True Evil. Greg Iles
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away. He’d floated that trip back in high school, with some fellow Boy Scouts. As Rusk watched the girls, that memory brought strange baggage with it. He was a long way from the Boy Scouts now—good old Pack 8. And their motto … holy Christ. There was a reason people called babes in the woods Boy Scouts—
Rusk mashed his brake pedal. Just beyond a cluster of thick bamboo stalks on his right, a dark tunnel opened in the trees. Deep wheel ruts led into it, and at the opening lay a pile of half-burned logs and about a hundred empty beer cans. Rusk nodded with satisfaction. That road led back to civilization. He gave the Porsche some gas, ramped over a sand berm, and raced toward the tunnel. Ten seconds later the shadows swallowed him. He was still laughing when he bounced onto clean asphalt and drove unmolested toward the I-55 overpass towering in the distance.
The sun was fully up now, and Chris was pushing his pickup well over the speed limit. The rain had finally petered out, but his left front wheel threw up a wall of glistening spray as he swung onto the bypass that would take him to Highway 61 South.
Alex Morse’s final revelation had left him hollow inside. He couldn’t really think about it yet. But at least he’d solved the mystery that Darryl Foster had been unable to explain. Special Agent Morse was a rogue agent conducting a murder investigation that the FBI knew nothing about. And not just an investigation, but a quest, a single-minded mission to punish those she believed had murdered her sister. She had been on that mission for five weeks, yet all she had produced were some fascinating theories and circumstantial evidence. And yet, he thought with something like shame, when she finally offered to reveal real evidence, I cut her off. As he passed the Super Wal-Mart, he picked up the cell phone Morse had given him and dialed the only number in the SIM memory.
“It’s Alex,” Morse answered. “Are you okay? I know I hit you pretty hard back there about Thora.”
“What evidence do you have tying my wife to Shane Lansing?”
Morse took an audible breath. “Twice this week, Dr. Lansing has stopped at your new house while Thora was there.”
Chris felt a wave of relief. “So what? Shane lives in that neighborhood.”
“The first time he stayed inside for twenty-eight minutes.”
“And the second?”
“Fifty-two minutes.”
Fifty-two minutes. Long enough to— “Thora was probably showing off the place to him. She designed the house herself. And there were workmen there, right?”
Morse’s reply was a blunt as a hammer. “No workmen.”
“Neither time?”
“Neither time. I’m sorry, Chris.”
He grimaced. “That could still be innocent contact, you know?”
“Is that how you think of Shane Lansing? A choirboy?”
Chris didn’t think of Lansing in those terms at all.
“No matter who I ask about him,” Morse said, “I hear three things: he’s a gifted surgeon, he’s an arrogant asshole who treats nurses like shit, and he’s a pussy hound.”
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