True Evil

“Word is, it was a super-tense hostage scene, and Morse flipped out. The Hostage Rescue Team—basically our SWAT guys—was given the order to go in, and Morse couldn’t deal with it. She charged back into the scene—apparently to try to keep negotiating—and everybody started shooting. An agent named James Broadbent got his heart blown out by a shotgun. I did know Jim personally. He was your all-American guy with a wife and two kids. There was some talk that he was having an affair with Morse at the time, but you never know what’s true in those situations.”

Chris was trying to absorb this fast enough to ask intelligent questions. “So you don’t know if Morse is legit or not,” he temporized.

“No. You want me to find out?”

“Can you do it without setting off any alarms in Washington?”

“Maybe. But you need to tell me what this is about.”

“Darryl, is there any chance that Morse could be involved in a murder investigation?”

Foster said nothing for a while. “I don’t think so. We don’t handle murder cases, you know? Not unless there are special circumstances. Civil rights murders, stuff like that.”

“On TV it’s always FBI agents chasing the serial killers.”

“That’s Hollywood bullshit. One very small branch of the Bureau advises local and state cops on murder cases—if they request it—but they never make arrests or anything like that.”

Chris couldn’t think of any brilliant questions, and he didn’t want Foster to get aggressive with his own. “I really appreciate you calling back, Darryl. Thank you.”

“You can’t give me any more details than you already have?”

Chris searched his mind for some plausible explanation. “Morse was originally from Mississippi, okay? That’s all I can say right now. If anything strange happens, I’ll call you back.”

“Guess that’ll have to do,” Foster said, sounding far from satisfied. “Hey, how’s that new wife of yours?”

“Fine, she’s good.”

“Sorry I missed the wedding. But Jake Preston told me she’s hot. Like really hot.”

Chris managed a laugh. “She looks good, yeah.”

“Goddamn doctors. They always get the hot ones.”

Chris laughed genuinely this time, hearing some of his old friend’s personality come through. “Thanks again, Darryl. I mean it.”

“I’ll call you back when I get the story on Morse. Could be today. Probably tomorrow, though.”

“Any time is fine. Hey, where are you living now?”

“Still the Windy City. It’s nice this time of year, but I froze my ass off last winter. I’m ready for Miami or L.A.”

“Good luck.”

“Yeah. Talk to you soon.”

Chris stuffed his phone back into the seat pouch and dug in hard. There were cars and trucks moving along the Trace now, most carrying workers who lived beyond the borders of the long but narrow strip of federal land. The speed limit on the Trace was fifty—great for bikers if the commuters had observed it, but none did. Checking his watch, he realized that he probably wouldn’t make it home in time to take Ben to school. That would make Thora wonder, but he’d had to do something to dissipate the tension that Morse’s visit had caused.

Now Foster’s call had canceled out any relief he’d felt from the exercise. He had more information now, but no real answers. Alex Morse was a star FBI agent who’d screwed up and gotten someone killed. Fine. She’d admitted the screw-up herself. But what was she now? A field agent working a legitimate case? Or a rogue agent working her sister’s murder without permission? In one respect it didn’t matter, because Chris was convinced that in her views of his situation, she was out of her goddamn mind.

He wrenched his handlebars to the right as a car blasted by from behind, its horn blaring, its tires spraying water. He almost took a spill on the shoulder, then made a last-second recovery and edged back onto the wet pavement. The driver was too far gone to see now, but Chris flipped him off anyway. He wouldn’t normally have done that, but then he wouldn’t normally have allowed a vehicle to catch him unawares on a seldom-traveled road.

As his tires thrummed along the pavement’s edge, he saw another biker in the distance, approaching on the opposite side of the Trace. As the distance closed, Chris saw that the rider was female. He raised his hand in greeting, then hit his brakes.

The rider was Alexandra Morse.

TEN (#ulink_841a016b-44da-5a3a-a6c4-3df1b7d6876f)

Agent Morse wasn’t wearing a biking helmet, but her dark hair was drawn back into a soaking-wet ponytail, making her facial scars all the more prominent. It was the scars that allowed Chris to recognize her. He could hardly believe her presence, and he was about ready to sprint right past her when she crossed the road and hissed to a stop a yard away from him.

“Good morning, Doctor.”

“What the hell are you doing?” he asked.

“I needed to talk to you. This seemed like a good way to do it.”

“How did you know I was here?”

Morse only smiled.

Chris looked her from head to toe, taking in the soaked clothes stuck to her body and her dripping ponytail. She had chill bumps on her arms and legs, and the cotton tulane law shirt she was wearing would take forever to dry, even if the rain stopped.

“And the bike?” he asked. “You a big cyclist?”

“No. I bought it four days ago, when I found out that you were a biker and your wife was a runner.”

“You’ve been following Thora, too?”

Morse’s smile faded. “I’ve shadowed a couple of her runs. She’s fast.”

“Jesus.” Chris shook his head and started to ride away.

“Wait!” Morse cried. “I’m not a threat, Dr. Shepard!”

He stopped and looked back. “I’m not so sure of that.”

“Why not?”

He thought of Darryl Foster’s words. “Call it instinct.”

“You have good instincts about sources of danger?”

“In the past I have.”

“Even when those sources are human?”

A red pickup truck whizzed past, its rider staring at them.

“Why don’t we keep riding?” Morse suggested. “We’ll be less noticeable talking that way.”