by Tara Brent
Tristan groaned. “I’m going to lay down here. After you’ve torched the evidence, don’t let anybody even near this room, I don’t care who it is. But your assignment, which you shall choose to accept is this: Find. My. Father. The texts don’t mention his name, but you are to find him and give me an address within the next forty hours.”
“But... Christmas Eve is forty-eight hours from now!” said Garcia.
“Not so loud. And in that case, I suggest you work quickly. This Christmas is going to be a special one.” With that, Tristan closed his eyes and tried to find the will to sleep off the migraine, but the reality of the discovery—which had triggered this especially intense migraine in the first place—would not stop eating away at him.
I will find him, he thought, and I will kill him.
Chapter 14: Trust
Bethany woke up late the next morning. Her eyes were puffy both from how groggy she was and from the sobbing she fought to keep silent the evening prior. She groaned as she made her way to her feet. Well, Colleen did warn me that eventually, he'd find some way to hurt me, she thought grimly. No, that’s not fair; he was right that I am lying to him, and not just a white lie; I am keeping his IDENTITY from him! What does that make me?
She went to the shower, but it was occupied, frustrated, she returned to her room. She tried calling Tristan, to no avail.
She went downstairs. Everybody else was chipper and distracted, so she simply slid out the front door and made her way over to Colleen’s.
She knocked and Orson Answered. “Good day and Merry Christmas, Ms. Ballard,” he said.
“You too, Orson,” she said. “Is Colleen here?”
“She is. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t let anybody see her at this hour. However, you are not merely anybody.” He opened the door wide, allowing Bethany inside.
Colleen was sitting on the couch wearing a robe, a towel around her head, and one of those grimy masks Bethany always found comical on her face.
“Oh hello,” said Colleen. “So thrilled to be seen like this. Well, make yourself at home, dearie.”
“Thanks,” said Bethany, sitting down in the love seat adjacent to Colleen. “So, last night didn’t go especially well.”
“If Billy Joel can’t give you a good night then I’m not sure what hope there is left for you, sweetie,” pointed out Colleen.
“No, the concert was still lovely, but as I said, Tristan is too sharp. He knew something was wrong.” Bethany held her head in her hands, elbows resting on her knees. “He’s going to find out. Even if I don’t slip up, he’s going to find a way. Tristan always succeeds at everything he puts his mind to, for better or worse.”
“I assume his behavior toward you was less than dignified?” Colleen asked.
Bethany snorted. “Yeah. He... he wasn’t great.”
“I warned you,” muttered Colleen.
“This doesn’t count,” said Bethany.
Colleen narrowed her eyes. “Don’t make excuses for his bad behavior. Tristan isn’t a brat like many billionaires who inherited the entirety of their fortune, although he certainly led a comfortable life and a solid head start under my parents’ roof. But if anything, Tristan spoiled Tristan. He has always been driven and determined but he can’t handle anything not going his way. A secret being kept from him that he could sniff out?” Colleen guffawed. “Oh, I imagine that made him a treat to be around.” She sighed, folding her hands on her lap. “The boy has an anger management problem.”
"Oh come on," said Bethany, rolling her eyes. "In all the time I've known him I've only seen him upset twice. Once was because he was suffering from a migraine, and the other was last night when he correctly assessed that his girlfriend was lying to him."
Colleen pursed her lips. “If I had a peanut allergy, that allergy wouldn’t disappear if peanuts somehow went extinct.”
“Um, ok?” said Bethany. “Wait, no. What?”
“In this analogy, Tristan has a peanut allergy, only he has very rarely been exposed to any actual peanuts. Last night, you slipped him a Reese’s Pieces, and he’s reacting. In other words, his life is so bloody charmed that most people have never seen his anger issues. Or, if you want to throw the analogy away entirely and consider an alternative perspective, maybe he doesn't have anger management issues at all but rather is so rarely upset that on the rare occasion that something does bother him, he has no practice at handling it. Thus making it difficult for him to, ahem, manage his anger.”
Bethany frowned. “Okay, I see what you’re saying, but if he’s so rarely upset, how do you know that he has a hard time with being angered?”
