Joe Dillard - 02 - In Good Faith (35 page)

I was sitting in the chair with my eyes closed and my feet propped up on a table in front of me when my cell phone rang. I opened my eyes to find that I was the only person left in the waiting room. I picked the cell up off of the table next to me and didn’t recognize the number that was calling. I looked at my watch—twelve minutes after two in the morning. I pushed the button and lifted the phone to my ear.

“She’s killing the policeman! She’s killing the policeman!”
a female voice screamed.

“What? Who is this?”

“Natasha! She’s killing him!”

I suddenly recognized the frantic voice. It was Alisha.

“Who?” I said. “Which policeman?”

“Mr. Fraley! You have to help him!”

I stood up, unsure of what to do.

“Where are they?”

“I don’t know! He’s in bed!”

I pushed the button on the phone and started running down the hall towards the stairs. Along the way, I dialed 911.

“Nine-one-one dispatch, what’s your emergency?” a female voice said.

“This is Joe Dillard. I’m an assistant district attorney, and I’m calling to report what might be a murder in progress,” I said breathlessly as I started down the steps.

“A murder in progress?” she said in a skeptical voice. “Where are you, sir?”

“I’m on my way there. You need to send someone to Hank Fraley’s house. He’s a TBI agent and he lives on Cranston Street.”

“Do you have the address?”

“No, goddammit! Hank Fraley! TBI agent! Cranston Street! He’s being attacked right now! Get the police and an ambulance over there!”

I pushed my way through the door that led to the parking lot and entered the cold night air. The wind was blowing so hard that it almost knocked me off balance as I ran towards my truck.

“Did you say your name is Joe Dillard?” I heard the dispatcher say.

“Yes! I’m an assistant district attorney. Have you sent a patrol car?”

“How do you know that a murder might be in progress, Mr. Dillard?”

“What fucking difference does that make?” I yelled. “It’s happening!”

I jumped into the truck and tossed the cell phone down on the seat next to me. Fraley’s house was a short distance from the hospital. If I got there in time, maybe I could get my hands on Natasha, or, at the very least, keep Fraley alive until the paramedics arrived.

It took me only a couple of minutes to get to Fraley’s. I parked the truck near the curb right in front of the house and turned on the emergency flashers, hoping the police would see them and know exactly where to come. As I sprinted towards the front door, I realized I wasn’t armed. I stopped, turned around, and raced back to the truck. I opened the passenger-side door and reached beneath the seat, where I kept a tire tool and a jack. I felt the cold steel of the tire tool, pulled it out, and ran back towards the house and up the front steps. The house was completely dark. I opened the storm door and grabbed the doorknob, hollering Fraley’s name at the same time. The door was locked. I broke out a window with the tire tool, reached inside, and unlocked the dead bolt and the knob.

I kept telling myself that Alisha was wrong, that she’d probably just experienced a nightmare, that there was no way Fraley would let Natasha get the best of him.

“Fraley!” I called as I stepped into the den. I’d been in the house only once, the night Fraley rode with me to Crossville to get Sarah, but he’d given me a little tour. He showed me the pictures of his family that he’d hung on the wall and his medals from serving in the 101st Airborne Division in Vietnam.

The house was dead silent. As I crept down the short hallway towards the bedroom, gripping the tire iron tightly in my right hand, I felt the temperature drop, and I immediately knew Natasha had been there. I heard sirens in the distance just as I reached the bedroom. The door was open slightly, so I gently pushed it with the tire iron. I reached around the doorway with my left hand and slid it against the wall until I felt a light switch.

The scene before me caused my knees to buckle, and I staggered towards the bed, trying to keep my balance. Fraley was faceup, his eyes and mouth wide open. I stood over him and reached down to feel his carotid for a pulse, but he was perfectly still. Fresh blood was everywhere. It covered his face, arms, and pajamas. I forced myself to look more closely, and could make out several puncture wounds. There was blood on the walls, even on the ceiling. The bedroom window was open. Natasha must have made her exit through the window. As I backed awkwardly away from the bed, I noticed something on the floor. It was Fraley’s pistol, and it too was covered in blood.

