Gibson

Years of clues and research had led Lilah to this place. Of course gut feelings also played a role in the chase. She drove fast along highway 85 towards Spartanburg. It was the middle of the day and there were few cars out. She stayed in the far left lane, passing all the cars she saw, keeping an eye out for highway patrol. All of the windows were down and cold air whipped into the car, tossing her long black hair every which way. The flight to Charlotte had been long boring. Lilah had slept very little in the last two days and needed to keep her wits about her. The cold air was unpleasant but kept her awake and alert. She tightened her gloved hands on the steering wheel, smiling at the way the expensive leather stretched across her knuckles.

The sun, directly above her, lit up the whole place in a cold pale light. Leafless trees formed walls on either side of the freeway. Occasionally small cabins and houses could be seen through the translucent grey barrier. Tall, brightly colored signs marked the presence of chain restaurants located just over the hills. It was all too bright for Lilah who squinted her beautiful green eyes and who’s exquisitely formed brow creased in mild frustration.

            She made no visible acknowledgement of the trees or restaurants or cabins. She noticed them because she missed nothing, but she felt no need to make that apparent. Every small detail was stored in the back of her head. She had spent years learning to do this and years more doing it. While she was not caring about her surroundings, she drove on, thinking only of the man she had come here to see. She glanced over at her small leather bag sitting on the passenger seat. It bulged slightly in places. Lilah wondered which of those bulges was her pistol. It sure was a beautiful pistol. She rummaged around in her bag with one hand, found the gun, and placed it on top of the bag so she could look over at it.

°°°

Lilah remembered his hands. They were twitching and writhing, gripping each other and locking and unlocking their fingers. Their skin was taut and wrinkly; the way skin gets when it’s burned. Lilah, only seven at the time, wondered what had happened that made his hands so remarkably disfigured. She wanted to know why he was only burned on his hands and nowhere else. She remembered his eyes too. They were cold and grey and full. There was so much emotion in those eyes but Lilah could not for the life of her read them.

            She watched this man as he watched the casket containing her mother. He was the only person she did not know in that funeral parlor. It seemed to her that no one knew him. As everyone held each other in their grief, he stood alone in the corner, greeted by and greeting no one. She imagined under normal circumstances her father would have thrown him out. Her father hated strangers, especially strange men. But these were far from normal circumstances. Her mother was dead. That was not normal. And her father was on trial, accused of murdering her. That wasn’t normal either.

            So Lilah stood in one corner, watching the man with the grey eyes and burnt hands standing in the other corner. And Lilah wondered what would happen to her and what would happen to her father in this strange situation she still believed was a dream.

°°°

            A week after the funeral Lilah’s dad, Bill, was placed in jail. All of the evidence pointed to murder. Detectives didn’t have to look far to find the answer. Bill had always been wealthy. His father was wealthy and his grandfather was wealthy. He could not think of a single relative that was not well off. Bill fell in love with Dana. Dana was not wealthy and as much as Bill loved and trusted Dana he could not overcome the feeling she had married him for his money. When Bill discovered Dana had been cheating on him he flew into a grief stricken rage and killed Dana, landing himself in jail and leaving his seven year old daughter in the hands of the government.

            Lilah was sent to live with her grandmother in Connecticut. Life there was incredibly dull. She would sit for hours in her room, just watching the trees outside of her window. At times like these (which were often) her thoughts shrunk away from her cold surroundings and clung to the white-hot anger and hurt that filled her entire being. She couldn’t accept this fate that had been thrust upon her so suddenly. Lilah couldn’t accept the idea that her perfect parents were cheating murderers.

Gibson was his name – the man with the burnt hands, the true murderer. Lilah promised herself to get revenge on this man who ruined her life and destroyed her family.

°°°

            Lilah sat in the driver’s seat of her little rental car and drove on along the 85, remembering this resolution. She was now thirty-two and the resolution had not changed one bit. She was determined to find the man who had caused her family so much pain. She had devoted her entire adult life to this. Lilah glanced at the gas dial through her long black lashes. It was almost empty. There was a Shell station at the next exit so she pulled to the right and sped along to the pump.

            She opened the door and placed one foot adorned in an elegant black stiletto firmly on the ground. It was followed by another and, holding the door with her leather-gloved hand, she stood up next to the car. Lilah closed the door firmly and smoothed out the wrinkles in her skirt and wool pea coat.

She tapped her foot impatiently, waiting for the tank to fill up, one hand on the pump, the other resting firmly on the roof of the car. The freeway could be seen from the station. Lilah watched the cars zoom by. She recognized many that she had just passed.

            The house was close - ten minutes at most. She would recognize the place by the pictures. They were in her bag, but she knew she wouldn’t need them. Lilah closed her eyes and could see every detail, could practically smell the place. It was an ancient house out in the middle of the woods. The trees surrounding it would create a thick layer of moldy, wet groundcover that smelled strongly of dirt and rot. The lawn in the side yard would be wet from the morning dew and midday sprinklers. The old brick stairs leading to the side door would be wet as well. Lilah would have to be careful climbing those mossy things; the side door would be her only entryway.

            The door led to a small pantry that Gibson never used. And despite his large sums of money, he had no maid or caretaker to notice her entry. These facts came from those sad little detectives Lilah had hired to spy on Gibson. They served their purpose well enough. She had obtained plenty of information on the man. But each so called “detective” had failed to keep a low profile and the old man had become suspicious and paranoid. He knew she was coming for him soon.

