True Evil

CHAPTER 48

Andrew Rusk blinked awake to a hell beyond anything that his subconscious had ever spewed into his nightmares. Dr. Tarver had duct-taped him to the chair behind his desk. His mouth was taped shut. Lisa was sitting opposite him on the leather sofa, her slim wrists and ankles taped together, a silver rectangle of tape sealing her lips. Her eyes looked twice their normal size; more white than color was showing.

Tarver stood between Lisa and the desk, holding both arms high above his head. In his hands, twisting and curling about his muscular forearms, were two thick, black snakes with heads as big as a man's fist. A maniacal light shone from Tarver's eyes; some might have called it religious fervor, but Rusk knew better. Eldon Tarver was as far from God as a man could get. The doctor spun almost gracefully around the room, as though hypnotizing the serpents into passivity, yet the flexing tubular bodies never ceased their motion.

The room stank of urine, and Rusk soon saw why: Lisa's biking shorts were stained from her navel to her knees. Every square inch of his own skin was popping with sweat, but at least he hadn't pissed himself yet. The throbbing at the base of his skull had all but ceased, or maybe it had been blotted out by the agony radiating from his sternum. A bolt of terror shot through him when he saw the two spots of blood on his shirt, but then he saw a shining tangle of silver wire near Dr. Tarver's feet. Taser wires. Now he remembered the gun coming up in the hallway…the nearly point-blank shot at his chest. It was a stun gun. That was how Tarver had gotten him into this chair.

The doctor stopped his eerie dance and sat sideways on the desk, facing Rusk. The snake nearest Andrew was thicker than his forearm, with a diamond-shaped head and bulging poison sacs beneath its eyes. Cottonmouth moccasin, he thought. The knowledge made his sphincter clench. Unlike most snakes, cottonmouths would not retreat when humans approached. They were highly territorial and would stand their ground, sometimes attacking and even pursuing an intruder.

"I see you thinking, Andrew," said Dr. Tarver. "I'm sure by now you've worked out exactly why I'm here."

Rusk shook his head, but he knew all right. Eldon Tarver hadn't broken through a ring of armed FBI agents to do a fucking snake dance in Rusk's study. He wanted the diamonds. All of them.

"No?" said Tarver. "Perhaps you're a little distracted by my friends."

He stretched out his right arm until the nearer snake's head was within striking distance of Rusk's face. Rusk's throat sealed shut, locking his breath in his chest. The pupils of the moccasin's eyes were vertical ellipses, like cats' eyes. Rusk saw the heat-sensing pits that his scoutmaster had taught him to look for a quarter century ago. As though sensing his fear, the cottonmouth opened its huge mouth to reveal a puffy white oval topped with lethal two-inch fangs. The stench from its mouth was sickening-dead fish and other nameless creatures-but Rusk had passed beyond thought. When the doctor moved the snake closer, the ocean of piss Rusk had successfully withheld in junior high school flooded his khakis.

"The diamonds, Andrew," Dr. Tarver said in a voice of eminent reasonableness. "Where are they?"

Lisa was whimpering steadily on the sofa, but Rusk forced himself not to look. His inability to help her might unman him at the moment when he most needed his full faculties. He wished to God Tarver hadn't taped his mouth shut. He felt powerless without his voice. He was a lawyer, after all, a wizard in the art of persuasion-or so a reporter for the Clarion-Ledger had once written about him. Maybe that was why Tarver had taped his mouth.

Bullshit, said his father's voice. He taped your mouth so you can't scream and alert the FBI agents outside. Rusk hated that voice, but he knew he had to heed it. There was no room for illusion now. Dr. Tarver was back on his feet, spinning slowly, constantly changing the elevation of his arms as he did. Motion must have something to do with keeping the snakes from biting him. Or maybe it's just professional courtesy-one cold-blooded killer to another-

"Where are they, Andrew?" Dr. Tarver asked in a singsong voice. "Do you want an up-close-and-personal experience with these creatures of God? Perhaps your lovely bride likes serpents better than you do."

Tarver danced over toward Lisa. She huddled on the sofa in a fetal position, alternately shutting her eyes and opening them wide, unable to endure the horror but too afraid she would be bitten while her eyes were closed.

"These are sacred creatures, Lisa," Tarver murmured. "They represent both life and death. Death and rebirth. I'm sure through your provincial eyes, you see the serpent of the Christian garden, who so easily corrupted Eve"-he bent and caressed Lisa's thighs with a scaly tail-"but that's such a limited view."

The scream that burst from Lisa's diaphragm ballooned her taped-shut lips and trumpeted from her nostrils. A few more screams like that, Rusk thought, and she'll be bleeding from her nose. She'll drown in her own blood.

Laughing quietly, Dr. Tarver took two steps back and opened the mouth of a white croker sack with his foot, then dipped and thrust one of the moccasins into the bag. Stepping on the mouth of the moving sack, he pulled it tight with a drawstring. Then, caressing the head of the remaining snake, he came around the desk and addressed Rusk again.