I reached down and picked up the pistol, the sirens outside growing louder with each passing second. As I tried to decide what I should do next, several images again began flashing through my head: the Becks’ bullet-riddled bodies; Norman Brockwell and his wife, brutally murdered; Sarah’s battered face; Lilly on the ground, fighting for her life; Boyer’s body on the holding cell floor; Fraley’s death stare; and Caroline lying alone, dying from a blood infection. Again I heard the old man’s warning:
“If the curse is real, there’s only one way to break it. One of you has to die… . One of you has to die… . One of you has to die… .”

Fraley’s car keys were on the bedside table. I knew a shotgun would be in either the cab or the trunk. I grabbed the keys and hurried out the door, intending to find the shotgun and take off in my truck. The sirens were louder, almost there. The place would soon be filled with uniformed officers and paramedics. If I stuck around I’d be held there for the rest of the night.

Instead of opening the trunk, I jumped in and started Fraley’s car.

Wednesday, November 12

The heavy winds were ushering in a thunderstorm, and as I drove the cruiser across town a blinding bolt of lightning tore through the blackened sky, followed by a clap of thunder that reminded me of an artillery burst. I was conscious on some level that what I was doing was wrong, but after seeing Fraley’s body and the horrific way in which he died, I wasn’t thinking rationally. About halfway to Natasha’s house, I punched Leon Bates’s number into my cell.

“Natasha killed Fraley,” I said when Bates answered in a sleepy voice. “I’m going after her.”

“What? Killed Fraley? When?”

“A few minutes ago. I just left his house. She stabbed him to death.”

“What do you mean, you’re going after her?” Bates asked.

“It’s time somebody put a stop to this.”

“Now, you wait just one damned tick there, ol’ buddy. You can’t go tearing after a suspect with murder in your heart.”

“She’s responsible for at least nine deaths,” I said. “She’s terrorized me and my family. She’s threatened me; she even left a threatening message in my house. I’m going, Leon. You can’t stop me.”

“And what are those beautiful children of yours going to do if she kills you? Especially if Caroline doesn’t make it?”

I hung up on him as soon as he mentioned Caroline’s name. It was the thought of saving her life that was driving me. If I could kill Natasha, maybe it would break the curse, and maybe Caroline would be all right. I tried not to think about what he’d said about my children. I willed myself to think only about what Natasha had done to Caroline and Lilly and Fraley and the Becks and the Brockwells. By the time I got to Natasha’s neighborhood, I was in a blind rage.

I parked Fraley’s car a couple of blocks from Natasha’s and rifled through the trunk. It turned out to be a bonanza—a twelve-gauge pump shotgun, fully loaded with seven shells, and a flashlight. I stuck Fraley’s pistol in my pants pocket and walked quickly up the road in a driving rain. I jogged towards an old Chevy that was parked in the driveway and felt the hood. It was warm.

I crouched beside the car for a few moments, watching the house and listening. Nothing was moving; the house and yard were dark except for occasional flashes of lightning. I became aware of my clothing. I was still wearing the same clothes I’d worn to work the preceding morning. I’d left my coat at the hospital, and my shirt was soaked and sticking to me. A cold chill ran through me, and I decided to move.

I walked slowly up on the front porch and turned the doorknob. It was unlocked, but it squeaked slightly as I opened it. I crouched again and moved just inside the door. Another flash of lightning exploded above me, briefly illuminating an image of Marie Davis sitting in her recliner. I pushed the switch on the flashlight and panned the kitchen and den. Marie, wearing her flowered robe, was staring straight at me, her face as pale as white paper behind the tinted glasses. I moved towards her slowly, still in a crouch.

“Where is she?” I whispered.

She looked away for a brief second and I heard air rushing through her nostrils. When she turned back, she raised her right hand, her index finger pointing towards the back of the house. She mouthed the word
outside
.

I moved back out through the front door, went down the steps, and put my back against the front of the house. From there, I started sliding along the wall until I got to the corner. I peeked around the side, looking for any sign of Natasha or a dog, seeing nothing. I slid along the side wall until I got to the corner. I raised the flashlight and scanned the backyard. Still nothing. Just as I started to move, I thought I sensed movement behind me. I was conscious of another lightning strike and searing pain, and then I slipped into darkness.

