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Fairweather pales when he sees me and sends a panicked glance behind himself, then faces me again.
“Mr. Augustine. I didn’t expect to see you.” He tries for a faltering smile.
“No, I guess you didn’t. Lucky you, two Augustines in one day. My mother was here earlier.”
“Oh. Yes. She’s, uh, a new patient.”
“Is she?”
He swallows, holds onto the back of one of the chairs set in front of his desk.
“What did you inject my wife with?”
He opens his mouth, stutters. I go to him, grab him by the back of his head, and push him into a seat. I tug on his hair to pull his head back, so he looks up at me.
“Dr. Fairweather, what did you give my wife?”
“Nothing that would hurt her. I swear.”
I smile, then let him go. “Stand up.”
“I swear. It was nothing that would hurt her. I swear!”
“Hard of hearing, this one,” I say to Val who comes over, grabs Fairweather by the shoulders and pulls him up to his feet. He’s about my height, not quite my build and soft in the middle, but that’s not my problem. I draw my arm back and punch him in the gut. He wheezes, doubles over, stumbling backward and knocking the chair on its side.
“Sit,” I tell him as Val rights his chair.
He tries, I’ll give him that. I nod to Val who, with one hand on his shoulder, plants him back in the chair.
“What. Did. You. Give. My. Wife?”
“A… fer… fertility injection.”
My world goes sideways. My brain literally slams up against my skull and makes the world fucking tilt on its axis.
“Up,” I tell him, somehow managing to sound calm.
He shakes his head, holding his hands up in surrender but again, Val assists him, and I land a second hit to his gut. I call out his name and he looks up at me and when he does, I punch him. His head snaps back and again, he stumbles backward. This time, he falls on top of the chair, getting his legs tangled with it.
“Up.”
He stutters something as Val hauls him up, rights the chair, and sits him down.
“On whose order? Cummings or my mother?”
He opens his mouth, pushing a tooth out into the palm of his hand. He looks horrified, and I don’t mention that I haven’t gotten started yet. This one won’t get a line carved into my skin when I’m done with him. This one is guilty as hell.
I lean down, fist his hair, and tug his head backward. He whimpers, holds his hands up, tears streaming down his face.
“Please,” he begs.
“Cummings or my mother?” Because if Cummings ordered it, he’s a dead man.
He shakes his head. Well, he tries to. He blubbers and Val, ever helpful, walks over to the small, glass front refrigerator and brings him a bottle of water, even opening it for him. I let go of his hair and he drinks a sip, spilling some down his chin and shirt front.
I lean against his desk and watch the son of a bitch. “I’ll ask once more, then I’ll get down to business. Cummings or my mother?”
“Your mother. Cummings… He… I told him I was going to see the house. I’ve always loved that house.” He begins weeping, and it’s fucking pathetic. “Mrs. Augustine, she said… she said…” He shakes his head.
