Justice Lost (Darren Street #3)(17)

Fraturra looked at me with a mixture of rage, confusion, and fear. He started toward the door leading to the house, then turned back and staggered wildly toward his car. Granny had been right. The pig tranquilizer worked quickly. Within ten seconds or so, he fell in a heap onto the concrete garage floor. I put the cap back over the needle and put the syringe in my pocket.

I stood over him until the automatic light that had come on when the garage door opened went off and I found myself shrouded in darkness. There was a locked door that led to the outside about ten feet from the garage door. It faced the backyard and the river. I called Ronnie and said, “Coming now.”

I walked over, unlocked the door, and pushed it open. The warm night air was barely moving and smelled of freshly cut grass. I turned back and patted Fraturra’s pockets until I found his cell phone and his car keys. I took them out and tossed them across the floor. Then I wrestled him onto my back in a fireman’s carry. He was bulky and heavy, but I managed to get him out the door. I laid him down on the ground and relocked and closed the door. Then I knelt over him for a few minutes, gathering myself and listening for traffic, dogs, kids, anything. There was nothing but the sound of leaves rustling mildly in the trees and bushes.

I lifted him and threw him back over my shoulder, skirted his ridiculously expensive swimming pool, and started down the slope to the river. I stayed close to the trees. Ronnie had the jon boat tied to Fraturra’s dock when I got there, and he helped me get Fraturra in the boat. We covered him with a canvas tarp, I removed the ski mask, and we untied the boat, fired up the small outboard engine, and headed back to the boat ramp at the park. We were there just minutes later.

“You’re sure he won’t wake up?” I said to Ronnie.

“No way,” he said, and we pulled the boat onto the trailer with Fraturra still covered in the tarp. We put restraints on Fraturra’s wrists and ankles just in case, secured the restraints to the supports beneath the jon-boat seats, strapped the tarp down, climbed into the truck, and headed for the mountain. I was confident we hadn’t been seen by a soul.

When we got to the Tiptons’ place, Eugene opened the barn door, and Ronnie drove the truck in. The three of us pulled Fraturra out of the back and dumped him onto the dirt floor, and Ronnie backed the truck and trailer out. By the time Ronnie returned, Fraturra was starting to wake up. He was moaning and trying to lift his head. Ronnie cut the restraints off him while I picked up a bucket near the pigpen, walked out back to the creek, and filled it with water. I carried the bucket back inside and dumped it over Fraturra’s head. He started spitting and sputtering and shaking his head, and then he started cursing. I picked him up by the hair and dragged him to a post near the center of the barn. I had a fifteen-foot length of hemp rope, and Eugene and Ronnie helped me stand him up and tie him to the post. I wrapped him like a mummy. He was completely immobilized.

Then I went back outside and got another bucket of cold water. I threw that in his face, too. I wanted him awake, at least semi-clearheaded, so he would understand that he was losing his life for a reason. I wanted him to know that my brand of justice was being served upon him, that revenge was being taken, and that he’d brought this on himself by being an irresponsible, drunken piece of shit.

“You!” he said after the second bucket of water.

I nodded. “That’s right, Doc. Me.”

“What are you going to do to me?”

“I’m going to kill you, just like you killed Grace and my daughter.”

“I didn’t kill them!” he cried. “I didn’t kill anyone!”

“Were you on call that night?” I said.

“I tried to get someone to cover for me. I’d been having a hard time. I called Bernie Weinstein, but he wouldn’t cover my call. He’s the one you should be after. Or Jenkins! Bill Jenkins! He’s the one who actually botched the surgery.”

“He didn’t botch anything. He just didn’t get there in time. And that’s on you. You know the baby suffocated, right? And Grace? She bled to death. I can’t kill you both ways, so I’ve decided to kill you a little at a time.”

I was standing ten feet away from him. He looked pathetic with that rope wrapped around him.

He started to cry. “Please. I’m sick. I just need to get well. I have family that cares about me. I have an autistic child.”

“To whom you pay zero attention, from what I understand.”

“I’m sick! I have a disease!”

“And what disease would that be?”

“I’m an alcoholic.”

“There’s a cure for that, you know,” I said. “Stop drinking.”

“I can’t. It’s a disease, I’m telling you.”

“My father was a drunk,” I said. “Every time he lifted a can or a bottle or a glass to his lips, he was making a choice, and that choice was to drink. He used to beat the hell out of my mother and me. Then one day he didn’t beat the hell out of us anymore because I grew up enough to beat the hell out of him. I kicked him out of the house, got rid of him, just like I’m going to get rid of you. A couple of years after I threw my father out, he got drunk and ran his car into a tree. And you know what? Nobody cared. Nobody missed him.

“You’re just like him, you know. Every time you drink or snort coke or smoke weed or eat mushrooms or whatever the hell else you do, you’re making a choice. The night you were on call and Grace died? You made choices that night, Doc. I know what choices you made because I went to that bar. I did what the cops should have done. I talked to the bartender. What’s his name? Bud? Yeah, Bud. He thinks you’re an asshole, by the way. I asked Bud what you did that night. I know what you drank, how much you drank. I know you were chasing a blonde named Danielle Davis. I know she ran like a scalded dog when you went into the bathroom. All those choices you made that night led to Grace’s death and Jasmine’s death, and now all those choices you made are going to lead to your death.”