I don’t know how long I was unconscious, but when I woke up I was flat on my back with rain pelting down on me, stinging my face. I opened my eyes and first tried to lift my head, but the pain in my temples was so intense when I moved that I nearly threw up. I closed my eyes and lay still, thoroughly confused until I suddenly remembered where I was. Hunting for Natasha. Trying to save my wife. But something had happened. Either I’d been struck by lightning, or someone had hit me.

I tried to sit up, but realized that my arms and legs were restrained. I turned my head from side to side and could see that my wrists were tied to something that had been driven into the ground. Tent stakes? I pulled against them with what little strength I had, but neither of them moved. I lifted my head and could see that my legs were both bound in the same fashion. As I laid my head back down on the cold, soaked earth, I could feel something warm running down the back of my neck, and I knew it must be blood.

The kitten. Natasha and her kitten.

I began to tug at the stakes again, ignoring the pain that was surging down my spine and radiating through my entire body.

C’mon, goddammit! C’mon!

I tried desperately to push the stakes back and pull them towards me. I thought if I could loosen them enough in the ground, I’d be able to pull them up.

As I strained against the ropes, I heard a snarl a few feet away. I turned my head just as a bolt of lightning flashed and could make out a figure standing beneath a small tree, wearing a hood. In its hand was a thick leash, and attached to the leash was a Doberman. A sickening chill overtook me. It was Natasha. My heart began to pound even harder in my chest. She wrapped the leash around the trunk of the tree a couple of times, tied it, took a few steps, and stood directly above me. I knew if I didn’t find a way to free myself soon, I’d be dead.

“I like you in this position,” she said in a calm voice. “If I had more time, I’d build a cross and do it right.”

She knelt down, her knees almost straddling my head. I watched as she reached with her right hand to the ground to retrieve something. She picked up a hammer, the one she must have used to drive the stakes into the ground. Slowly, she reached into a coat pocket and pulled out an ice pick. She began waving the pick back and forth in front of my eyes.

“Have you come to arrest me?” she said. “Or have you come to kill me? I think you’re here to kill me. And what does that say about you, Mr. Dillard? It says you’re no different than me. You came to punish me for violating your Christian laws, just like I punish those who deserve it. Or did you come to sacrifice yourself so others might live? Do you have a Jesus complex, Mr. Dillard? Do you?”

She bent close to the ground and put her lips next to my ear.

“I wish I could crucify you,” she whispered, “but since I can’t nail you to the ground, I’ll have to settle for this.”

She moved quickly to her right, still on her knees. I saw her hold the ice pick against my right forearm, felt the stab of the steel point. She raised the hammer and brought it down hard. I moaned as the pick drove through my flesh.
Oh, my God, how’s it going to feel when she drives it into my throat, my chest, my eye?
The pain was unspeakable, but I refused to scream or beg for mercy. The rage I’d felt before I was knocked out had returned. I hated her. I hated her and everything she represented. I put an image of blowing a hole through her with the shotgun in my mind, and kept straining against the ropes.

She pulled the ice pick out, sending another shock of pain through me, then straddled me and began whispering in my ear again.

“The smell of your blood will drive Zeus wild,” she said. “As soon as I finish, I’m going to let him taste you. He hates you anyway. Do you know why? Because I told him you killed his sister. How’s your daughter, anyway?”

She scooted to the left and drove the pick through my other forearm. A wave of nausea came over me, and I turned my head to the side in case I threw up. I didn’t want to drown in my own vomit, but the thought crossed my mind that it might be better than what Natasha had in store for me. She crawled around to my right foot, and I braced again for the pain. But as she lifted the hammer, I heard another female voice.

“Stop hurting him, Natasha.”

Was I hallucinating? Maybe, but when I looked at Natasha, there was a look of surprise, maybe bewilderment, on her face.

“You!” Natasha hissed as she slowly stood. “What are
you
doing here?”

I heard a squishing sound, footsteps, and looked back and to my left. Alisha was standing there, and in her hands she held Fraley’s shotgun. The dog continued to snarl and bark. I could see it pulling against the leash.
Please, God, don’t let the leash break. Please.