Abuse: The Complete Trilogy (61 page)

The moment I
take it, a chill runs up my spine.

I’m familiar
with that block writing.

Fuck.

“To feel
intensely is not a symptom of weakness, it is the trademark of the truly alive
and compassionate.”

―
Anthon St. Maarten

~~~

Grant
Wilkinson

“Shit,”
I
mutter, stunned with recognition.

This is
identical to the envelope Danny received, except my letter wasn’t hand
delivered. It was mailed through a local post office with no return address.

With shaky
fingers, I open it. There’s only photos inside, more than one. Jaw clenched, I
steel myself to take a look. I flick through them; six pictures—all are naked
images of me as a boy, maybe 7 or 8 years old. Two have my father in them. All
are obscene.

I shut my eyes
for a moment, remembering. I have a vague recollection of the events in these
photos, and the objects in the background are from my father’s den. Yet, in two
of these shots I look to be asleep. I can’t recall this
at all.
An
unpleasant thought disturbs me. Was I drugged?

I’m surprised by
my icy composure.
Am I as calm as I feel?

Renata sits
beside me on the sofa. I turn to her for warmth, for shelter in this storm. Briley
and Mitten are both playing at our feet with various dangling toys.

She places a
hand on my arm. “What are they pictures of?”

“They’re similar
to Danny’s photo. All of them are of me, or my father and me.”

“Are you OK?” While
her features remain unruffled, her eyes light with concern.

“Strangely, I
am,” I tell her.

She makes no
attempt to sneak a peek at the pictures in my hands. I’m grateful for her
restraint. I want her to see them if she wants to, but not now. I can’t let
anyone see them just now.

Her expression
softens and she places a hand on mine. Renata doesn’t have to speak for me to
know how she feels. She’s there for me. I hate that I’m putting her through all
of my crap, but I know she’s glad to help. Her support means so much to me.

Words won’t
explain exactly how I feel, but I think of some anyway. “They’re only pictures,
after all—they can’t hurt me,” I say, neglecting to mention the possibility of being
drugged. “They simply confirm what I already know. But who sent them? How many other
people will receive their own personal set?”

As we ponder the
mystery, the doorbell rings. Who would come calling at 8 o’clock in the
morning? Danny maybe?

“I’ll be right
back, darlin’,” I say. I slip the photos into the back pocket of my jeans, and jump
up in order to answer the door. I quickly stride through the kitchen to the
front entry, leaving Renata in the living room with Briley and Mitten.

When I open the
door, I’m greeted by two unwanted visitors. A uniformed policeman stands beside
another man in a gray suit. He has dark brown hair and a large Roman nose.
Detective Roman Bronowski.

With a nose like
that, is that how he got his name?

No one smiles,
which is mildly alarming. A muscle in Bronowski’s cheek twitches. The man is seriously
pissed off. In fact, he looks as though he’s mad
at me.

Why am I not
surprised?

Well, shit. I
guess they haven’t come here to tell me they’ve found my father’s killer, or I’m
no longer a suspect.

“Detective,” I
say, with a nod. “Somehow, I doubt you have good news.” I glance anxiously over
my shoulder, thankful Renata’s still in the other room.

He looks me up
and down, cranes his neck, peers uneasily around me. I’m certain he’s wondering
where Briley’s panic prone babysitter is.

“Renata’s in the
next room with the baby… and her cat,” I offer helpfully.

Detective
Bronowski flinches at the mention of Mitten. “Good.” He nods with a satisfied
jerk of his head. “Grant Wilkinson,” he says in a very quiet voice. “I’m here
to arrest you for the murder of Edgar Gates.”

“Who?”
I
quickly search through my memory, coming up blank with the unfamiliar name. As
far as I can recall, I've never heard it before.

“Listen,
Wilkinson,” the detective snaps, keeping his edgy voice low. There’s a peculiar
look of anger combined with anxiety on his face. “Do you think your babysitter will
be able to cope if we do this out here?”

I arch my
eyebrows. Strangely enough, I find myself trying not to laugh. So much has
happened in the last 12 hours, it’s hard to keep up.

Last night, I remembered
something I managed to block from my awareness since I was six years old. Then
