Shadow of Perception (39 page)

Holding the rifle in one hand and the knife in the other, Michael eased toward the doctor, then leaned into the van and severed the tape that held Roth’s arms and legs together and behind him.
 
“Get out,” Michael ordered, and raised the gun.
 

Hands still taped behind his back, and ankles bound, Roth inched like a worm toward the open door. When he reached the edge, he stopped and looked up at Michael.

“Do it.” When he realized Roth’s head would take the majority of the fall, he added, “It’s not that far of a drop, and if you’re worried about messing up your face…maybe breaking a nose, don’t. I was planning on fixing that big ol’ honker of yours anyway.”

Instead of moving forward and out of the van, Roth began to shift his body backward.
 

Michael set the knife on the roof of the van, then raised the rifle and took aim. “One way or another you’re coming out of that van. You can do it with a bullet in your ass, or you can cooperate and follow my directions.”

Roth’s face grew red and his eyes watered. The veins in his neck strained as he tried to speak.

Lowering the rifle, Michael leaned into the van, and ripped the tape from Roth’s mouth.

“You son of a bitch. I’ll kill you for this. I’ll fucking kill you,” Roth raged.

“Big threats for a guy who’s bound up and has a rifle pointed at him. But I understand. It’s like I said, though, you either get out of the van now, or you can get out of the van later…with a bullet in you.”

Roth spat on the floorboard. “Fuck you. Go ahead and kill me. I don’t take orders from you.”

“Oh, I’m not going to kill you. That’s the coyotes’ job. But I will start shooting. First your ass, then your leg, then maybe your hand…I’m trying to remember. Are you a lefty or a righty? I’d hate to shoot the wrong hand. I know how critical it is for you to be able to use your hands when performing surgeries.”

“You sick bastard,” Roth shouted.

“All of this name calling isn’t necessary. Just do as you’re told.” He raised the rifle and aimed at Roth’s ass. “You’ve got ten seconds to get out of the van. One, two, three…”
 

Michael pulled the trigger.

The shot echoed throughout the garage, along with Roth’s scream.

Raising the rifle again, Michael aimed for the man’s leg. “One, two—”

“Don’t,” Roth wailed. “Please. I’ll move. I’ll move.” He cried as he heaved his body toward the opened door. “See. You don’t have to shoot. You
didn’t
have to shoot. If you’d given me to ten, then—”

“I still would have shot you.”

“Why?”

Michael shrugged. “I don’t like you.”

Roth dangled his head over the concrete. “The feeling’s mutual. I fucking
hate
you.”

Tired of Roth’s potty mouth, Michael grabbed the man by the belt, then hauled his ass out of the van. When he landed face down, Michael pressed the butt of the gun into Roth’s bullet wound.

More wailing and blubbering ensued. Michael rolled his eyes. “Crybaby,” he said, then grabbed the back of Roth’s belt again, and lugged him closer to the OR. Once he reached the surgical table, he forced Roth to his feet.
 

Roth resisted. Twisting his body and throwing himself to the concrete.
 

With a schedule to meet, and in no mood for Roth’s bullshit, Michael smashed the butt of the gun into Roth’s kidney. The man rolled to his side, and raised his bound ankles. Before his feet could connect with Michael’s legs, Michael swung the rifle like a golf club.

Blood spurted from Roth’s nose. Wincing, he released a groan, then closed his eyes. His body limp and unmoving, Michael gave his stomach a swift kick. No reaction. Good, now he could prep Roth for surgery.

Within twenty minutes, Michael had Roth on the surgical table, his arms and legs bound. Sure Roth could not escape, he went to the office. He eyed the bottle of Wild Turkey on the desk, but didn’t give in to temptation. He needed to stay sober. For what he had planned afterward, his head needed to be clear.
 

He’d love nothing more than to be half-drunk when he performed Roth’s nose job. Mutilating a man’s face, even if he hated the guy, was not something he looked forward to doing. The blood, the screams…they would follow him into hell and live with him for an eternity.
 

