfect, as usual. She wanted to tell Kaiser to order the chopper to the Ross Barnett Reservoir to pick up Jamie, but of course she couldn’t. Andrew Rusk’s written confession would soon nail Bill Fennell’s hide to the wall, but right this minute, Bill had legal custody of the boy.
Alex had thought this chopper was taking her to the man who’d murdered Grace, but now she realized that Eldon Tarver hadn’t really murdered her sister. He was just the weapon. Bill Fennell was the real killer. And now, like Tarver, Bill was planning to flee the country—with Jamie in tow. That left Alex no choice about what to do. But she couldn’t tell Kaiser why she had to get out of the helicopter. She might just have to commit a felony herself in the next half hour—a kidnapping. And Kaiser couldn’t be party to that.
She lifted the cell phone to her ear and began simulating a conversation with one of her mother’s nurses. “What?” she yelled. “I can’t hear you!”
Kaiser turned and watched her from the cockpit.
“When?” she shouted. “What does that mean?…Her kidneys? Now? Or the in the next couple of hours?…Jesus, all right. I’m on my way…. Probably ten minutes.”
Kaiser walked back and knelt beside her. “What is it?”
“My mother’s crashing. All systems. She signed a DNR, so she’s probably going to die in the next few minutes. Do you believe this shit?”
Kaiser looked at his watch, then the metal deck, then back up at Alex. “It’s your call. We can’t wait for you if you go back down. Is she conscious?”
“In and out. Mostly out. But still…it’s my mother, you know?”
“I know.” He looked at his watch again, silently calculating. “I wish you could be there. You know it’s going to come down to a standoff, and you could be the one holding the bullhorn.”
“Don’t make it worse, okay?” She forced a smile. “I appreciate you getting me the chance. Just go. Nailing Tarver is the thing.”
Alex unstrapped her harness and climbed back down to the roof. Kaiser knelt in the big sliding door, watching her with compassion. Under the roaring blades he shouted, “I’m sorry about your mom!”
Alex waved and sprinted toward the breezeway at the edge of the helipad.
The 430 lifted into the darkening sky before she reached the door, then swooped off in a wide arc to the south.
She took out her cell phone and dialed Will Kilmer.
The FBI helicopter was thirty miles south of Jackson when the doubt gnawing in Kaiser’s gut became intolerable. He took out his cell phone, dialed directory assistance, and got the number for the University Medical Center. When UMC’s switchboard operator came on the line, he identified himself as an FBI agent in an emergency and demanded to speak to the chief nurse on the Oncology floor. While he waited, one of the agents behind him moved forward and said, “What’s going on, John? Something new?”
Kaiser shook his head. “I don’t buy Morse’s story about her mother.”
“Why not?”
“No way would that girl miss a chance to take down the guy who killed her sister. I don’t care if her mother is dying. Morse almost ruined her career over this, and there’s no way she’d miss the final act.”
“Hello?” said an irritated female voice. “Who is this?”
“Special Agent John Kaiser of the FBI. We have a life-or-death emergency in progress, and it involves the daughter of one of your patients, Margaret Morse. Her daughter is Special Agent Alex Morse.”
“I…her.”
“Could you speak up please? I’m in a helicopter.”
“I know her!”
“I read you loud and clear now. Is she in the hospital now? Alex Morse, I mean.”
“I haven’t seen her since she ran out twenty minutes ago.”
“I see. Can you tell me about her mother? Has her condition suddenly worsened?”
“I don’t think it could get much worse.”
“What I mean is, has she crashed? Have you called Agent Morse in the last few minutes and told her that her mother was dying?”
“Oh, I don’t think so. Not that I’m aware of. Let me check.”
Kaiser looked at his pilot, pointed at the airspeed indicator, and signaled that they should slow down. After nearly a minute, the nurse came back on the line.
“No, sir. No call like that went out from here. In fact, Mrs. Morse’s kidneys seemed to be a little better this morning. Putting out more urine.”
Kaiser hung up, leaned over the pilot’s helmet, and spun his forefinger in a circle. “Turn around!”
As the 430 banked over I-55, Kaiser dialed the Jackson field office and demanded to speak to a technical specialist.
“Yes, sir?” said an even younger voice than he?
??d expected.
“I need GPS coordinates on a cell phone. As fast as you can get them. Call the cell company and tell them lives depend on it.” Kaiser read off Alex’s cell number, then said, “I think it’s a Cingular phone. Call me back the instant you have the coordinates.”
“Will do, sir.”
As soon as he hung up, the pilot leaned over and said, “Where are we going?”
Where the hell was Alex going? Kaiser wondered. Did she not believe that the man towing Rusk’s boat toward the Gulf Coast was Tarver? Could someone have called and told her that? He didn’t think so. Chris Shepard certainly had no way of knowing that. Was Will Kilmer still working the case? Could the old ex-cop have discovered something at the last minute? Possibly. But then again, Alex’s reason for bailing might be something completely unrelated to Tarver—something that overrode her concern for the murder case. What could possibly be that important?
“Hover!” he said to the pilot. “Keep us where we are!”
As the 430 slowed to a hover, Kaiser sensed that desperation was blocking efficient thought. He’d seen the phenomenon many times: people in emergencies couldn’t make the simplest logical connections. No one was immune, not combat veterans, not astronauts, not—His phone was ringing.
“Hello? Hello!”
“I’ve got the coordinates, sir. That phone is at thirty-two degrees, twenty-five minutes and some-odd north; and ninety degrees, four minutes—”
“Just tell me where they are, son! Lay a map over those numbers!”
“We already did. It’s Coachman’s Road, near the Jackson Yacht Club. Right on the edge of the reservoir.”
“The Ross Barnett Reservoir?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Would Rose’s Bluff Drive be near there?”
“Yes, sir. Right there. And whoever has that phone is even closer to there now.”
“Damn it! That’s her brother-in-law’s house.”
“Sir?”
The pilot looked over at Kaiser, his eyes questioning behind his faceplate.