Abuse: The Complete Trilogy (93 page)

“A hero is an
ordinary individual who finds the strength to persevere and endure in spite of overwhelming
obstacles.”

— Christopher
Reeve

~~~

Gabriela
Lopez

Side by side at
the table, nine-year old Sammy and eleven-year old Susie, sat eating in the
huge dining room, both dressed in green track suits.

“Gotcha!” Sammy
squealed gleefully, after knocking against his friend with his knee under the
table, making her drop her forkful of scrambled eggs.

“Gotcha back!”
Susie said with a giggle, bumping him with her shoulder, so he hit his plate. A
tussle ensued, followed by a tickling battle and whoops of laughter.

“You kids had
better settle down,” warned Miss Buttercup, sternly.

“Yes, Miss
Buttercup,” both children sang back dutifully, while continuing to bump and
knock each other in a much more subtle and furtive manner. With their actions
hidden by the table, the game was even
more
fun now, as they were forced
to remain quiet and keep a straight face.

Miss Buttercup
smiled and returned to her kitchen.

Susie wasn’t
worried about getting into trouble. Miss Buttercup had only chastised them in
case someone was listening on the video. Miss Buttercup liked to see children
play. She loved knowing ‘her kids’ were having fun.

She also gave
great, big hugs.

Miss Buttercup
was African American. She had smooth, dark skin, long black eyelashes, pretty
brown eyes and the best smile
ever.
Susie loved her. Of all of the
supervisors, Miss Buttercup was her favorite. A fantastic cook, she continually
made special treats.

Miss Buttercup
was one of the good ones.

My name is
Gabriela Lopez,
Susie thought. She liked to think about it often, glad to
know her
real
name. Sammy couldn’t remember his birth name. He couldn’t
even remember his parents, a fact that made Susie sad.

They never
lacked for food in the
Big House
. For breakfast, they had pancakes,
fruit, bacon, scrambled eggs, juice and toast. Many times before Susie came
here, her empty stomach had cramped and burned with all too frequent unfilled need
to eat.

Now, she never
went hungry, except for the aching hunger in her heart for her parents.

It was 11:00
a.m., time for breakfast. Sammy and Susie, who were highly sought after as a
couple, often worked together. They’d been up with a client until late the
night before, so no one else ate with them. The other children were either at
work, still asleep, or maybe they had exercise or free playtime—things the kids
did each day.

The doctor said
it was important for them to be healthy.

All seemed fine
as they continued to play their game and ate. The first moment the kids became
aware that something was wrong was when they heard loud, unfamiliar noises from
the front of the house. It sounded like men shouting and people screaming.

Miss Buttercup
came out of the kitchen, her arms wrapped around her stomach. She looked very,
very strange, as though she didn’t know what to do. How could that be?

Supervisors
always knew what to do.

“What is it?”
Susie asked, but Sammy didn’t wait to find out. He immediately jumped down to
the floor and hid under the table.

“Arms in the
air! You’re under arrest!” A deep male voice yelled from a room nearby.

“Jesus,” Miss
Buttercup said in a whisper.

“What?” Susie
asked, wondering if she should crawl under the table too.

“People are
here, they’re coming… for us,” she said in a shaky, frightened voice.

Susie thought
Miss Buttercup sounded as though she’d run a long distance. Her breathing was
shallow and fast. Did she eat something that made her tummy hurt? Just now,
Miss Buttercup looked really sick.

To Susie’s shock
and amazement, her favorite supervisor had tears running down her face!

Bang! Crash!

The door to the
dining room suddenly flew open and eight big grownups rushed in, waving big
guns. They were dressed in black uniforms and wore helmets on their heads. The
helmets roved back and forth as they scanned the room.

It was
terrifying!

“You four stay
here,” one man said. Then he and three others ran off, leaving the dining area.

One man
approached Susie while another tackled Miss Buttercup, throwing her face down
on the floor. He pulled her hands behind her back and began to put handcuffs on
her.

That was when
Susie began to scream and scream and scream.

“It’s OK, it’s
OK, we’re here to protect you,” a man said, raising his hands palm up in an
attempt to put her at ease. “You’re safe now.”

He came closer,
taking off his helmet and kneeling down before her. He had short blond hair and
anxious, yet kind, gray eyes.

Susie stopped
screaming. Fueled by adrenaline, she jumped to her feet, suddenly madder than
she could ever remember being in her life. Unreasonably bold, she flew at the
other man who was handcuffing her friend.

“Leave her
alone!” Susie shouted, shoving him. “That’s Miss Buttercup! She’s always nice!”

The man didn’t
budge. Quickly and quietly he finished cuffing Miss Buttercup without saying a
word. His blank-face and lack of reaction frightened her even more. The
scariest men of all didn’t show how they felt.

Her fragile hold
on what had become a tentative and unknown future suddenly overwhelmed her.

“Please don’t
hurt Miss Buttercup,” Susie begged, then she burst into a fit of loud, utterly
hysterical tears.

“We won’t hurt
her,” the kind, blond man assured.

The man spoke in
a low voice, softly and soothingly. He offered Susie tissues and waited for her
to get her tears under control. He made no move to touch her.

Another man got
to his knees and tried to coax Sammy out from under the dining room table,
which seemed an impossible task. Sammy refused to budge until Miss
Buttercup—still cuffed and sitting on a chair at the end of the table, told Sammy
it was safe. Then, he finally came out.

When everyone
finally settled down, the kind man asked Susie, “Why are you worried about er…
Miss Buttercup?”

“I love Miss
Buttercup!” Susie vowed staunchly, wiping her nose with her arm. “She’s nice to
us, we love her and, and…”

“And?” the man
asked kindly.

“I was brought
here when I was eight years old,” Susie said, sniffling and hiccupping.

“Oh?” the nice
man said encouragingly.

“Yes,” said
Susie. “Miss Buttercup came here when she was eight years old, too.”

“You can fool
all the people some of the time, and some of the people all the time, but you
cannot fool all the people all the time.”

— Abraham
Lincoln