He’d crossed the line of morality the day he kidnapped Dr. Thomas Elliot. Even then he could have stopped, released Elliot, untouched, somewhere far from his farmhouse. Never having harmed a creature in his life, he’d wanted to stop.
 

His daughter had deserved justice, though. Whether his brand of justice was right or wrong, it was justice nonetheless.
 

Ignoring the whiskey, he moved toward the TV, then stopped. Roth’s groans drifted into the office. “Damn it, why can’t he stay the hell asleep,” Michael mumbled, then an idea appealed to him.
 

After unplugging the TV and DVD player, he carefully pushed the TV cart from the office and into the OR. After plugging all the cords into the socket, he adjusted the cart at an angle in which Roth could have full view of the movie. Once satisfied that he’d given Roth access to the TV screen, he moved to the surgical table, then twisted the man’s head.

“Unless you want me to bind your head to the table, face the TV.”

“Fuck you,” Roth said, then spat.

Michael wiped the phlegm from his face, and shook his head. “You shouldn’t have done that,” he said, then walked to the van and retrieved the hunting knife he’d left on the roof. When he returned to the surgical table, he waved the blade, then shoved it into the sole of Roth’s foot.

Roth screamed, high and loud.

Leaving the knife imbedded in his foot, Michael clamped a hand over Roth’s mouth. “I dare you to swear at me again.”

Roth shook his head.

“Be good,” Michael said as he released Roth’s mouth. He removed the knife. “Or else this blade will find its way into your other foot. After that, maybe I’ll go for your groin.”

Sweating and panting, Roth lolled his head. “Please, if it’s money you’re after…”

“I don’t want your money. But I do want you to watch something. Now that I think about it, I regret not showing this DVD to the others.”

“Others?” Roth echoed.

“Mmm-hmm, you know, Tom Elliot, Brian Westly, Leo Tully…”

Tears streamed through the blood on Roth’s cheeks. “Did you…?”

“Kill them? Not really.” When Michael noticed Roth’s body relax, he added, “With the exception of Westly, the coyotes did that for me.”

The man’s prone body tensed. “Why? What did we do to you?”

Michael hit PLAY on the DVD remote. “Watch.”

The home movie began with Eliza in her pretty purple dress, and as it moved forward through the years, he glanced at Roth. His bloodied face contorted in confusion, then with realization as the final still shot of Eliza appeared on the screen.
 

“Any of this making any sense, Doctor?”

“Yes,” he hissed as more tears streaked his face. “I remember you now. And I remember your daughter.
She
came to us, and we did what she asked.”

“Right.” Michael nodded. “She asked you and your doctor buddies to scar her body.”

Wincing when he raised his head, Roth said, “She still looked good enough.”

Arching a brow, Michael blew out a deep sigh. “Good enough,” he repeated. “There was nothing wrong with her in the first place. Do you agree?” He waved the hunting knife. “And I suggest you tell me the truth.”

“I…I think the rhinoplasty enhanced her face.”

“And the other surgeries?”

Roth glared at him, then glanced away. “No.”

“No? Interesting.” He set the knife on the workbench. “Personally, I think you’re full of shit and are trying to save your sorry ass. Look at my daughter.” He pointed to the TV screen. “You know damn well you screwed up her nose when you were trying to
enhance
her face. You tried to narrow the tip, and removed too much cartilage. Her nose began to collapse, and her nostrils become distorted.”

“She still didn’t look that bad,” Roth, the arrogant prick, argued. “And I told her I could fix it.”

“In a year, and for more money,” Michael said with disgust. “You, Elliot, Westly, and Tully are all nothing but a bunch of egotistical blood suckers. You preyed on my daughter, on her money and insecurities, just like you’d preyed on other young women.”

“That’s not true,” Roth whined. “We were only trying to help women appreciate their faces and bodies.”

“Is that why you gave Westly a nice bonus each time he sent you a new patient?”

“A referral fee, that’s all that was, and there’s nothing illegal about it.”

