Abuse: The Complete Trilogy (63 page)

“Integrity is
doing the right thing, even when no one is watching.”

― C. S.
Lewis

~~~

Grant
Wilkinson

Despite the
sense of reserve I feel from him, I’m convinced Bronowski’s an honest cop and a
decent man. He may not trust me, and there’s the possibility of his future betrayal,
but I’m going to take a leap of faith. I’m going to trust him anyway.

Besides, he needs
to know there could be many more suspects out there. All of them would have a
motive to kill my father.

I clear my
throat. “Until recently, I never considered the possibilities uh, you know—of what
my father may have done. I’ve gone to André Chevalier for counseling about my
childhood issues, working through all of the shit my father put me through.”

The detective
nods, glances my way. “I know. I’ve met Chevalier. He’s a good guy.” The car
rolls to a stop at a red light.

Bronowski turns
toward me, his heavy brow furrows in thought. “What do you mean,
until
recently
?” he asks, meeting my gaze.

“Pull over for a
minute, will you?”

The traffic
moves off, we drive for a minute. When the detective pulls off to the side of the
road, I take the photos out of my back pocket and hand them to him.

“These arrived
by mail yesterday with no return address. Nothing else was in the envelope, but
it was postmarked from a suburb of Dallas.”

Bronowski’s jaw
clenches. He briefly flicks through them and nods. “I can’t say positively
because I didn’t see each one, but these seem to be some of what Edgar found on
your father’s computer.”

“Really? That’s
it? Was there anything else?”

“Yeah, as I told
you. Thousands of images of child pornography, but everything’s gone,”
Bronowski says, handing back my photos and pulling out onto the road again.
“The hard drive was wiped, Gates went missing and then he was found dead.”

“The hard drive from
my father’s computer was wiped?” I probe, not attempting to hide the alarm in
my voice. “Jesus, it was at the police station! That means someone who works
there must have done it, but why?”

Bronowski says
nothing.

I frown in
concentration, thinking things through. Gates saw that evidence. Was
he
in any of those pictures? Had he been protecting his own reputation by wiping
the drive?

That makes no
sense. Edgar Gates could’ve easily deleted any pictures he saw of himself. But
did he have time to look through thousands? Maybe he found one and decided to wipe
them all. If it wasn't him, then who? Whoever did it had to work at the police
station to gain access.

Perhaps someone
else found out about the photos and they paid to destroy the evidence. A friend
of my dad’s maybe, or some other pedophile. After wiping the drive they killed
Gates, wrapping up any loose ends.

My father had
many rich, powerful friends. Do pedophiles band together to share activities or
pictures like this? It’s a terrible thought.

Maybe
they
killed my father and not Alex, after all. It’s too much to hope for, really. My
brother had a plan to kill our father and that exact plan was put into effect.
Who else except Alex could have done that?

My brother is
a murderer, but my only regret is I didn’t kill our father first.

I always
believed that while drunk or on drugs, Alex told his friend, Stan Huber his scheme—exactly
the same way Alex had told me. Stan, a good friend of my brother, chose not to get
him
in trouble with the police. Instead he testified
I
committed
the crime in order to get out of jail.

I have to
wonder, is Huber a part of this? Maybe he’s being blackmailed. There are so
many possibilities. I make a mental note, it’s time to talk to Stan… and my
brother.

I'm itching to
know so many things. Who mailed the pictures to Danny and me? How are they
involved in this mess? How many other people received their own set of
disturbing images?

“What did you
mean when you said
until recently
?” The detective asks me again, pulling
me from my reverie. “Are you telling me your father abused others?”

“Yes.” I nod.
“Like I said, I had no idea there
were
others. I'd never considered the
possibility. Danny Berdeaux came to me after he received a hand-delivered
envelope in his mailbox. Danny’s picture is similar to the ones I just showed
you, only instead of me, my father was with Danny, when
Danny
was a
kid.”

 Bronowski sits
up straight, at full attention. “When did this happen?”

“I don’t know
exactly, you’d have to ask Danny. He told me about it sometime last week.”

Deep in thought,
neither of us speaks until we arrive home. Bronowski pulls up in front of my
house, puts the Impala in park and turns off the ignition off. The engine dies.
For a moment, all is silent.

At that point,
we both observe something startling.

In fact, it shocks
the hell out of us.

What the fuck?

My eyebrows
shoot up in surprise as my sister, Betty Jo, bursts out of the front door of my
home as if shot from a gun. Elegantly dressed to wow potential real estate clients,
she’s wearing a black and white designer dress and four inch heels.

Usually, not one
hair on her head would ever dare to be out of place, but just now, it looks as
though her entire hairdo is in full mutiny. Tearing by us in a mad dash, Betty
Jo’s thick brunette tresses are in a tangle as they sail behind her in the
wind. Her dark blue eyes are wide with fear. She’s terrified!

My mouth drops
open.

Shutting and
opening my eyes, I blink rapidly, half expecting the scene before me to
disappear.

For a moment, I
wonder if I’m imagining this. In an utter panic, her arms are up in the air
gesticulating back and forth wildly. Her petulant mouth open and screaming,
Betty Jo sprints full speed away from the house.

On the top of
her head it looks as if she’s wearing an odd black and white fur hat… but she
isn’t.

Holy shit!
It’s Mitten!

Mitten is stuck
to her head—he has a good hold. I wonder what my sister did to piss off such a
sociable cat? Mitten’s tail flies behind him as all four paws firmly cling onto
Betty Jo’s scalp.

Stunned,
Bronowski and I watch, frozen to stillness. Only our eyes move, tracking the
scene before us. The muted sound of Betty Jo’s screams filter through the car.

My gaze trails my
sister’s desperate flight from my house on our left, down the stairs, across
the lawn, then past the front of Bronowski’s sedan, right across the road to the
door of her parked car.

After
successfully vanquishing his enemy, Mitten jumps off of her head. He darts back
across the road, across the lawn, up the stairs, and zips through the still
open front door, back into my home.

At the same
moment, Betty Jo leaps into her Range Rover, slams the car door shut, starts
the engine. The moment her car purrs to life, she punches the accelerator. The
powerful car roars, tires squeal and burn rubber as she peels out. Betty Jo
flies by as if the fiery hounds of hell are after her.

Silence
surrounds us as the street becomes quiet once more.

I can’t believe
it.
Did I just see what I think I saw?

The whole thing
took under thirty seconds. Only the smell of burning rubber is testament to
what just happened.

Eyes bright,
Bronowski and I turn to stare at each other. The detective has had personal
experience with Renata’s best friend and protector. Did Mitten scratch him or any
of his officers? In any case. I know he scared the hell out of them.

I can't help but
be pleased by what I just witnessed. That was pure entertainment. Lord, I love
that cat!

I hate my sister.

Bronowski hates Mitten.

When our eyes
meet an expectant, meaningful look passes between us. A woman being viciously attacked
by a house cat is a terrible, terrible thing. Our mouths twitch. For one
perfect moment we can read each other’s mind. It’s not funny at all.

But it
really
is!

In the same
instant, Bronowski and I both throw back our heads and burst into unrestrained
laughter. Tears run from our eyes. We fall all over ourselves, doubled over,
unable to breathe—each utterly-off-our-face hysterical.

Talk about
best
male bonding moment of all time!

“Mindfulness means
paying attention in a particular way; on purpose, in the present moment, and
nonjudgmentally.”

Kabat-Zinn