            Gibson stayed inside, doors locked and shades drawn. Any normal man would have called the cops, but he had not. She suspected he wanted no more to do with the law. He had framed her father and had gotten away with nothing but a few court hearings and question sessions. While the law was no longer suspicious of Gibson, it would never do to call the police – he would have to tell them what the problem was and that, of course, tied him in with Dana’s murder case. No, that wouldn’t do. He was a free man and wanted to stay a free man.

            The gas pump clicked, finished with its task. Lilah quickly hung it in its holder, paid and returned to the drivers seat. A man at the pump next to hers gave her a nervous look and quickly moved his gaze. She remembered that she had left her weapon laying on her seat in broad daylight. Oh well, she thought and drove out of the parking lot.

°°°

            As she had guessed, finding the house was not difficult in the least. Two turns off the main exit and down the lane. There it was, peering out from behind the trees. Lilah drove a little down the lane, slowed to a stop, and turned off the car.

            Her actions were smooth and orderly, as if planned in advance.

Lilah carefully lifted the pistol from her bag and placed it next to her on her seat. She took off her gloves, one at a time, and slipped them into her bag.

Then, with her freshly manicured nails, she took the keys from the ignition and they joined her gloves in the bag

Taking a measured breath, Lilah opened the car door and stood next to the car.

She took off her coat and laid it on her bag, which was still resting on the passenger seat.

Then, picking up the pistol she took another breath, looked around quickly, and closed the car door.

Her heels made no noise; the path on which she was walking was covered in thick moss. As Lilah got closer to the house she was surprised at how large it was. The picture had made it look much smaller. The blinds were closed, like she knew they would be and it made her more confident as she walked across the side lawn and to the mossy stairs. He was hiding out in his house, old and shaking, finally going to get the punishment he deserved. A new railing had been added to the stairs and Lilah grasped it tightly to stop herself from falling backwards.

°°°

The house was dark. He was in the main hallway now. He had donned a pair of wool socks to muffle his footsteps. At this point Lilah was sure he knew she was there. The socks, the stealthy creeping, the systematic closing of curtains and shades… She was now trying to figure out what weapon he possessed, if any. If he had a gun, her job might be a bit more complicated.

            She flitted quickly to the crack between the door and the hallway wall. Through the crack she could make out his form in the entryway. He was crouched, bent over, eyes looking every which way. In his right hand he held a bat. Lilah was surprised at his primitive choice of defense. She backed up slowly into the light of the hall and raised the pistol.

“Drop the bat, Gibson,” she whispered. He jumped a spectacular height and quickly turned around to face her. His scar-covered hands clutched the bat more tightly but his whole body trembled as he stared at her, terrified.

“Gibson,” she cooed, “I said to drop the bat.” He shook even more, too paralyzed to speak. He relaxed his hands and the bat fell to the beige carpet with a cushioned thud.

“Let’s go to the kitchen,” Lilah said, still in a soft voice. “Come on now.” She walked closer and nudged him with the end of the pistol.

            He winced and started shuffling forward. His whole body was still shaking. As they reached the doorway Lilah flicked on the kitchen light, flooding the room with a pleasant yellow glow.

“Sit,” she motioned to a small wooden table next to one of the windows. Lilah was worried his legs, trembling as they were, might not last him much longer. She looked at him. His face was familiar; it had been in the back of her mind for the last thirty or so years of her life. He had aged quite a bit though. She glanced at his hand resting gripping his shaky leg. The burn marks hadn’t changed one bit.

Lilah sat down across the table from Gibson; gun still aimed at his face.

“Well,” she sighed, “you know what’s coming.” She wanted to kill him right then and there. To put and end to it all. But her curiosity was getting the better of her; she was finally face to face with the man she’d been hunting her whole life, what would he say to the woman who’s life he knowingly destroyed?

“I…” Gibson’s voice cracked and he coughed violently a couple of times. Lilah kept her face still, eyes alert, and gun at the ready.

“I know you think I did it. But I don’t think you’re positive. Why else would you be letting me talk?” His voice, shaky and weak at first, was becoming clear and strong. “You want to know the truth. Somewhere in that cold mind of yours, you’re questioning that story you’ve invented for yourself. If you were positive I killed Dana, you would have killed me by now. I…” but his words were cut off by the earsplitting crack of Lilah’s pistol being fired.

Gibson was blown back off of his stool onto the cold, kitchen floor. Blood seeped from his stomach and pooled next to him. Lilah stood up, infuriated. How dare he…

Her heels clicked menacingly as she walked over to him. She knelt next to his head and held the gun to his temple.

“Tell the truth Gibson,” she whispered.

“The truth?” He moaned. His breathing was rough and uneven. “Dana didn’t want me any more,” he gasped, “and I didn’t like that, of course, but I respected her wishes and I left.” He paused, breathing hard. Lilah pressed the pistol harder against his hairline. The man winced in pain.

“You’re father… I don’t know the whole story. I was gone, I was home. He killed her, I…” But again his words were cut off by the bang of the pistol.

Lilah stood up slowly, looking down at the bloody remains. Gibson’s face was gone from his body and it was gone from her mind.