Hidden Lies

Hidden Lies
by Vivian Gilbert Zabel

          The bright sun and balmy breeze tempted Karen to turn around and run from the sorrow awaiting her and her brothers at the top of the steps. The house appeared sad to her since her mother’s death, as if it were in mourning. However, it never seemed as full of grief as much as it did now as its owner lay on his death bed.

          Daddy, I wish you happiness in your next life. You have mourned the past fifteen years, over half of my life. She sighed as she mounted the marble steps to the front door. With a quick glimpse over her shoulder at the brightness behind her, she heaved another sigh before opening the massive door of the mansion and entering the dimness beyond. As her eyes adjusted to the change from sunshine to near darkness, she paused. Bolstering her courage, she moved toward the stairs from the entry to the second floor. The silence of the house appeared as thick and oppressing as the artificial dusk.

          “There you are.” The waspish voice of her sister-in-law Bettia came from the living room door to Karen’s right. “Everyone wondered if you would get here in time.”

          Without looking toward the woman she knew would be scowling, Karen answered as she mounted the first steps of the polished mahogany stairs curving upward. “I drove as fast as humanly possible, Bettia. New York is a few miles away.”

          If a “lady” could snort, Bettia did. “You should have stayed here. Your place was with your father. But you selfishly thought your brother and I would care for him.”

          Karen’s foot paused before resting on the next step, but she pressed her lips together and started climbing faster. Don’t say a word, Karen, don’t. Ignore her. Just keep saying to yourself, “She doesn’t know what she’s talking about.” Keep walking.

          At the top of the stairs the young woman strode down the hall that stretched to her left. As she hurried to the master suite, she could hear the footsteps following her. At the door she turned to glare at the older woman, whose brittle looks clashed with her own natural beauty . Karen’s dark green eyes glared into Bettia’s cold blue ones. “I think you would be happier if you waited downstairs.”

          “Oh, now you’re giving orders, are you?” Bettia quirked one thin eyebrow. “My, my, aren’t you the lady of the manor.”

          Karen bit her bottom lip, gave the older woman a disgusted look, entered the sitting room, and closed the door sharply behind her. She didn’t pause in the room where her mother used to enjoy reading, but continued to the door to the bedroom. She started to tap on the door before realizing it was partially opened. A gentle push caused it to swing back. Lamps on each side of the bed revealed the slight form of her father propped up by pillows. One of her brothers, Phillip, sat beside the bed in an arm chair while the other, Roger, paced the floor at the foot of the bed. She stood in the doorway as tears gathered in her eyes. “Daddy?”

          All three men turned their heads toward her, her father’s just slower. “Karen?” The voice once booming and deep now whispered.

          Phillip bounded from the chair. “It’s about time you got here.”

          “So your wife informed me, Phil.” She hurried across the Turkish rug, covering the hardwood floor, to her father’s side. “Daddy, I came as soon as I heard.”

          A thin, cold hand grasped hers. “I know. I know.”

          “Don’t talk, Daddy. Save your energy.”

          “Have to. I have to tell you all.” The frail man, his face nearly as white as the pillowcases, closed his eyes. “I can’t die without telling you.”

          “Daddy, nothing matters except you get better.” Karen laid her face against her father’s hand on top of hers.

          “Not going. . . to get better. Have to tell you. Just waiting for you to get here.” His chest shuddered as he struggled to breathe. “Roger, Phil, please.” As soon as his sons stood by the bed, the man looked at each of his children as if studying their faces. “Phillip, you will be. . . fine. The company . . . should be yours . . . Roger and Karen only stockholders, but you should have . . . majority.” The watery eyes closed again momentarily but snapped open. “Roger. . . law firm successful, your family okay. You have a wife who . . . loves you, children, too. You better off . . . better than Phillip.” His eyes reached Karen. “I hoped. . . see you happy. Sorry I can’t.”

          “Oh, Daddy.” Karen struggled to contain her tears. “I’ll be okay.”

          “I know. You have . . . lots of love. But what I have . . . to say will . . . It will probably kill love for me.”

          “You could never tell me anything that would change my love for you, Daddy, nothing.” She wiped the tears that spilled from her eyes.

          “Have to say this. Papers in desk explain more. Package in bottom. . . left drawer. I killed. . . your half-brother.” Austin March pulled his hand from his daughter’s and once more closed his eyes. “Forty years ago. I had to. Had to.”

          “What!” Phillip’s yell echoed through the room. “What in hell are you talking about? Have you lost what mind you had?”

          Roger's sharp rebuke cut across Phillip’s tirade. “Phil, quit being an ass. Sit down and be quiet.”

          “Didn’t you hear what he said?” Phillip frowned at his older brother. “He said he killed someone - a half-brother. We never had another brother.”

          “Phil, sit down and be quiet!” Their father gathered strength to shout at his second child before a spasm of coughing shook his thin frame.

          “Daddy, it’s all right. Please take it easy.” Karen slid her arm under her father’s shoulders to help him sit further up in the bed. “Easy, take slow breaths.”

          After Phil slouched in a chair still mumbling, she whirled to snap, “Will you be quiet or leave?”

          “No,” their father insisted as the coughing eased, “no, I need to. . . finish . . . want all of you to hear.”

          “Here, Dad.” Roger held a glass of water to his father’s lips, “drink a little of this. Maybe it will help.”

          The elderly man sipped a bit of the water, then lay back against the pillows again. “I was married before your mother. Had a son. Just like his mother, no conscience. Didn’t understand what wrong was.” He paused to take a breath. “We think he killed another child. . . Eric was about five. We couldn’t prove . . . But animals were tortured, mangled, left half dead. Then that poor little girl.” The elder March stared at the ceiling. “She looked like the animals. I went. . . to Eric’s room. I . . . I wanted to warn. . . him to be careful. I found bloody clothes.”