~~~

Bright and early
one morning, in the middle of November, Senator Robert Whitfield’s clandestine
business finally ended with a bang. Twenty-three mansions across the United
States, all full of children and staff were raided. Boys and girls, ages six
and older, were discovered to be systematically trafficked to the most powerful
men in the country.

For over 28
years, this pedophile ring acted with complete impunity, hiding behind a façade
of respectability.

When the first
serious allegations anonymously trickled out by SWAT teams and first
responders, they were assumed to be gross exaggerations. After all, children
were imaginative and unreliable narrators. How could they be trusted?

CNN and Fox News,
publishing what they were told to publish, credited these stories as ‘wild,
unsubstantiated allegations,’ designed to ‘create mischief during an election
year.’

Both CNN and Fox
got it wrong.

It soon became
the biggest political scandal in US history.

Senator Robert
Whitfield was named, as well as his famous evangelical brother. Various judges,
diplomats, senior police officials and members of the CIA, FBI and other top
politicians were wanted for questioning.

Shortly after
the raid, the FBI database of evidence showing perpetrators abusing children,
was
‘instantly and permanently deleted’
from their servers. The agency issued
a statement explaining
‘the loss of data was due to a technical malfunction.’
This caused an untold number of incriminating testimonies, videos, pictures and
graphic details, to be dumped.

They were
contrite about such a terrible accident.

This seemingly
all too convenient
computer glitch
caused public outrage. How could the
FBI lose
all
of the evidence relating to crimes of
only
powerful,
prominent official and political figures?

However, in this
age of technology, by then it was too late. Word of these horrific offenses was
out, going viral, spreading faster than any information had ever moved through
the country.

Not long after
the data loss, certain videos and photos appeared on the internet, splashed
across numerous sites—too many to delete. One of these explicit videos was of
Zachary Bailey as a child, clearly being sodomized by a younger Senator Robert
Whitfield.

Only two people
living, and one who had been murdered, would recognize exactly where those
pictures came from. It seemed all the evidence on Chester Wilkinson’s computer
hadn’t been destroyed after all.

When Roman
Bronowski and André Chevalier watched proof of this on TV (with details
sensitively blacked out) they both smiled.

Somewhere in
heaven, no doubt, Edgar Gates was smiling, too.

At the same time
a Special Investigation was launched by a Pulitzer Prize winning journalist
from the New York Times. After André introduced Zach to his journalist friend,
Zachary was pleased to sell his story in an interview that shook the nation to its
core.

Much to Zachary Bailey’s
delight, his consistently unsupportive mother, father and older sister were
hounded by the press who demanded to know ‘their side of the story.’ Why didn’t
they listen, report or follow up on any of Zachary's accusations? They refused
to comment.

