Abuse: The Complete Trilogy (41 page)

“Out of the night that
covers me, Black as the pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be,
For my unconquerable soul.”

 — William Ernest
Henley

~~~

Grant
Wilkinson

Dripping wet, I
run up to the front door of my house and am immediately stopped by three
uniformed policemen. Men are talking, rain is falling on the roof and loudly
running down gutters, and I can hear my cellphone ringing from where I left it
on the kitchen counter.

“What happened?”
I ask, winded from my mad sprint. I grab the towel I left near the door and
wipe my face. “What’s going on?

If the police
want to question me about my dad's murder, I assume only one police car would
be needed here. Yet, there are four police cars parked outside of my house.
Something must have happened and it's got to be bad.

“Grant
Wilkinson?” a uniformed cop asks.

“Yes?”

“You are under
arrest for the murder of Chester Wilkinson,” the police officer says, while
taking a pair of handcuffs from his belt. “You have the right to remain
silent—”

“Stop,” I raise
my hand and interrupt him in a no-nonsense tone. My voice isn’t too loud and it
isn’t too soft. It’s low and confident—the voice of command.

Open-mouthed,
every single person I see stops what they’re doing and stares at me.

I’m a sniper—I
don’t buckle under pressure. For years, I practiced controlling adrenaline
spikes, breathing and heart rate. Such cool detachment comes effortlessly to
me. I’d already cut my own heart out when I was a child, so I know how to shut
down emotions.

Consequently,
I’m the perfect ‘go to’ guy in an emergency. I think fast on my feet, take
charge and am able to make rational, quick decisions. I can easily deal with
any immediate crisis head on.

It’s
after
a crisis that I fall apart.

“Where is
Renata?” I ask in a dangerously calm voice that barely hides the steel beneath.

I walk further
inside the house. When I see her, I freeze and I almost lose it.
My dear,
sweet Renata! Please be OK!

This gripping
emotional response rocks me. Every protective instinct I have flares to life.

A policeman puts
his hand on me, as if to halt my forward movement. It would take an army of men
to stop me. Even then I don’t think they could.

I shake off the
man’s restraining hand and go to her.

Eyes lowered,
body trembling, Renata sits on the floor in a dark corner, appearing strangely
small and frail. Arms wrapped tightly around her legs, knees pulled against her
chest, she’s all curled up into a ball. She looks like a frightened
child—nothing like the brave, confident woman I know.

Last night,
Renata told me about these panic attacks, and how she’s experienced in managing
them. This looks like a bad one.

Mitten stands
before her, aggressively on guard. He looks huge because every hair on his head
and body stands on end. Teeth bared, hissing and growling, Mitten won't let
anyone get near Renata.

Bless you,
you wonderful cat.

Regret fills me,
irretrievably sinking my mood as if it was tied to a ball and chain then thrown
into deep water. I should have been here. I should have protected her from
this.

I squat down on
my heels in front of her. “Renata?” I murmur quietly. “Renata, it’s me, Grant.
Can you hear me?”

I see her chest
rising and falling. She's breathing fast and is as white as a ghost.
Christ!
She’s in a terrible state. However, she nods in response to my question, eyes
still aimed down at the floor.

“What can I do
to help you?” I ask.

“Nothing. I’ll
be OK… I’ll be OK,” she manages to get out. “The police—” Her sentence stops,
she gasps with fear.

“Darlin,' I'm
going to have to go with them soon. I don’t know what they want, but everything
will be all right,” I say. I tremble with rage at what I’ve put her through,
but I keep my voice soft and low.

I can’t leave
Renata alone like this. Briley's here and in the state she’s in, she can't even
take care of herself, much less a baby. I need a woman to stay with her, but
who can I call? Who can I trust?

I can think of
only one person.

My eyes search
the room until I locate the guy I figure is in charge. He's standing nearby,
supervising everything. He has short, dark brown hair, a large Roman nose and
is about my height. He looks fit, except for having a bit of a paunch.

This guy stands
out because of the suit he’s wearing and the calm expression on his face. It’s
a kind of weathered,
‘I’ve seen it all’
look, as if he's not fazed by
much.

I stride up to
him and ask, “Are you in charge here?”

“Yes,” he says.

“What is your
name?”

“I’m Detective
Bronowski.”

“Fine. Listen,
Detective Bronowski,” I say, gesturing toward Renata. “That woman is my
babysitter.”

His eyes widen
and his voice is surprised. “Babysitter?”

“Yes. Briley
must still be asleep in the nursery upstairs—I hope your officers don’t wake
him. I’ve temporarily accepted the care of my brother’s six-month-old son. I
don’t know anything about babies, so I hired a nanny. Her name is Renata
Koreman. The poor woman arrived here yesterday afternoon to help me take care
of him.”

Bronowski stares
at me, but I can see him absorbing this information. I don’t want him to think
Renata and I are dating.

I don’t want
Renata involved in my father’s investigation at all.

I nod my head.
