The morning sunrise, breathtaking in its pristine beauty, peeked through the dirty Venetian blind slats and into the youngster’s elaborate bedroom. A young boy’s delight, every surface was covered with toys and books, and miscellaneous pocket treasures. Marbles, rock, slingshots, yo-yos, shells, balls, and whatnot littered the multi-colored throw rugs on the dusty floor. Melted crayons and yellowed coloring book pages were scattered here and there while an airplane mobile lightly danced through the ceiling cobwebs.
But all this, the unshaven, gray-haired man did not notice. His pale blue eyes fixated on the photo tacked to the fingerprint-smudged wall, Burt was oblivious to all except the familiar aching pain that enveloped his soul every morning as he visited his namesake’s shrine.
“Five years,” he pondered dully, “and it’s as fresh to me as the day I learned of his murder. It would be such a relief to take the coward’s way out and end it all . . . But, I WILL NOT let it end yet!” Placing his fingers to his lips he then placed them against the black & white ultrasound picture of his daughter’s womb containing the unmistakable baby image of his former unborn grandson.
“I love you, son! It won’t be long now and we’ll be together!”
Burt closed the door softly behind him and grabbed a loaf of bread and a case of beer from the kitchen before exiting the house. He was on an audacious mission that was finally near completion and he was anxious to get on with it. As he drove to the outskirts of his back-country multi-acre property to the workshop, his pulse quickened in anticipation. Today, God would be avenged for the senseless travesty visited upon his family. Fortunately, the multi-million dollar “botched abortion” lawsuit victory for his pregnant daughter’s death had awarded him the early retirement and materials necessary to fulfill this venture.
As far as he was concerned, his wife’s passing three years ago could also be laid at Dr. Hackster’s door, since he was convinced the cancer developed from the stress of a broken heart. Counting himself, that totaled four destroyed lives that the monster would be paying for.
Alternating swigging his bottle of beer with cramming slices of bread in his mouth, the tormented man reviewed the past “peaceful” demonstration therapies he had tried: First, the prayer and grief counseling. Then, the never-ending picket lines at abortion clinics, followed by pouring himself into the education of young girls of abstinence and the evils associated with “back-street” abortions. After that, drinking binges and wild spending orgies to drown out the bereft grief and pain. All was to no avail.
But, this culminating daring venture would be The Answer! Burt had done his homework and knew the family was to arrive for their yearly vacation this afternoon. The couple and their two children. Four lives for four lives. As he broke into the Hackster’s pricey vacation haven, Burt foresaw the headlines of tomorrow’s newspapers across the country:
“ABORTIONIST’S VACATION HOME BOMBED BY VICTIM’S FATHER”,
and he was at peace. Hunkering down in the basement pantry after everything was hooked up and ready, Burt fell into a half-conscious doze.
July 24, 2000
STATE TRIBUNAL PATRIOT NEWS
“BOTCHED BOMBING KILLS BOTCHED ABORTION VICTIM”
‘Dr. Iam A. Hackster and his family were informed of a failed murder plot that took place at their ritzy vacation home in Albany last evening. They were unavoidably detained from their normal arrival by inclement weather delays at the airport . . . “
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