Colleen snorted. “Never thought I’d say this, but,” she grimaced, “a mother always knows.”
Bethany felt a shiver run down her spine at these words. Colleen stood up. “I’m going to get cleaned up. Orson will fix you pancakes. I’ll be back shortly.” With that, Colleen strode upstairs.
Feeling defeated, Bethany resigned herself to her meal. What if Colleen is right? She wondered to herself. I mean, it’s true. What happens when a man who has always gotten his way suddenly doesn’t or can’t get his way? I mean, either he continues to be denied this information which will make him angrier and angrier, or he’ll find out, and then... Bethany shuddered at the thought.
To her surprise, Colleen was downstairs before she was even finished with her pancakes, fully done up with perfect makeup and an exquisite dress.
“How do you make yourself look so good so quickly?” asked Bethany.
“Years of practice dearie,” said Colleen.
There was a sharp knock at the door. “Orson!” called out Colleen.
“Just a moment, ma’am!” came his voice from the bathroom.
“Oh for heaven’s...” muttered Colleen, stomping over to the door. She swung it open and was taken aback by Tristan standing before her. “Oh! Tristan, I wasn’t expecting you,” she said.
“Tristan?!” called out Bethany, rushing to the front of the house.
Tristan wore a wry expression on his face. “Hi Bethany,” he said softly, then refocused on Colleen. “And hello... Mother.” Colleen’s lips tightened and Bethany gasped. “I’ll just assume you invited me inside,” he said, stepping past Colleen, whose pale countenance was full of rage, sadness, and confusion.
“So so so so sooo....” he said softly, pacing with his fingers together. “Trust is a funny thing, isn’t it?” He glanced over at them. “Ok, not rhetorical, but I’ll just move right along.” he cleared his throat. “Let’s start with my parents, or rather, my grandparents. Their lack of trust in the world, in Colleen, in me, in everything and everybody resulted in them taking the secret of my true parentage to their graves. Colleen’s understandably jaded lack of trust resulted in her keeping this secret for years before springing it on Bethany. My egotistical lack of trust led me to go behind her back to find out what she was hiding from me. And Honeywell, my most trusted colleague going back years, trusted me so little that she beat me to the punch.”
“Wait,” said Bethany, stepping forward. “What are you saying?”
“I went to one of my tech guys and ordered him to spy on you.”
“What?!” demanded Bethany. “That’s... how could you! That’s a total breach of—”
“Yes, a breach of trust, just as I said,” said Tristan. “But Honeywell already beat me to it. I saw your text conversation from last night. Learned who and what I really am.” He crossed his arms. “I’m not divine but demonic. I am something that never should have existed.” He walked over to Colleen and placed a hand on her shoulder. “I don’t forgive you,” he said, “because forgiveness requires one to have negatively trespassed in some way. You are not the sinner but the sinned against. I am sorry.”
Colleen did not reply. Her eyes simply blazed as a tear shed from one of them. “As to you, Bethany,” he said.
“Don’t,” Bethany interrupted hotly. “I know it was bad of me to lie to you.”
“You were only try
ing to keep a secret that wasn’t yours to tell,” said Tristan. “Although, you could have explained exactly that rather than lying outright.”
“Oh, I wasn’t finished,” she snapped. “Yeah, it was a difficult situation that I should have handled better. But for you to do what you did... and Honeywell? That Benedict Arnold?” she shook her head, now crying as well. “You deserve one another. I have done nothing to have deserved you taking the steps that you took.”
“And yet,” he said loudly, before returning to his quiet, menacing tone, “that sordid, impulsive choice of mine led me to know the truth. But perhaps you’re right, Bethany. Perhaps this breach of trust is too much for us. Moreover, I am not the man I thought I was, and thus cannot be the man you believed me to be. As such, I hereby terminate our relationship.” Bethany’s mouth fell open in shock, and even Colleen’s stunted face twitched in horrified sadness. “All that said, the fault does not lie with anybody in this room. There is another. And I have found him.” He chuckled sardonically. “It truly is a Christmas miracle.” He bowed slightly, and took his leave, shutting the door firmly behind him. A moment later, they heard the revving of a car engine and screeching tires as Tristan peeled out of the driveway.