~~~

Renata Koreman

Earlier today,
Grant was taken away by the police, leaving me behind with Briley. I’ve no idea
why the police picked him up this time. Did they find new evidence against him
about his father's murder?

Not knowing what
the hell is going on leaves me in a difficult place. I can't help fearing what
this will mean for him, as well as for our future together.

On a positive
note, I’m proud of myself for keeping it together. The last time the police
came, I was a total basket case. Frankly, I was lucky not to have been hauled
off to a mental hospital. Mitten protected me, ferociously scratching and
biting and fighting anyone who came near. If necessary, my sweet Mitten
would’ve taken on the entire police force, I’m sure.

Detective
Bronowski had been sensitive and concerned. He’d apologized, made everyone back
off, and assured me I would be left alone.

Not long after
Grant left this morning, Maria arrived. It's nice to have her around, although just
now she’s upstairs cleaning bathrooms. I’m downstairs in the kitchen, feeding
Briley applesauce.

The doorbell
rings. “I’ll get it,” I yell up to Maria.

“Muchas
gracias,”
she calls back.

I unbuckle
Briley from his highchair, pick him up and take him with me to answer the door.
To my utter disappointment—and mild terror, I find Grant’s sister standing on
the front porch.

Crap.
Only
Betty Jo can give something as delicious as a 'BJ' a bad name.

Her expensive
Burberry dress looks amazing. It’s from the Wilderness Collection, white with
big black spots—it’s kind of like the fur on an animal. With her four inch
heels, she appears elegant, sexy and in complete command of her world.

I can’t help but
be jealous of her unshakable confidence.

Her chin raises,
her nose points up in the air. “Where’s Grant?” she asks, her voice haughty with
contempt. “He’s not answering his phone.”

I blink when a strong
blast of breath mints wafts through the air.

As a functional
alcoholic, Grant’s sister masks the smell of whiskey with extra strength breath
fresheners. One whiff and my eyes burn.

Talk about a
wake-up call! I stubbornly force myself to meet her gaze, pretending I'm not
freaking out inside.

I want to close
and lock the door in her face. I wish her away, far away. Maybe if I focus
really hard and click my heels together three times, she'll disappear.

“This is a
workday for Mr. Wilkinson,” I reply carefully, enunciating each word so I don’t
stutter.

This is
technically
a true statement, just not an answer to her question. I avoid lying as much as
humanly possible, so I hope she doesn’t press the matter. In this case, it's
not up to me to tell her that her brother’s been carted off by the police.
That's
his
business to share or not, as he sees fit.

“I called the
shooting range and he’s not there,” she snaps. Her dark blue eyes flash as she
squeezes past me, through the front door, into the kitchen area.

“W-w-would you
like to come in and w-w-wait for him?” I ask politely, even though she’s
already inside.

Shit! Shit!
Shit!