          “Dad, you didn’t kill a child?” The horror in his son’s voice caused the father to turn his gaze toward Roger.

          “No, but it might have. . . stopped nightmare if I had.” Mr. March’s sight returned to the ceiling. “He said he fell . . . over girl’s body when. . . when running in the back garden. I believed him.. So did the police.” He stopped and gulped. “Must finish. Years later his mother. . . laughed at me for being so easy to fool.”

          “She knew?” Karen whispered. I can't believe this. It's a nightmare, a nightmare.

          “She knew. After that other children disappeared, maybe one. . . two a year.” A trembling hand covered his eyes. “I never realized. I was so blind. Then when Eric. . . was about fourteen. . . I went to the basement. I don’t remember. . . needed something. . . Eric was using an electric saw. . . cutting the leg off another boy.” A sob broke through the halting words. “The boy was gagged. . . tied. . . his eyes screamed at me. Dear God, help me. I still see those eyes.” The old man’s voice grew stronger. “I rushed forward. I pushed Eric’s head forward, his neck into the saw.” A shudder convulsed the bones barely covered by flesh. “I left him there draped across his victim.”

          “But, Daddy, what happened?” His daughter took one of his hands in both of hers. “Did they arrest you?” Wake up, Karen, wake up. She swallowed a sob that tried to escape.

          Austin March choked on a humorless parody of a laugh. “No, I don’t remember. . . I left the basement. No one saw me go down. No one saw me . . . leave. I remember sitting in my car. Parked at the lake. Just sat. When darkness fell, drove home. Ready to face Lileth, the police.” He glanced at Roger. “Need drink.”

          Roger raised his father’s head with one arm and held the glass to his father’s lips. “Dad, maybe you should rest.”

          He sipped the water before shaking his head. “No, have to finish.” After he rested against the pillows, he continued his story. “The police were there. Forced myself to walk . . . in house. Housekeeper, Mrs. Dodson, saw . . . me first. She said . . . horrible accident happened.” The odd laugh bubbled out again. “Lileth found two boys. Eric was dead. The other boy . . . nearly so or dead, too. She went crazy." The old man paused to cough. "Mrs. Dodson heard her screaming . . . all the way to the kitchen. She found Lileth hacking . . . at the other boy with the bloody saw.”

          Phillip jumped to his feet. “You mean everyone thought this Lileth killed the boys?”

          “Yes,” his father whispered, his strength of voice and body gone. “Lileth either. . . startled when Mrs. Dodson. . . gasped or . . . when she saw. . . horror on Mrs. Dodson’s face . . . anyway Lileth cut her. . . own wrist. . . cut hand almost off. She died. Everyone thought. . . Lileth killed all. . . those children. . . and own son.”

          “Dad, you killed your own son? Let people think his mother did?” Phillip’s voice rose in terror. “What kind of monster are you?”

          “Phil, what kind are you?” his sister demanded. “I suppose you would have let Eric keep on killing?”

          “Of course not. I would have turned him over to the authorities.”

          “Oh, really, Phil. You would have been terrified of the publicity.” Roger stared at his brother. “You and Bettia are both so afraid of bad publicity that you would have probably walled them all up in the basement.”

          “What do you think the publicity will do to us now?” Phillip asked, a sneer twisting his normally attractive, if soft, face.

          “Nothing unless. . . you plan on. . . spreading the word,” their father muttered from the bed.

          Phillip backed toward the door, his hands held palms toward the others. “I’m gone. As far as I’m concerned I don’t know any of you.” He turned and half ran from the room. The three left behind heard the door slam to the hall.

          The elderly man sat up in the bed and swung his legs over the side as his daughter fell backwards to sit on the floor, her eyes staring. “Daddy, what?” She crawled onto her knees. “You’re not dying?”

          “I’m afraid I am, sweetheart, but just not as soon as Phillip expected.” With a sad shake of his head, he added, “I had to know something about his character before I left him control of your future and fortune.”

          “Daddy, it doesn’t matter if he took every penny. I would be fine.” She glared at her father and older brother. “This was a terrible ordeal to put me through. To tell me lies, that you were dying now and had killed someone.” She rose to her feet. “All because of money.”

          “It wasn’t a lie, Karen. It happened just as I told you. The only thing I didn’t share with Phillip is Lileth left her fortune to me, or any children born to me, to be given forty years after her death. Forty years are up tomorrow.” He took a deep breath. “I don’t need it. I have enough for a small nation. Karen, you have the trust fund your mother and I set up for you that hasn’t been touched. Roger’s in good shape financially. You both will share in my fortune when I do die, which will be sooner than later.” He motioned to the chairs sitting back from the bed. “Please sit and discuss with me how to put blood money to good use to help others. I don’t want to touch it; do you?”

          Collapsing into one of the chairs, Karen shook her head violently. “No way. But I don’t understand why you told us the story. Why not do something with the money and leave us out of it?”

          “Could you see Phillip, or more likely Bettia, finding out another fortune was not going into their pockets?” Roger asked, eyebrows lifted.

          Austin looked at Roger. “You were right. I couldn’t trust him.”

          “Maybe it should go to families who lose members through violence,” Karen suggested. “Let the money soften some of the financial pains at least.”

          “Ah, money attained through violence to help those suffering from violence.” The old man lay back down. “Yes, I like that idea.”

          “Daddy, did Momma know about. . . about Lileth and Eric?” Her voice hesitant, Karen leaned forward in her chair.

          A smile of remembrance crossed her father’s face. “Ah, yes, you see, Mrs. Dodson was a young widow, and we discovered we had many things in common.” His laugh this time was full of delight. “You called her Momma.”