I received wonderful oral sex—a healthy, open and ordinary pleasure I’d never
experienced with a woman. Somehow, I managed to enjoy it without a lick of guilt
or shame. I smile inwardly at my own pun. This was followed by the best sleep
of my entire life.

This morning, I had
even more soul liberating realizations concerning my father, God, fear and
love. Then I was sent explicit photos, by a person or persons unknown, for
reasons unknown.

Finally, it
seems I’m being arrested for the murder of someone I’ve never even met.

Now, here I
stand before Detective Bronowski, an experienced and somewhat hardened officer
of the law—a man who's probably seen every type of crime, evasion, perversion
or lawless activity. He’s probably had his life threatened more than once.

Yet, what is he
afraid of right now? He's worried about upsetting my babysitter, and he appears
to be genuinely scared of sweet, little Mitten.

I curb a
ridiculous need to snicker hysterically.

It’s pretty amusing.

So is the fact I
can find anything humorous about this situation. I can't begin to wrap my brain
around the shit storm of events that have taken place. Any one circumstance
could be emotionally overwhelming. Add them all together and here I am, trying
not to laugh.

Laughter would
be highly inappropriate. Also, it would surely piss Bronowski off, even more
than he already is. I'd like to avoid doing that.

Up, down. Up,
down, I’m riding the teeter-totter of life. I wish my brother Alex, with his
irreverent sense of humor were here. He’d know
exactly
what to say. If I
can’t find an amusing caption for these unexpected events, then there’s
something wrong with me.

Hmm…
Why is the
detective frightened of Renata’s cat? Because Bronowski isn’t with ‘Claw
Enforcement.’ What would Mitten be called if Bronowski arrested him? The purrpetrator.

I curb a real
need to laugh, if only to let some of the tension out from the very strange,
inexplicable and nearly hysterical, events of the day.

“Do you trust me
not to run off?” I ask, managing to keep a straight face.

His eyes narrow
with suspicion. “Why? What do you have in mind?”

“Give me five
minutes with my babysitter. I think we’ll be able to avoid another full-blown
panic attack that way.”

The detective frowns,
then nods his agreement. “We’ll wait out here for exactly five minutes. Don’t
close the door.”

“Thank you.” I
spin on my heel and stride back into the living room, leaving the front door
wide open. The detective won’t be able to hear our conversation at that
distance.

Kneeling on the carpet,
she’s pulling a sweater over Briley’s head. I adopt a calm posture, casually
sitting on the sofa, hooking my ankle onto the opposite knee of the other.

“Who was at the
door?” she asks.

“Remember when you
said the police turning up at our door might be good for you in the long run? You
know, because of aversion therapy? You told me once I’m arrested three or four
more times, you’ll get over it.”

Renata’s eyes
widen and she instantly pales. I’m glad she’s sitting down. Her chest rapidly
rises and falls. I’m sure her heartbeat has kicked up, right along with her breathing.

I hop off the
sofa and take Briley from her, placing him onto his baby play blanket. He
gurgles happily there. Then I squat down on the floor beside her, taking her
hands between my own.

“Listen to me,
darlin’, the police are outside, they’re waiting for me,” I say, rubbing her
cold fingers. “They don’t want to upset you or cause you to panic. Nor do they
want Mitten attacking them.”

“Is it your
father? Have they found more evidence or something? I don’t understand.”

“Honey, I have
no idea what’s going on,” I tell her honestly. “I’m going to go with them and
I’ll contact my lawyer. The moment I know anything, I’ll get word to you. You
have Sally Ann’s phone number, right?”

She nods.

“Please call her
if you need
anything,
OK?”

“I will.”

I stand up,
reach down, take her by the hands, and pull her to her feet. Her face has gone
very white. It makes the sprinkling of freckles on her upturned nose seem much
darker. Brave girl. She’s trying to be strong, but she looks so lost.

I brush a lock
of her soft blonde hair back from her face. A few strands have become caught in
her mouth, but I pull them away. Almost childlike apprehension shines from her wide,
blue eyes. Her steady, trusting gaze captivates me.

My chest
tightens. I’d do
anything
