And The Truth Shall Set You Free

Contracture scarring, the surgeon said. It causes the muscles and tendons to tighten, limiting movement. Quite common in severe burn victims, he said.

In a dark corner obscured in its shadow, George Finch sat alone. His eyes scanned the room watching for any unwelcome stares, but no one did. Instead, the oblivious faces seemed mesmerized by the young couple on the dance floor. Accompanied by slow music, they swayed intimately across the room, their bodies pressed close. "That'll be five dollars," a voice interrupted. The red-headed waitress placed a large glass of whiskey down in front of him then assumed a waiting position; hand on hip. George attempted a smile hoping his face bore even a slight expression. But the damaged nerves made it near impossible. The waitress scraped the crumpled note off the table and scurried back behind the bar. The smooth brown liquid flowed easily down his throat. He savored its taste for as long as he could before setting the empty glass down. He glanced at his watch, then stood up and walked out of the room.

Outside, the frigid winter air was heavy and darkness had claimed the small town of Brushwood. Near the entrance, he noticed a black woman with white-blonde hair, leaning against the wall in a provocative pose. Her face a mask in the half-light. Almost sinister. Under the fluorescent light her breasts heaved with a kind of hypnotic allure, and for a brief moment he is unable to pull his eyes away from those soft dark curves. Curves reserved for paying men. She catches him staring. A flirtatious smile floats across her lips. "You like what you see Mister?" she calls, her eyes pointing to those soft curves. "Why... I bet you never had a woman before, have you," she taunts. He doesn't respond. But her pathetic laugh strikes a nerve and he finds himself instantly resenting her. His jaw tightened. A wild grimace lurched across his face and his resentment turns to anger. Harlot! he responds to himself strangling the urge to shout it aloud. That would of been a show of weakness. It would of given her the reaction she wanted. He snapped his gaze free and continued on his way.

George Finch walked with a fluid awkwardness you might expect from a man of his stature. At six-feet-five he towered above most mortal men. He had grown accustomed to people making room for him. His brow-less black eyes squinted through half closed eyelids, and clumps of hair sprouted out from reddened patches on his head. He was a loner. He preferred it that way. But since his mothers sudden death, he had come to feel another kind of loneliness. A kind he had never felt before. She had been his strength. The woman who pulled him from the raging inferno when he was a boy. The woman who loved him with everything she had in spite of her own loveless childhood. Her own mother dying when she was just fifteen. And a father who had disowned her. Who had even refused to acknowledge her very existence.

George, you listen to me carefully now. she had said. There's something I need to tell you.

Her confession struck him like a bolt of lightning. As she gasped her final breath, he sobbed silently.

He had only ever visited Brushwood once before. When he was a boy. It was the nearest town with a specialized burns unit. Tonight he was visiting Brushwood again. But this time it was for a different reason. He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and read the address in his head. It was all that he needed... except for one more thing. As he entered the store the door bell attracted the attention of a woman standing in the aisle. She held her stare for several seconds, seemingly unaware of the expression of disdain on her face. He had become hardened to such reactions. But on occasions his will to refuse to acknowledge people's stares waned and he would feel himself wanting to lash out at the starers. Tonight though, he had something more important to do. As he approached the checkout a fat unshaven man seated behind the counter raised his eye-brows briefly then returned to reading his newspaper. George placed his purchase on the counter, then waited. Apparently, customer service was not a priority for the man. Eventually, he heaved himself off his stool, picked up the item and was about to scan the bar code, when he paused, then threw George a questioning glance. But must of thought better. Outside a fresh fall of snow had blanketed the street and the cold winter air drew Finch to tighten his coat. Unconsciously he crumpled the piece of paper in his pocket pondering his next move. His destination lay about a mile out of town. He shook himself off then started down the road.

Behind him the lights of Brushwood faded into the distance as he strode with deliberate purpose. The moon lay just enough light ahead for him to see his way. His legs moved on auto-pilot as his mind pulled up the memory of that horrific night. Officially, the fire was due to faulty wiring. But for his mother it was caused by something far more sinister. She never spoke of why she harbored such a thought, but her belief that it wasn't an accident held fast in her voice. She had returned home that night to a raging blaze engulfing the house. He swore he could hear her screams as he lay pinned to the floor, his skin melting off his body. The searing pain so intense that he was unable to cry to her. And just as he felt himself drifting into another place, a place where the pain started to fade away, a hand reached through the flames and pulled him across the floor as if it possessed super human strength. He remembered gulping for air, frantically trying to inhale the invisible elixir of life. Then the searing pain returned. When he opened his eyes his mother was kneeling over him. Her tears scoured his burned flesh, then everything went black.

The hoot from an owl jolted him from his thoughts bringing him to an abrupt halt. Up ahead he could just make out the silhouette of an arch. He was almost there. He exhaled a deep breath and continued walking. At the entrance, lined by large oak trees a paved cobble stone drive weaved its way toward the house. Below the arch hung a carved wooden sign inscribed with two words 'Finch Estate' George gathered his thoughts, gripped himself, then made his way into the shadows. His breathing quickened and his mind became strangely lucid. He had thought about this moment for a long time. And now that moment had come. As he neared the house he could see the back of a persons head through the front window. He was sitting in an arm chair. He reached the front steps then stopped to look at the grand old villa. It was bigger than he had imagined. Decadent trimmings adorned its exterior and manicured gardens lined the house like a castle moat. To him the house was a symbol of wealth, power and greed. George walked up the steps and knocked on the door. The seconds felt like minutes. Then the door opened and before him stood a gray haired old man.

"Who the hell are you mister!" the old mans tone sung with arrogance. George began to speak, but the words wouldn't come out. The old man stepped closer to get a better look. His face recoiled with abhorrence as he lay eyes on the unexpected caller. And for a split second George could have sworn the old man knew who he was.

"Answer me boy or are you deaf as well as stupid," the old man cursed. But in that very moment all George could hear was his mother's voice.

There's something I need to tell you.

What is it Mama?

Something I should have told you a long time ago George, but I couldn't bring myself to. It's about my daddy.

Your daddy?

Yes George, my daddy... her voice quivered uncontrollably.

My daddy... is your daddy.

***

"I asked who the hell are you mister!" the old man yelled.

"MY NAME IS GEORGE FINCH!" the words exploded from his mouth catching the old man off-guard. He stood there staring at George. Staring at the dark secret he had hidden for all these years. And now, that dark secret stood before him. Daring to challenge him... Judge Henry Finch. And just as quickly as he was taken by surprise, the old mans composure seemed to regather. A defiance crept into his face as he snarled his disdain. And the sound of hatred poured from his mouth.

"How dare you come to my house. You should have of died in that fire along with your whore of a mother." His venom cut through George like a fiery sickle. "What gives you the right to come here boy. Have you come here looking for retribution! or is it money! you pathetic son of a bitch."

The old man's lips kept moving, but no sound seemed to come out. All George could hear was his inner voice screaming. Rapist! Pedophile! murderer! And he suddenly felt an overwhelming feeling of power. A power to right the wrong. A power to extinguish life. He pulled the knife from his pocket and raised it above his head. His knuckles white as he gripped the handle. The old mans eyes opened wide and a writhing horror sprung upon his face. The steel blade gleamed its leer in the moonlight. Then sliced through the air in a single stroke.