Justice Lost (Darren Street #3)(14)

I had a long history with the Tipton family. One of them, a grandson named James, became entangled in the murder trial in which Ben Clancy framed me. James was a witness against me and later recanted and helped get me out of prison, but the psychological and emotional damage inflicted upon him by Ben Clancy eventually drove him to shoot himself in the head. I was there, trying to talk him out of it, when he pulled the trigger.

Eugene, Ronnie, Granny, and Big Pappy Donovan later helped me hang Ben Clancy in their barn after Big Pappy and I kidnapped him. When I killed Donovan during our duel, I also disposed of him at the Tiptons’.

“So something has gone wrong,” Granny said.

“You haven’t heard what happened to Grace?”

Granny looked at me, puzzled, and said, “No, Darren. What happened to her?”

I told her about the night Grace and the baby died. I told her I’d tried to take it to the district attorney, but that he and the doctor were connected somehow and he wasn’t going to help.

“So you’re going to kill the doctor,” she said.

“Yes, I’m afraid I am. I don’t feel like I have a choice. If I don’t kill him, it’s almost like Grace’s death, the baby’s death, didn’t happen. There is no consequence to the doctor’s actions. It all just seems so unfinished. Do you understand?”

“I understand, Darren. The question is: when does it stop for you?”

“I don’t know. I suppose it stops when people stop killing those I love, and since there really isn’t anyone I love left except my son, Sean, maybe it stops after this one.”

“When do you want to do it?” Granny said.

“Soon. I think the district attorney warned him I might be coming after him and told him to hire some security. It’ll probably be off-duty cops or retired cops. If the doctor really thinks he needs protection, I think it’ll take him at least a week to get his act together. He’s a drunk, isn’t exactly on top of things.”

“How do you plan to kill him?” she said.

“I was thinking about that on the drive up here,” I said. “From everything I read about what happened in the operating room, my daughter suffocated, so I thought about strangling him. But Grace bled to death from a hemorrhage, so I think I’d like to look into his eyes while he bleeds out.”

“Which means you’re going to gut-shoot him or cut his throat,” Granny said.

“I was thinking more toward the throat.”

“You’ve become a cold-blooded killer, Darren. Do you know that? Is that something you’re ready to concede?”

A coyote howled in the distance as the sun continued to sink. I looked in the direction of the coyote and thought about what Granny had just said. It was a big statement. Me, Darren Street, son of a violent, alcoholic father whom I eventually threw out of the house when I was thirteen, leaving me to be raised by a single mother. I was a young man who had done my best to get by, to make my mother proud. I’d gone to law school, had become a good lawyer, and was making a decent living before Ben Clancy came along and upended my world by putting me in prison. Had that been the catalyst? Had the two years in prison hardened me that much? I didn’t think so, but they’d certainly prepared me for what was to come. I’d become a killer when my mother was murdered. When I went to West Virginia and murdered those first two, I’d enjoyed it. Killing gave me a tremendous sense of power, and the power was like an addictive drug. I’d lost no sleep over killing those two, just as I’d lost no sleep over Ben Clancy or Big Pappy Donovan.

“I suppose I am a killer, Granny,” I said. “It isn’t something I consciously think about. It wasn’t something I intended and I don’t really regard myself as some kind of assassin, but I guess life doesn’t always lead us where we intend to go.”

“You obviously don’t believe in the old adage that revenge is a dish best served cold.”

“No, ma’am, I don’t. I like mine hot.”

There was an ornamental bridge over the creek just ahead of us. On the other side of the creek was a small clearing where someone had placed a picnic table. Granny walked across the bridge, and I followed.

“The boys built this bridge for me and cleared this little spot. I like to sit here and think sometimes.”

She sat down, made a motion with her hand. “Take a load off.”

“I will as soon as this is done,” I said as I sat down across from her.

She smiled and shook her head. “I remember when I first met you. I thought you were as straitlaced as they come. And you were. But life has a way of taking a toll on people, and you’ve sure seen more than your share of sadness.”

“I think about the Holocaust survivors sometimes,” I said, “and I wonder if what I’ve been through is similar to what some of them went through. Being uprooted, hauled off to prison, losing everything, including my child, having loved ones killed. The difference between so many of them and me is that I’ve been able to strike back against those who have wronged me. Maybe some of them could have killed a few Nazis here or there but chose not to because they wanted to survive. Maybe some of them did kill a few Nazis and paid the price. Me? I’m in the second group. I don’t care if I survive at this point. I want revenge, and I’m willing to die to get it. I don’t necessarily want to die, but I’m not willing to go back into a cage. I’ll die before I’ll do that.”