A Deserving Man

They should discover the murder at seven. That’s when Gil Caster’s assistant, Marie, arrives at his ten-bedroom mansion to help him prepare for the morning’s appointments.

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I wait from my high vantage spot as the night sky lightens from black to dark gray. Then light-blue creeps into the eastern sky, so she should arrive soon. I peer down in silence as seven o’clock comes and goes. Gil’s assistant is a no-show.

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The sun is peeking over the distant horizon when two police vehicles pull up without sirens. I know I should leave before they discover me hiding here, but something compels me to wait a little longer to witness the big discovery.

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Three detectives, wearing regulation gray-brown raincoats, disappear through the open front door just below me, while the fourth remains outside, leaning against the hood of his car. I hear the whine of sirens coming closer. Red or white flashes come through the shrubbery gaps as an ambulance pulls up the long, secluded drive.

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The driver gets out to chat with the policeman, who lights a cigarette. I wonder what they discuss. Something about the millionaire Mr. Gil Caster, I think cynically. The magnificent Gil Caster, philanthropist, political mover, and morality champion, who is the power behind the governor’s throne. That swine Gil Caster, who raped me when I was fifteen.

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It took twenty-five years to reawaken what he did. A quarter century to realize I’m not to blame for being unable to stop him, that I didn’t invite him to defile me. He earned his death, and I am one of many who deserved to give it to him.

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He was standing in his kitchen preparing his breakfast when I confronted him. The sixty-year-old bastard didn’t even remember my name, one of dozens who sought help from him with their school projects. It had surprised me when he accepted my invitation all those years ago, suggesting we meet at a secluded place in the late afternoon, so town leaders couldn’t interrupt them.

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For decades I suppressed the memory, but when my daughter was fifteen, the recollection came bubbling up like stomach acid. Yesterday I read about tonight’s Governor’s Ball. How could I protect my children while this animal continued to walk our earth?

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An hour ago, he stood by the open refrigerator as it illuminated his pale, flaccid face while I pointed my gun at him. He appealed to me, saying I was mistaken about him. But I shot him anyway. Then I stepped to his body to shoot him again. I cursed him as his blood spread over the black marble tiles, covering the quartz chips that reflected the light.

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Now the first responders are standing outside the successful Gil Caster’s mansion. Judging by the view below me, I must be watching from his balcony over the columned entrance, though I don’t recall how I got here.

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When the medical crew goes inside, I remain. When the press show up, I linger, waiting for them to drag the bastard’s body out. When they wheel out the body bag, I smile. The news folk crowd around the gurney, snapping photos until they reach the ambulance.

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It surprises me to see the EMT squad return to the house as an anxious calm falls again. Ten minutes later, they come out with a second corpse in a sack. More pictures as they push it to the vehicle before loading it efficiently into the back. Once the doors close, it pulls away with lights flashing but no sirens. I wonder who is in that other body bag.

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Then I spot the young woman, Marie, leaving the house with the police. She wears a gray-brown raincoat with her hands cuffed behind her. I observe them leading her to their car before easing her into the rear seat. From this high vantage, I cannot peer inside the vehicle.

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I relive the confrontation in my mind. Gil stands in front of the refrigerator with his crescent moon face. He is saying something about me. Telling me I imagined it all, when in fact every detail remains seared into my brain. The smell of the fresh cut grass, the heat of the sun in the cloudless sky. I remember each second now.

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Then she came in, dressed in a pale-yellow bathrobe that failed to cover her naked backside. Marie was barely sixteen. I wondered how long she’d been with him; was she my daughter’s age when he first seduced her?

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I saw my teenager in her, so I shot Gil Caster once then twice.

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When Marie began screaming, I turned. She had a gun pointed at me.

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That’s the last thing I recall.