"I'm going to partly remove the tape from your lips, Andrew. You will not scream. You will not beg. You will not plead for your life or hers. I know the stones are here. I know your escape plan, remember? I set it up. But it's time to let go of your banana-republic dream and save yourself, like the smart man you've always thought you were."

He reached out and pulled an inch of tape from the corner of Rusk's mouth. Rusk remembered his instructions, but he could not obey them. In a parched croak, he said, "You're going to kill me no matter what I do."

Dr. Tarver shook his head with an expression of regret, then walked to the corner and picked up a putter that Rusk kept there to practice his short game. Gripping the head of the golf club, Tarver began to tease the moccasin with its padded handle. He jabbed its snout again and again, causing the snake to bare its fangs and strike at the club.

A sharp odor of musk filled the room, utterly alien and yet, after Rusk had inhaled it two or three times, eerily familiar. Some primitive part of his brain had recognized the odor of a reptile under stress, and the swampy scent sucked fear from his glands in a way he had never known before.

"He's a fearsome killer, Agkistrodon piscivorus," said the doctor. "Nothing like the coral snake. The elapids are deadlier per milliliter of venom, but the results of envenomation are quite different. With the coral snake, you get numbness, sweating, shortness of breath, paralysis, and death. But with these babies, you get a much nastier spectrum of consequences. The venom is a hemotoxin, a complex mix of proteins that starts destroying blood cells and dissolving vascular walls the instant it enters your flesh. It even dissolves muscle tissue. The pain, I'm told, is really beyond description, and the swelling, my God, I've seen it split the skin. Within hours gangrene sets in, and the skin turns black as roadkill on an August day. A life-altering experience altogether, Andrew, if you survive it. Are you sure you don't want to change your mind?"

Rusk stared back at Tarver with utter resignation. No matter what the doctor promised, he meant to kill them tonight. To Rusk's surprise, this knowledge freed him from much of his fear. He had tempted death often in the past, but he'd always done it by choice, usually with other thrill-seeking yuppies who knew that if the shit hit the fan, paid experts would pull their asses out of the fire or off the mountain, whatever the situation required.

This was different.

This was a battle to the death, and there were no paid allies on his side. What he knew was this: he was willing to die in agony, but he wasn't willing to let Eldon Tarver steal the fruits of five years' labor. Rusk also knew that his newfound courage was not based on a rush of endorphins that would dissipate in a few minutes. Somewhere deep within him, a remnant of the Boy Scout still survived. And that scout knew that the bites of cottonmouths and rattlesnakes, while every bit as painful as Tarver had described, were rarely fatal. If the cottonmouth coiling around Tarver's arm bit Rusk on an extremity, he might well lose an arm-or even a leg-in the morning. But he wouldn't die. And therein lay his secret advantage. He was willing to trade an arm for $20 million. Because by morning, the FBI agents outside would start to wonder why he hadn't left for work. And if Alex Morse was pushing as hard as she usually did, they might crash in here even sooner. Rusk looked steadily at Tarver and said, "The diamonds aren't here."

What happened next blasted all his logic to hell. Tarver leaned over Lisa, rapped the snake twice on the snout with the golf club, then let it go. The moccasin struck in a blur, hitting Lisa in the upper chest. When the blur stopped, the snake's head was clenched tight around Lisa's forearm. She leaped up from the sofa and flung her bound arms around like a woman possessed by demons. Finally, the snake let go, and its heavy body thudded against a row of books.

Dr. Tarver was on the snake in a moment. He distracted it with the flashing head of the putter, then grabbed it behind the head and held it high.

Lisa had collapsed onto the sofa and was now staring at two puncture wounds in her forearm. Her breathing grew more and more frantic until foam emerged from her nostrils. When she started jerking like an epileptic, Rusk feared she might have a heart attack.

Dr. Tarver walked back to the desk, his eyes devoid of emotion. "You see the consequences of noncooperation. I'm going to give you one more chance, Andrew. Before I do, I'm going to explain something. I have no intention of killing you. If I kill you here, that creates a host of problems for me. Your EX NIHILO mechanism, for example. Not to mention a murder investigation. But if I leave you alive, there'll be no murder investigation, and you'll take care of the EX NIHILO business for me. You can't release that confession, because your hands are tied by your own guilt. The way it's always been. You see? You can survive this night. Your diamonds are the price of life. I know you've had your heart set on spending that money, but what's money weighed against thirty or forty more years of life? You have plenty of time to earn more. But I don't. I must take what life offers."

Tarver came around the desk and sat only inches away from him. The moccasin was struggling to escape. "Put your trust in logic, Andrew. I'm much safer with you alive than with you dead."

Rusk looked across the room. Lisa lay shivering on the sofa, still staring at the holes in her arm. Two tracks of blood and yellow fluid had dribbled down to her hand, and there was already pronounced swelling at the site of the bite. As Rusk stared, her facial expression changed from the stunned shock of an accident victim to fearful curiosity. She lifted her taped hands and pulled down the front of her tank top, exposing her left breast. Where the inner curve of the breast met her sternum were two more puncture marks, an inch apart and joined by a dark purple swelling. Lisa's eyes bulged like those of a woman suffering hyperthyroidism. She tried to get to her feet again, but this time she tumbled onto the floor.