Bethany collapsed sobbing on the floor, and Colleen maintained her hundred-yard stare.
A flush came from the bathroom, followed by a faucet running. A sick-looking Orson emerged. “So sorry, I believe the carnitas casserole I had last night did not sit very—oh...” he paused at the sight of the two broken women. “Oh dear...” hesitantly, he made his way upstairs.
Colleen wiped her face with her sleeve, shaking with rage. She marched to the refrigerator and took out a green bottle of a homemade beverage. She poured two shot glasses full and then went to sit cross-legged next to the weeping Bethany on the floor. "Sit up child," she commanded.
“W-wh-what’s the p-point?” wailed Bethany. “Did you hear him? He just ended things! AND WITHOUT A CARE IN THE WORLD! HE JUST LEFT!”
“You’re in my house and you will sit up,” said Colleen. Still shaking, Bethany did as she was told. “Now listen young lady,” said Colleen. “I’ve always respected your beliefs. Or, more accurately, I respected your right to your beliefs and treated you with what I consider to be respect in spite of what I consider to be, frankly, a cartoonish worldview.”
“You’re not great at this whole respect thing,” said Bethany, her nose clogged with sludgy tears.
“My point is, enough’s enough. Here, drink this.” She passed Bethany one of the shot glasses.
“You know I don’t drink,” moaned Bethany.
“Hmmph! Well if your ‘heavenly father' can forgive you for having what I imagine was fantabulous sex with my one and only son, he won't begrudge you accepting the hospitality of a close friend who is sharing in a drink that is specifically for the time of year that we celebrate your Christ's alleged birthday." She put the shot glass into Bethany's reluctant hand. "This is coquitos. Fernando made it for me. It was extremely sweet of him and it made me feel incredibly happy so you will taste it during this moment of strife.”
Bethany groaned. “Since your moment of strife all those decades ago you sought refuge in alcohol rather than finding mental, emotional, or spiritual clarity. Why would I do that? Why start now? I’ve never had a drink in my life, why give in just because times are tough?”
“Now listen here missy,” snapped Colleen. “I’ve been to more therapists than your little brain can fathom. Did you know that half the reason I sent so many acquaintances your way for professional help is because I saw something in you that was better than what I got from anybody I sought out? And you don’t think I ran to priests and parishioners and preachers for so-called ‘spiritual guidance’ over and over?” Colleen stroked Bethany’s cheek. “Here’s the reality, sweet stuff. Booze won’t solve my problems, and neither will your god or someone else’s god or Sigmund Freud or L. Ron Hubbard or Alberta Bandura. Problems like mine aren’t solved; they are merely managed. You and I can argue about whose method is better. But I’ll make a deal with you: if you drink with me, I’ll pray with you.”
Bethany’s red, puffy eyes shot up to meet Colleen’s. Grudgingly, she said, “cheers.” They took their drinks. “Oh wow,” said Bethany. She shuddered. “I mean, it was good and gross all at the same time.”
“Welcome to alcohol and enjoy your stay,” said Colleen.
“Okay, I did my part,” said Bethany. “Take my hands.”
Colleen scowled, but said, “I don’t welch.” She took Bethany’s hands and closed her eyes.
Bethany cleared her throat. “Father in heaven. Thank you for my wonderful family, and for all of the happiness in my life up until this point. I beseech you now for the strength to get through these troubled times. I would also like to thank you for Colleen, the strongest, most ferociously unique woman I have ever encountered. Please give us the wisdom to make the right choices going forward. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
“Amen,” sighed Colleen. There was a moment of silence. “I’m going to need another drink,” she said sourly.
“But—” protested Bethany.
“Hey, I said I’d pray with you, not that I’d like it,” said Colleen.
“Way to kill the moment,” muttered Bethany.
“Oh it was not altogether useless,” said Colleen, looking between the coquitos bottle and the shot glass, before giving up and simply chugging from the bottle.