“No, not illegal, but immoral. I’ve researched some of your clients, the young women who endured the same botched-up surgeries as my daughter. Some of those girls still need psychiatric help, while others had to endure multiple surgeries to fix what you bastards had done to them.”

“Immoral? Who are you to judge what’s immoral? Look what you’re doing to me, what you’ve done to my colleagues.”

Roth’s impertinence, over what he and the others had done, and the way he dared to accuse and judge, spiked Michael’s temper. He gripped Roth’s broken nose, and squeezed. “Don’t you dare scream. Don’t even utter another word.”

The man winced and opened his mouth.

Michael squeezed harder. “Not a word.”

Roth nodded, but Michael didn’t release him. Of all the men, he wanted Roth to suffer the most. While the other surgeries had been bad, Roth’s had been the worst. At least Eliza could cover the disfiguring lumps and scars on her body with clothes. But she couldn’t cover her nose.
 

And although the botched surgeries could have been fixed eventually, the doctors at Med Spa, specifically the lead doctor, Victor Roth, had expected Eliza to pay for them. She’d seen an attorney, but the contract she signed with the doctors had stated, in much more eloquent and bullshit legal jargon, that basically all sales were final. If only her stupid bitch of a mother had paid better attention to the contract Eliza had signed. Instead, she’d kept her head in the clouds. She’d looked at dollar signs rather than consider her daughter’s health. Sarah had been convinced these surgeries would take Eliza to the necessary level of perfection, and would lead to a multimillion dollar modeling career. Because of Sarah’s selfish stupidity, and Roth and his colleagues’ greed, Eliza was dead.

 
Michael released Roth’s nose. After wiping Roth’s blood on the man’s shirt, he walked to the video recorder, angled the camera in order to have Roth’s face in the frame, then pressed RECORD. “I want you to tell me everything,” he said. “I know you spearheaded the surgical group, Cosmetic Solutions and Med Spa. Now tell me how you ended up putting Westly on the payroll.”

The defiant son of a bitch remained mute. With a shrug, Michael slipped on the surgical mask and cap. For this occasion, he didn’t bother to draw a mouth on the mask. Instead, he created a large pig’s snout in honor of the pig about to experience the butchery of plastic surgery.

“Nothing to say?” Michael asked as he picked up the scalpel from the workbench, and then waved it in Roth’s face.

Weary, and emotionally drained, Michael had lost the desire to drag out Roth’s torture, but for Eliza, he’d endure. Pinching the bridge of Roth’s nose, he pressed the tip of the scalpel against the man’s swollen nostril.

“Wait,” Roth shouted. “Please wait. I’ll talk.”

Michael took a step back.
 

“It’s true,” Roth blurted. “I met Elliot and Tully at our country club, and together we formed Med Spa. Business hadn’t been that great. About a year after we opened, Elliot brought Westly to the club to play golf. Elliot and Westly had gone to college together and had been in the same fraternity. When I found out Westly was a dentist, I started asking him about his clients. When I found out how many of his patients were going to him for veneers, I…I started thinking that if those people were willing to shell out that kind of cash for their teeth, maybe some of them might be interested in fixing other parts of their face and body.”

He drew in a deep breath through his mouth, then looked away.
 

“And?” Michael prompted.

“And I suggested he talk up Med Spa. If he sent a patient to us, they’d get a ten percent discount on their procedure, and Westly would get a bonus from us.”

“Those patients really didn’t get any discounts, did they?”

“No, we just raised the price.”

Those lying bastards.
Michael kept his temper in check. An outburst might shut Roth up before he finished giving the world his confession.
 

“And did you or any of the other doctors, Westly included, suggest unnecessary surgeries to your clients?” Michael asked, and hoped the man answered honestly. If Roth lied, holding his temper under control would become dangerously difficult, especially because he knew all about the lies they’d spewed to Eliza.

When Roth didn’t answer, Michael moved toward him with the scalpel. “If you’re finished talking, we’ll just go ahead and—”