Foie Gras

1.
I locked the bathroom door and found the cheap cell phone in the bottom of my leather bag. It felt cold and rough like anything unvalued and I entered Uncle T's number.
"It's Blue. I'm in the Manchester Library." I flinched as  the tile amplified my voice.
"Your father, Blue."
I stiffened. "George Neilson? Today? Is this what the gun's for?"
"No, let him live. Take the son, and when they ask who you are, be sure they all find out. Bring the boy here."
"Ransom and humiliation. Sounds good." I'd prefer my father dead, but trusted  Uncle T to have the most circumspect plan.
"Exactly. Jarrod is there already. One Grove Drive, Wolfeboro. Private drive, of course."
I jumped as someone knocked on the door beside me. "Right. I'll have it done."  I cut the call off and sent the fingerprinted evidence down to the sewer, hopefully also satisfying the curiosity of the person waiting. I washed my hands and opened the door, nodding to the librarian outside as I wiped them on my pants and made for the door. The waiting BMW still rattled with life under a layer of salt and frost.

2.
I drove the car into a ditch about half a mile from the turn in and walked, head low. Jarrod's car idled ten meters from the stone walled drive, his windshield wipers on. I shuffled up to the car and he rolled down the window as he reached for a paper with running ink. He watched me with his dark, slightly appalled expression as I read what he'd scrawled.
Garage - 438972
Out till 4:30, dinner ~5-6:30 2nd floor on right: Closet. Son sits by the window.
"If I'm not here afterwards." Jarrod formed the words like they were broken glass on his tongue. He handed me a small envelope. "Use this."
"Thanks." I slipped it into my pants pocket. I paused a moment before leaving to add, "The police are just a mile away."
Jarrod raised an eyebrow slowly.  "You think we didn't notice?"

3.
The yellow light of the dining room seeped under the door into the dark closet, along with the smell of cooked liver and broken conversation.  My right hand snapped the knob in a quick turn and I threw the closet door outward, striking the back of my father's chair and pinning him against the table for at least a few heartbeats. I launched at the fair-haired son, David, and bowled him out of his seat, sinking my arm against his throat. With my gun pointed at the others, I dragged him through the toppled foie gras to the nearest window. A few cordial taps with the gun cut his struggle. Silverware clanked onto the table, and the youngest daughter started screaming.
"What are you doing?" George Neilson's turnip face strained to bark out the words and he looked liable to dive over the table in attack. I turned, disregarding him and kicked a hole in the window, relishing as they flinched. The warm atmosphere of the room sucked outwards into the void night and I poked my head out to check how far below the ground lay. In that moment the boy knocked my gun askew and as I quickly straightened, I slammed my forehead against the jagged window frame. My half-brother tore free and George had me against the wall before I regained my mind.
"You're strong, old man," I winced as blood ran down over my eyelids.  The gun remained tight in my hand and I raised it to his temple as he held one hand on my throat and the other on my arm.
"Who are you!" His rage-choked voice, hoarse with age, sounded like a dehydrated bear, and I choked to consider myself his progeny.
The others left except for the frozen daughter, probably fifteen years younger than me. The police were coming, and I didn't stand a chance with my blood trailed all over the carpet, and my face stamped in everyone's mind. For a moment I tensed my finger on the trigger, but then my arm weakened and I let George force the gun upwards at an odd angle. They'd catch me, now or later. Did I want murder under my name? An imaginary Uncle T hissed encouragement in my mind, and I sickened. Offer all for the objective, all for him.
Meanwhile, bearface was skittering the blood across my face like raindrops against the windshield of a car with all his bellowing. I shook my head to scatter the drops, and bared my teeth as I squinted at him.
"We don't show much likeness at the moment, but you should know me."
Neilson stared blankly and I smiled.
"Don't hide it. You know my name."
I leaned in close to his face, my eyes darting curiously to the frozen girl, practically catatonic with a fork and a bit of cold goose liver still on the prongs.
"Levi Neilson."
At this, he actually began to look less at risk of heart-attack. "You're mistaken," he finally said, with unexpected composure. "Sheila, get mom."
"Your own flesh and blood!"
He ignored me. "Go, Sheila, get out of here."
"I'm your son, dammit!"
The wife, the second woman, appeared in the room and froze at the site of me. Encouraged, I pressed my words against him.
"Shannon Shelby. You remember her, you do. Tell me; if I'm not Levi Neilson, who am I?"
"He's crazy. I don't think the gun's loaded. Get some tape or something so I don't have to have this idiot spitting in my face anymore."
Bluff! I wrenched the gun out of his fingers in one sharp yank and shot through the ceiling, shrieks volleying around the house. George blanched, then wrestled my fingers away from the trigger and pressed me back with twice the force, so I could hardly breathe. Blood started down my forehead again.
"I don't know what the devil you think you're doing, boy."
I searched his face through splotchy vision for some indication of doubt, but the man spoke with confidence equal to my own. I had the address correct. Jarrod scouted it out, and T oversaw everything.  Then, startling as ice cubes in the back of my shirt, I found the simplest explanation; George Neilson wasn't my father, and T had sent me here anyway.
As I looked at the gun, inches from the older man's thin hair, I understood why. Neilson wasn't meant to live.  The wife approached with duct tape, probably thinking me insane.  Above everything, T's intentionality characterized him; he set me up to look like a fool. He knew I'd have to kill George Neilson to get out of this.
I stared at the gun in alarm for a moment, then let it drop to the plush rug. I wouldn't work for that liar anymore.

4.
In the back of the police car, I found the envelope in my pocket, feeling the edge as I wondered at our destination. The man's wife had thoughtfully placed a generous piece of tape over my gushing forehead, so perhaps the policeman wouldn't think the hospital necessary.
I slowly broke the seal of the envelope, realizing the stiffness of its contents resembled that of a photograph. With two fingers I slid the old print out and stared at it. In the flickering of streetlights the image appeared fleetingly, but I recognized the thick eyebrows and twisted nose of T in an instant. The small boy on his lap wasn't familiar, but then, he wouldn't be. I had never seen pictures of my childhood; that era had belonged to Mr. Neilson and his mistress.
Uncle T, my father.  His deceit numbed me.  All the words he had used to turn this George Neilson against me now crashed down upon T; the two-faced king of a loyal following, greeting the world with honor while putrid inside. The father who betrayed his son.
I smiled down at the picture and then slipped it away, handcuffs clinking. I never gave Jarrod the credit he deserved, and hoped he'd have the foresight to stay hidden the next few weeks. The boys were going to have some visitors.