Bethany wrinkled her nose. “Well, okay. What do you mean, exactly?”
Colleen held up one finger while continuing to chug. “Ahhh,” she finally said. “Well, guess you’re driving, then.”
“Wait, what? When? Driving where? And why? And oh no, I just had alcohol! I can’t drive!”
“This is a low proof Hispanic eggnog knockoff and you barely had a sip. Please, turn the LDS down just a tad, hun,” said Colleen. “As I was saying, your prayer wasn’t useless. You asked for strength and wisdom. Cliche, sure—”
“Gee thanks,” muttered Bethany.
“—but nonetheless the right tools for what we now must do. Think, Bethany. What would Tristan be doing right now? What did he say, exactly?”
Bethany paused a moment, then her eyes went wide. “Oh no...”
“Oh yes,” said Colleen. “And it just so happens I know where the bastard lives. So as I said, you’d best drive.”
Bethany rose to her feet, the tears nothing more than streaks on her cheeks. “Let’s do this,” she said. And then, despite herself, smiled. “Colleen, we are about to save Christmas.”
Colleen groaned loudly. “I hate literally everything about my life,” she said. But nonetheless, the two marched outside and to the car, determined to do what was necessary.
Chapter 15: The Point of No Return
Tristan did not consider himself an especially political man, and frankly saw himself as more of a progressive if anything, but he nonetheless enjoyed certain elements of the second amendment. He was especially fond of his right to form a well-regulated militia, which allowed him to have his own private paramilitary force at his beck and call.
The soldiers scanned the neighborhood, making sure there were no witnesses or surveillance to be concerned with before Tristan made his move.
“All clear sir,” came the voice from his commanding officer in Tristan’s earpiece.
With that, Tristan knocked on the door, and Bradley Kershaw answered.
Tristan felt his face contort in disgust; while the man before him did not quite share Tristan's angular features and sharp eyes that he had inherited from Colleen, the Mediterranean color scheme was clearly inherited from the man before him.
Kershaw, on the other hand, was unsure of what to make of the peculiar man before him with the pink sunglasses and heavy black trench coat. "Hi, do I know you? Look, I dunno if you're selling something or if you're one of those Mormons who knock on doors, but—"
“Funny you should mention Mormons,” said Tristan. �
�I was actually dating one until this morning. Thanks to you though, we had to part ways.”
Bradley frowned. “Ok look I dunno who you are but—”
“Shh,” said Tristan, placing one finger a centimeter in front of Bradley’s lips. Angry, Bradley knocked his arm away. Tristan smiled; he had not initiated physical contact, which could be good if this ever became a legal concern.
Not that Tristan was worried about such trivialities at present.
All these years I thought myself divine and yet I derive from this sack of filth, he thought to himself. What must now happen is not mere vengeance; it is a holy rite.
And yet, he hesitated. This was someone who had seemingly done well enough for himself on the surface, but even in his frantic state, Tristan had an eye for detail and a trained nose. The whole place smelled off. Kershaw himself reeked of cheap booze; at least his sister (She’s your mother and it’s because this asshole couldn’t keep his hands to himself!) drank classy cocktails. The house, despite its size, was largely empty inside, filled with secondhand, knockoff, ripped furniture. The fridge was undersized and stained yellow and brown. Moreover, he clearly lived alone.
“Listen asshole it’s time for you to leave.”
He dare speak to ME in such a manner? I’m Tristan Blackwood! He’s nothing! He’s—!
...my biological father.
Tristan cleared his throat. “Do you remember someone named Colleen Blackwood, from back when you were in high school?” Maybe he will repent. Maybe mentioning her name will be enough to get him to break down, confess, beg for forgiveness.
“Oh god, that slut? Why, what did—” and with that, Tristan struck Brandon three times, once with his right fingertips in the throat, once with his left fist to the solar plexus, and finally with the blade of his right hand to the brachial plexus below and slightly in front of Bradley’s left ear. The first two blows were for insurance; the final blow struck a nerve cluster that, when hit correctly, will cause somebody to immediately collapse to the ground.