Justice Lost (Darren Street #3)(39)

As September rolled into October and the election grew ever closer, I found myself walking in the door at night, exhausted, thinking about the families of the people I’d killed. I knew one of the boys in West Virginia, Donnie Frazier, had had a girlfriend. He’d probably had other family as well. I didn’t know whether his mother and father were alive, whether he had aunts or uncles or cousins or nieces or nephews who may have been affected by his death, but he probably had. It was the same with Tommy Beane, the other man I’d killed in West Virginia, and Ben Clancy and Big Pappy Donovan and now Dr. Nicolas Fraturra. How had my committing the ultimate crime—the taking of another human being’s life—affected those around my victims?

It was the first time I’d ever thought in those terms, and the only reason those thoughts entered my mind was because of the stories I’d heard while campaigning. I’d really never given a damn about the families or friends of my own victims. They had done terrible things to me or to people I loved, I’d made the decision to kill them, and I’d done it and moved on without reflection. I couldn’t exactly describe the feelings I was experiencing as guilt, but for the first time there were at least the beginnings of some regret.

On a Wednesday evening, I’d just settled in at my apartment after meeting with a group of particularly cantankerous members of MADD, Mothers Against Drunk Driving. Many had had loved ones killed or maimed by drunk drivers, and some had been seriously injured themselves. They’d wanted to make damned sure that I knew how they felt about prosecuting drunk-driving cases. Claire was standing in the back while I was peppered with questions.

I told them the truth. I told them I’d prosecute drunk drivers to the extent the law would allow. There were always new laws being proposed in the state legislature to make the penalties for DUI harsher. Tennessee, in fact, had some of the toughest laws in the United States, but some of the members of the group would be satisfied with nothing short of the death penalty.

The doorbell rang around ten, and I immediately popped off the couch and headed into the bedroom, where I pulled my Walther P22 pistol from beneath the mattress. I held the pistol in my hand as I walked toward the door. There was a small foyer and a short hallway leading away from my front door. I didn’t want someone to shoot me through the door, so I stopped where the hallway opened onto the kitchen and said loudly, “Who is it?”

“It’s Claire.”

“One second,” I said, and I jogged back to the bedroom and put the pistol back under the mattress. I walked back quickly and opened the door.

“Catch you at a bad time?” she said.

“Nope. Just had to put my gun away. Figured you wouldn’t appreciate being greeted that way.”

“How considerate of you. Why do you have a gun?”

“For protection.”

“From whom?”

“People who might want to do me harm.”

“Can you give me an example of someone who might want to do you harm?”

“Oh, I don’t know. The sheriff, maybe, or one of his cronies. The sheriff’s nephew. Stephen Morris or one of his cronies. Family members of people who may have heard ugly rumors about me. Old friends from federal prison.”

“I see,” she said. “Long list. Have I come at a bad time? Can you talk?”

“No, not at all. It’s fine. I was just unwinding. Tonight was pretty intense.”

“I don’t see any alcohol anywhere. How do you unwind?”

“I was just sitting on the couch thinking. I have a couple of beers in the fridge, maybe a bottle of wine in the cupboard. Can I offer you something?”

“A glass of wine would be nice,” she said.

I rarely drank wine and didn’t even know what I had in the cupboard. As it turned out, there were two decent bottles in there, one of them Grace’s favorite.

“Grace loved this stuff,” I said, holding it up. “Will this do for you?”

“Perfectly,” Claire said.

I uncorked the bottle and poured two glasses. Claire took one and sat down on the couch. I sat at the other end.

“You did a good job tonight,” she said. “That was a tough crowd and you handled them beautifully.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I’m trying to get better at it.”

“You’re a natural. You’ve gotten some confidence and people are drawn to you.”

“So how do you think things are going?” I said. “Do I have a chance?”

“All of our information shows that you’re going to beat him by at least five thousand votes. And we’re not even finished with him yet. Do you know he bullies the principals at the schools his children attend? He threatens to sue them if they so much as breathe in the direction of one of his children. And his children, from everything I’ve gathered, are entitled brats. His wife slapped a male teacher across the face a month ago, and he refused to allow the police to do anything about it. He has a thirteen-year-old girl who was texting in class. The teacher took her phone, gave it back to her at the end of class, and within an hour, Mrs. Morris was in this teacher’s face, screaming at him. When he told her he understood why her daughter acted the way she does, she slapped him. He had a handprint on his face for three days. Once that gets out, along with a couple of other things we have planned, you’ll be home free. And that doesn’t even take into account my grandfather’s endorsement. That will be a spectacle. Wait and see.”