The church Zach
and his family had belonged to was shut down after it was found to be
frequented by Isiah—Senator Whitfield’s evangelical brother. The church minister
went into hiding, under investigation for conspiracy.

While extensive
and crucial evidence mysteriously disappeared from the FBI’s servers, it
inexplicably turned up on the computer system of the European law enforcement agency,
Europol.

The international
organization, which was apparently beyond the reach of even the most powerful of
corrupt American officials, soon released a statement that "Operation
Child Rescue" had identified over 1,250 American suspects and a possible
list of over 4,000 children.

Only after going
public, Europol passed the evidence back to American authorities. None of whom
were brave enough to attempt to ‘accidently’ delete it again. By then a senate
investigation had been initiated to discover how such an unfortunate loss of
data could have occurred in the first place.

Judges (not
wanting to be named) suggested ‘inadmissible evidence’ in order to let powerful
men escape arrest and trial, but nothing could stop the relentless wave of
information once it began. When two high-profile public servants were stopped
at an airport, while attempting to flee to a non-extradition treaty
country—local police arrested them.

Before
Christmas, over two-hundred thousand Americans gathered in the Nation’s
Capital, screaming for the truth.

The bodies of
over 300 children were eventually discovered in the backyards of the raided
mansions. When prosecutors claimed the children were killed in order to protect
the child molesting network, there were riots.

Only the most
privileged and wealthy were granted secret membership of this influential
pedophile ring. After the accused were finally publically named—every one of
them once powerful, untouchable and above the law—more victims had the courage
to come forward and report their own abuse by these influential predators.

In situations
like these, there is strength in numbers. Victims, who felt so isolated by
their abuse, were no longer alone in their plight.

Suddenly, money
began pouring in to Grant Wilkinson’s ‘Sexual Abuse Therapy Foundation.’

Once knowledge
of Chester Wilkinson’s abuse of children came out, Betty Jo Wilkinson, the
woman who murdered her child molesting father, was feted as a hero. The D.A. immediately
dropped all charges.

Given probation
and community service, Grant’s sister continued to work on her own recovery,
incorporating and helping those with a less privileged upbringing than her own.
This community service, which also served as her legal penance, was therapeutic.

Seeing how the
other side lived did her a lot of good.

In response to
public outcry, in record-breaking speed, the fastest legislation ever agreed
upon by Democrats and Republicans in both houses became law. The United States
federal government removed all limitations for cases of child abuse throughout
the country, overriding state statutes of limitation.

When bail was
suggested for accused sexual predators, more riots ensued. Americans would
accept nothing less than total transparency. Conspiracies and cover ups would
no longer be tolerated. The public was well aware of the corruption that
necessitated Europol to step in.

The backlash
from ongoing trials; stories from a seemingly endless number of survivors; and
distrust and dislike of the super-rich, including privileged political figures
went on for years.

“Having a baby is a life-changer. It gives you a whole other
perspective on why you wake up every day.”