"Are you ready to tell me where they are?" Tarver asked softly.

Rusk nodded. "I'll tell you. But what about Lisa?"

"After I leave, drive her to the emergency room. Tell them you were watering your lawn. She went outside to switch off the faucet, and she felt something hit her. Once she got inside, you saw the puncture marks. Use your imagination, Andrew. Just make sure she tells the same story you do."

Dr. Tarver reached out with his free hand and pulled Rusk's chin until they were looking eye to eye. "It's time."

Rusk felt physical pain as he spoke the words, or perhaps the emotional shock was so severe that it caused pain. "Under my bed," he whispered. "In a flight case, like yours."

Tarver laughed. "You keep them under your bed?"

"I buried them like you said. I dug them up this afternoon."

"Good decision, Andrew."

Tarver walked around the desk and stuffed the second cottonmouth into the croker sack with its mate. Then he resealed the tape over Rusk's mouth and walked out of the study.

A soft mewling rose from the other side of the desk. Knowing Lisa as he did, Rusk could not begin to fathom what must be going on in her mind, if indeed any rational mind remained. He was surprised how desperately he wanted to help her, but the duct tape made it impossible.

A creaking floorboard announced Dr. Tarver's return. Grinning though his beard, the doctor set the heavy flight case down on Rusk's desk with a bang. It was bright white, and twice as thick as a normal briefcase.

Tarver pulled a corner of the tape from Rusk's mouth. "What are they worth, Andrew? I know you have at least half your money tied up in business deals. I opened it in the bedroom. These looked like about ten million to me."

"Nine point six."

Tarver resealed the tape, then picked up the croker sack from the floor and stuffed it into his backpack. Pulling a small knife from his pocket, he knelt over the spot where Rusk assumed Lisa lay. Had he lied? Was he about to sever Lisa's carotids?

"I'm cutting the tape on her wrists about three-quarters through," the doctor said calmly. "She should be able to rip it the rest of the way in a few minutes, if you can keep her conscious. She looks a little shocky to me."

Rusk heard a faint slap. Then Tarver said, "Stay awake, sugar tits."

As Rusk struggled against the tape binding his arms, the doctor got to his feet, shouldered his backpack, picked up the flight case, and strode out of the study.

Rusk felt as though he had been raped. He flexed his jaw muscles hard, and the tape came loose.

"Lisa!" he cried. "Can you hear me?"

She didn't respond.

"I know you can hear me. Rip the tape off your hands. You've got to do it before you pass out. You've got to save us, baby."

Still no response.

Rusk heard shifting body weight. Relief coursed through him. "Rip the tape off your mouth! Use your teeth! Come on, honey, do it!"

More movement on the floor. Then he heard the blessed sound of adhesive coming loose. A low, inhuman moan filled the study.

"Lisa? Are you loose? Do your feet! Honey, can you hear me?"

Now the sound of tape coming loose was continuous. Rusk flashed back to the high school autumns when he'd had to unwind what seemed miles of tape from his ankles after football games. Lisa was doing almost the same thing now. Soon she would be free. He was surprised at how little he felt the loss of the diamonds compared with the joy of surviving and the prospect of getting Lisa medical attention.

"That's it, honey. He didn't think you had it in you, but I knew you could do it."

The ripping stopped, replaced by the sound of heavy wheezing.

"Get up, sweetheart. Get up and get me loose."

The woman who stood up on the other side of the desk was almost unrecognizable. An hour before, Lisa Rusk had been a woman of rare beauty who had glided through life without trauma of any kind. Her eyes had shone with the complacent bliss that could only exist in the young. But the woman standing across from him now looked like a refugee from a war zone, someone who had been dragged through the pit of hell and violated in ways unknown and unknowable. Her pupils were pinned against globes of white shot with blood. Her mouth hung open as from a mindless stupor, and her left breast swung free, smeared with blood and yellowish fluid.

"Lisa, can you hear me?"

Her mouth closed and opened three times, but no sound emerged.

She's in shock, Rusk thought desperately. Holy shit. "Cut me loose, Lisa! I've got to get you to the hospital. There's a pocketknife on the end table by the sofa. The one I got for a wedding present."

A flicker of recognition in her eyes? Yes!

She turned toward the sofa. Then, with the slow tread of a zombie, she walked toward the end table. She bent down. But when she came up, she was not holding the pocketknife. She was holding the golf club.

"Lisa? Get the knife, honey. That's a golf club you're holding."

She looked down at the putter as though unable to identify it. Then she said softly, "I know."

As she walked toward the desk, Lisa lifted the putter high above her head. Then she swung it in a long, roundhouse arc. Strapped immobile to the chair, Rusk could only tense as the flashing silver club smashed into his cranium.