for her. Renata’s open vulnerability brings
out every protective instinct I have.

“Is it Detective
Bronowski again?” she asks softly.

I nod. “It is.”
I gather her into my arms, putting every ounce of love and feeling I can into
my embrace. At first, she remains motionless, frozen with shock. Yet, after a
moment, she hugs me back, squeezing me tight—holding on as if her life depends
on it.

I love the
incredible sensation of having her wrapped around me. After my realizations of
last night and this morning, I’m unable to feel anything except optimistic.

“Darlin,’ life
is good,” I murmur. “Life is
great.
You deserve to be happy and I aim to
help you make all your dreams come true.”

I feel her body
loosen at this determined pronouncement. Good.

I stroke her
hair, her neck and back, still hugging her for all I’m worth. “Besides, I simply
can’t believe after all I’ve been through, after I’ve come so far, that I’ll end
up in jail for a crime I didn’t commit.” I pull away, meeting her eyes with a
confident smile. “God can’t be such an asshole.”

“You’re right,”
she says with a sniff. Her eyes gleam, my stomach twists.

Damn. Is she
going to cry?

I squeeze her
shoulders. “Promise me you’ll be OK while I’m gone.”

“I promise.”

“You’re sure?”

She nods, a
quick jerk. “I’ll call André right after you leave. I’ll be fine. We’ll get
through this.”

I frown. “I’d rather
you stay right here than come outside and watch me get into the back of the
police car. Will you do that for me?”

Our eyes lock,
she pauses, swallows. “Yes,” she murmurs, “of course.”

“Maria’s due to
arrive within the hour, so you won’t be alone. I’ll figure this out and be home
as soon as humanly possible.”

Renata’s eyes
are bright with unshed tears, but she’s keeping it together.

“I’ll be fine.”
She puts on a brave smile, there’s fear in her eyes. “See? I told you I’d get better
at this with a bit more practice.”

“So you did, and
I think you’re amazing.” Our kiss is short, sharp and passionate. “I have to go,”
I say in a low voice.

God, I hate
to leave her.

I pet Mitten, who
arches under my hand. He begins to purr as I admonish him to look after Renata.
Then I kiss Briley and I tell him the same thing. I sweep up my cellphone and
tuck it into my pocket on my way to the front door. The police will take it,
but I need my lawyer’s number.

“Give Detective
Bronowski my regards—oh, and Mitten’s too,” she quips, well aware last time he
was here, every officer was cowed by her ferocious, furry friend. Or is that
fur
ocious?
Terrible!

I grin. “Will
do. Bronowski has a healthy respect for the indomitable Mitten.” I take one
last, long look at her, proud of her strength, awed by her beauty—both inside
and out. “They won’t keep me long,” I assure her.

I walk out and
safely shut the door behind me. “Thank you, Detective,” I murmur gratefully. “I
fully appreciate your sensitivity toward my babysitter. I’ve explained
everything. She’ll be fine.”

There’s a quick
flash of satisfaction in his eyes when Bronowski hears this. It occurs to me
despite having a job to do, Renata’s welfare is high on his list of priorities.
I can’t help but like him for his consideration. I wonder if he’s married.
Maybe his wife taught him this courteous, caring behavior.

The detective nods
and gets right back to business. “Grant Wilkinson, as I said before, I’m
arresting you for the murder of Edgar Gates,” he pronounces.

Who the hell
is Edgar Gates?

I’m instructed
to assume the position, so the officer can pat me down to make sure I’m
unarmed. Bronowski reads me my rights and takes my phone. The officer unclips handcuffs
from his utility belt, shackling my wrists in front of me. The cuffs are cool,
hard and utterly disconcerting.

An aura of déjà
vu comes over me, particularly when a curtain twitches in my neighbor’s window.
Haven’t I been here before?

The officer puts
his palm on my head as he firmly guides me safely into the backseat of the
police cruiser.
Yeah, this is distinctly familiar.

The uniformed
cop steps on the gas. The car pulls out, speeds up. “Do you mind telling me who
Edgar Gates is?” I ask.

“We’ll discuss
everything once we get to the precinct.”

I say nothing.
What
else is there to say?

I’m an unwilling
passenger on board this train. There’s no way off this ride until we get to the
station, but I’m quietly confident I’ll find an exit once I’m there.