— Taylor Hanson

~~~

Grant
Wilkinson—one year later.

I sit on the
swing set, my feet on the ground, idly rocking.

I still can’t
believe it.

Smiling, Renata
comes through the back door, walks across the grass and sits on the swing next
to me. “Are you okay?” she asks, looking at me uneasily.

“Honestly, I’m
still in shock.”

“But you’re
happy, right? This
is
what we wanted.” With a sheepish shrug she adds.
“It’s
kind of
what we wanted, right? Just more so.”

I nod, trying to
hide a troubled frown. I'm not sure if I succeed.

Her expression twists
with concern. “Are you disappointed? Do you have doubts?”

I reach my hand
out to take hers, still blown away by the news from this morning’s ultrasound
results. “Of course I’m not, not at all. But I’m a little worried—mainly about
you. This is scary stuff. I had no idea how scary it really could be. I’m
excited, but I’m afraid for you. I’m also a little stunned—but mostly, I’m
excited.” I finish, managing a rather distracted smile.

“I’m excited too.”
A grin splits her face, her eyes sparkle with happiness.

I love her so
much. God, she better be OK.

I clear my
throat. “So, what did your Uncle Robert say?”

“My uncle, it
turns out, is one of a set of triplets; my mother, a brother and him.
Apparently, triplets run in my family. His brother lives in Sweden and they
lost touch years ago. Isn’t that weird? If I had a brother, I’d
never
lose
touch.”

I nod, knowing
how close she’d been to her own baby brother, Timmy. His loss left a huge hole
in her heart. I think that may be a big part of the reason why, for as long as
she can remember, Renata has longed for children of her own.

“Your Uncle Robert
is a bit of an asshole,” I observe, a mischievous grin on my face. “It’s
possible his brother fled back to Sweden, specifically to get away from his
jerk of a brother.”

We both crack up
over this.

“So, your mother
was one of a set of triplets.”

“She sure was.”

“Did your uncle
say anything about
his
mom having trouble during pregnancy or childbirth?”

“According to
him, there were no issues—not that he’d know. He says my great grandmother gave
birth to triplets, too. It’s not
that
uncommon. Statistically, triplets
or higher multiple births occur a little more than once in a thousand births;
one set in
ten
thousand births are identical triplets.”

“Identical?” I
gasp, imagining three identical girls, all getting into mischief. “I didn’t
even consider that.” I put my hand to my heart dramatically. “Three little
girls who all look like their mommy, every one of them wrapping me around their
wee little fingers. What a terrifying thought,” I tease.

She laughs.
“Hey, it could be three little boys who look like their daddy, all causing
nothing but trouble.”

I grin and nod.
“Too true.”

“I’ve got to explore
my family history,” she says speculatively. “I think I’ll take a genealogy
course. I saw something advertised recently in the local papers—people really
get into it. Anyway, apparently multiple births are normal for my family.”

“That makes me
feel better. I was worried about you.”

“I was worried
about me, too.”

I stand up and
pull her toward me, her legs rest between mine while she still sits on the
swing. My beautiful wife, my caring, clever, sexual surrogate.

I’ll never
forget the first time I saw her at André’s home in Las Vegas. I’d been utterly mortified
when we were introduced. I was ashamed. I felt dirty, unworthy and unlovable.
Then along comes this beautiful woman, who was supposed to be my therapist. How
could
I
be with
her?
Someone like me would only corrupt and ruin
her perfection.

I was a monster.

She thought she
was a mouse. This always seems impossible to me, when I always found her to be
so fearless and strong.

How far we’ve
both come since that time.

It was her eyes that
attracted me at first, drawing me in. Crystal blue with a vivid dark rim around
the iris, they’re extraordinary—just like she is.

Her happy smile
makes my breath catch. In high spirits and glowing with pregnancy, she looks
more beautiful than ever before.

Our lips meet in
a soft, chaste kiss.

Triplets run
in her family.

Relief lightens
my heart. Everything will be fine. I’m going to be a father—
times three!
It’s a huge responsibility, but I’m resolved to be the best father I can
possibly be.

I’m smiling so broadly,
the scars on my face tighten and pull.

Her eyes sparkle
when she sees the playful hint of happiness in my expression. I jump back into
my swing.

“Want to see how
high we can get?”

Renata giggles
playfully—such a happy, carefree girl. A carefree, three months pregnant
woman
.

My wonderful
wife.

The monster
married the mouse. We were meant to find one another, if only to help us both learn
the truth. I was never a monster, and Renata, my brave, capable wife, was never
a mouse.

I love the swing
set I designed and built for her. We can reach about twelve feet high at full
swing. I recall the joy on her face the first time I took Renata to a playground
after she'd told me how much she loved to swing. It changed her mood from
troubled to jubilant so quickly. It was beautiful to watch.

Delighting
Renata has become a habit—or perhaps more like a hobby. It's my favorite thing
to do.

We begin to
swing, both of us laughing like a couple of five year olds. Together, we swing
higher and higher, in complete sync. Up into the clouds. Weightless, soaring;
happiness and love lifts us up, defying gravity.

I feel as though
we’re swinging higher than we ever have before.

Maria, our housekeeper
and an important part of our family, comes out of the house to watch us. With a
broad grin on her face, she waves joyously.

Maria couldn’t have
been happier when she found out Renata was pregnant. Wait until we tell her we’re
having triplets. She’ll probably set her church on fire from the amount of
prayer candles of thanks she’ll light.

“You look like
children!” she shouts, teasing us playfully.

“Yes!” I shout
back.

Renata and I grin
at each other and swing even higher. Happy, excited and thrilled about our
future, we both
feel
like children, too.