I often find
myself stuttering when dealing with belligerent people like Betty Jo. This
degree of disapproval and disdain throws me right back into my past. I feel
like the scared kid I was when being bullied throughout my childhood.

This snooty,
rude bitch comes along, and I’m right back there.

I hate that
Grant’s sister has the power to unnerve me as she does. I've worked long and hard
to find my inner strength. How does she reduce me to gibbering so quickly,
without the clear threat of violence?

I take deep,
slow breaths as I force myself not to cower. Luckily, I begin to feel a fiery,
internal heat from her ultra-superior, mightier-than-thou attitude. My inner
anger is a wonderful thing, giving me a burst of dogged valor.

I decide not to
take her shit.
What right does she have to treat me like crap?

Last night was
perfect.

Today, I’m going
to be brave.

I place Briley
back in his high chair and buckle him in, my mind spinning on overdrive the
whole time. I don't know when Grant will return so I might be stuck with his
sister for a few hours. I honestly don’t know if I can do it.

Fuck.
How
would André handle this? Of course, he’s André. Every woman loves him, so he’s
no real help in this situation. Still, he somehow remains true to himself while
being respectful.

I recall my asshole
uncle on the day I first met André. Uncle dearest certainly tried André's
patience. If he was the representative for ‘Mankind’ they’d have to rename it ‘Mancruel.’
How did André remain in polite command of his behavior during their exchange? When
my reluctant relative left the room, André vented his feelings.

I resolve no
matter what Betty Jo throws my way, I won’t back down and I won’t fall to her
level. I don’t want to be a bitch. I’ll take the high road and remain polite,
even in the face of her offensive attitude.

Yes, I’ll just
channel my 'inner-André.

This should be
interesting… particularly if I begin to stutter in French!

Mindfulness.
I’ll use the mindfulness techniques André taught me ages ago. I’ll keep a
straight face, be here and let her shit flow. I won’t allow said shit to touch
or affect me.

I sit down,
scoop up another spoonful of applesauce and bring it to Briley’s mouth. “You
like applesauce don’t you handsome?” I coo with a smile.

“Ma, ma, ma,”
Briley says. I wish Sky were here to hear this. Of course, Sky would hate to be
anywhere near her sister-in-law.

Betty Jo sits
down at the kitchen table across from me, so she’s on the other side of Briley.
“You really have no idea where he’s gone?”

Mindfulness,
I remind myself as my nostrils are assaulted by a fresh minty wave. “Mr.
Wilkinson didn’t t-t-tell me his plans.”

She glares at me
with shrewd, mocking eyes. “You like my brother, don’t you? Or are you just
after his money? Either way, forget it. Grant’s completely out of your league.
He’d never marry a woman like you. And that stutter,” she drags out the word
with a snide voice. “Is it from a brain injury? Can’t you fix that? Aren’t you embarrassed
and ashamed?”

I close myself
off and don’t reply to this nasty comment.

I continue to
calmly feed Briley, ignoring
her
. Surprisingly, Betty Jo’s stutter
comment doesn’t hurt me in the least. I wonder why? Grant’s sister has a very
low opinion of me, but the opinion I have of her is probably even lower.

Maybe that’s why
I don’t care what she thinks.

When I keep my
mouth closed, Betty Jo continues, “Like any man, Grant may screw you blind, but
he’ll never be loyal. Men get their brains caught in their zippers. There are
too many skanky sluts out there trying to take advantage of them.”

I force myself
to look at Betty Jo—to really look at her, as I’ve never had the nerve to do
before.

Is this woman so
miserable she can’t be content unless she’s making somebody else miserable too?
Maybe she needs to bring others low, so she can feel better by looking down at
them. What a tragic, pathetic existence. I actually pity her. Betty Jo wouldn't
know true happiness or love if it bit her on the ass!

I picture her
laughing at the pain and suffering of others. I bet she masturbates to blooper
reels, disaster films and tragedies. I’m surprised by my bitter and mean thoughts.

So much for
me rising above her nastiness.

Grant’s sister
is obnoxious, but that’s not unusual. It's her MO. Yet today something seems
different about her. I can't quite put my finger on it. What is it?

I study her face
carefully, and after a moment, it dawns on me. Betty Jo's genuinely upset. I
don't think this is her usual, everyday anger and irritation. Her eyes are red
and slightly puffy. I think she’s been crying.

Great.
Now
I
feel guilty.

I have an
irrational knee-jerk reflex to blame myself when people are upset. Maybe
because when I was a child my father blamed his bad moods on me. I was young
enough to believe everything
was
my fault.

But Betty Jo is
not happy, regardless of whether I'm around. Pointing the finger at anyone
other than herself is her norm. Yet, realizing she’s upset changes the dynamic
on my part. As a born nurturer, I want to help. Doing so comes naturally.

I remember what
she said earlier and it suddenly makes sense,
Men get their brains caught in
their zippers. There are too many skanky sluts out there to take advantage of
them.

“Was your
partner unfaithful?” I ask, genuinely sympathetic.

Her eyes widen,
her mouth drops open. Judging by Betty Jo’s immediate response, mine was a very
good guess.