“Clearly, she was not expecting or prepared for something like…” I throw my
hands in the air, “like whatever
this
is. I’m worried about her and I
can’t leave her and the baby alone. I need to call someone and arrange for them
to stay with her until she recovers. May I make that call?”

“Go ahead,” he
says. “I’ll listen in and then I’ll take custody of that phone when you’re
done.”

“Fine, thanks.”
I grab a pen and paper, pick up my phone from the kitchen counter and dial my
sister, Betty Jo.

“What do you
want?” she barks irritably. Caller ID has obviously displayed my number. Her
love for me shows in the way she answers the phone.

“I need a
favor,” I say, praying she won't hang up before I get what I need from her.

“Go fuck
yourself!”

“I just want
Sally Ann’s phone number,” I say calmly.

The line goes
quiet—I knew that would shut her up. Betty Jo rattles off the number without
needing to look it up. They went to school together and have remained friends.

Sally Ann Berdeaux
is sweet and innocent, the perfect Southern Belle. My sister is a mean,
belligerent shrew. Talk about day and night. I ask myself for the thousandth
time, what do those two women see in each other?

“Thank you,” I
say, but my sister has already ended the call.

I immediately
call Sally Ann, who answers on the second ring. “Hello?”

“Hi, Sally Ann,”
I say, and I hear the tone in my voice change to something gentle and polite.
“It’s Grant here. How are you?”

I’m three years
older than she is. I like her, I always have, but Sally Ann has had a crush on
me for years. My mother is forever trying to set us up, but I’m not the man for
her. I hate to use her like this, yet I can think of no one else I can turn to.
Sweet as she is, I know Sally Ann will be glad to help.

“
Grant?
”
she asks, surprise evident in her voice.

“Yes.”

“Oh, it’s lovely
to hear from you,” she says. “I’m fine, thank you. How are you?”

“Well, I'll get
to that in a moment. How’s your brother?”

“Danny’s doing
well, thank you for asking.”

Sally Ann and
her twin brother are close, but he has mental health issues. I’m not sure if
he’s schizophrenic, bipolar or depressed. I do know he attempted suicide and
was committed to a psychiatric hospital during their sophomore year of high
school.

“I’m sorry to
call like this…” I begin… but time is at a premium, so I come out with it. “You
see, I really need to ask you for a favor—a big one.”

I carefully
explain the rather desperate situation I find myself in. I tell her as quickly
as possible about the police, Briley and Renata.

“I’m sure it’s
all a mistake!” Sally tells me loyally. “You’ll be released in no time. You’ve
served our country, you’re a hero! I can’t imagine what they think you’ve
done.”

I meet the
detective’s eyes and reply, “Neither can I.”

As expected,
Sally Ann is perfectly happy to drop everything and come to our rescue.
Genuinely kind, she's just the right person to stay with Renata.

“I’ll leave a
house key under the doormat, all right?” I ask her.

“Your friend
won’t mind if I just come right in?”

“Not at all,” I
say, and I hope it’s true. There is no way I’ll make Renata get up and answer a
knock on that front door again any time in the near future. Not with what
happened this morning. “Anyway, I’ll tell her you’re coming.”

As I’ve been
talking, a trail of people have been wandering through my house. They’re going
back and forth out to parked cars, carrying my laptop and various other items.
As I end the call, the detective puts his hand out.

I place my phone
onto his palm. Then I notice an officer bringing out an iPad as he walks past
by me.

“Wait,” I tell
the detective. “That's not mine. I don’t own an iPad.”

“Oh?”

“That must
belong to my babysitter,” I object. “She needs it for her contacts. The woman
has already been through enough. You can’t take that!”

The detective
shrugs. “Sorry. I understand, but it still has to go. I’ll ask our tech people
to finish with it first and get it back to her as soon as possible. I feel bad
about frightening the poor woman—we scared her half to death. I sure didn’t
expect that reaction.”

“No, I imagine
it was pretty extreme for her to still be in the state she's in now,” I agree.

“She wouldn’t
let us call an ambulance,” he adds.

I nod.

“And that cat!”
The detective shakes his head. “Not yours, I take it?”

“No, Renata
brought her cat along with her. It was part of the deal. They pretty much go
everywhere together.”

“I’ve never seen
anything like that creature,” he says with a wry smirk. “No one could get
anywhere near it, or her.”

Despite
everything, I can’t help but smile. “That cat loves her,” I say in explanation.
“Look, may I go change my clothes? I'm soaked.”

He looks down at
my sopping outfit that's dripping and leaving a puddle beneath me. He nods.
“I’ll come with you.”

“Thank you,” I
say.

As I run up the
stairs, a little shock of fear runs through me. I suddenly realize they must
have evidence if they plan to arrest me. What evidence could they possibly have
since I didn’t do it?

I dry myself
with a towel and get dressed. The detective remains at my side watching me the
whole time. Making sure I don’t hide any evidence, I guess. He informs me they have
a search warrant in effect for my home and place of business. He reads me my
Miranda rights and pulls out some handcuffs.

I lock eyes with
the man. “Let me say goodbye and check on my nanny first,” I ask.

He nods.

Renata is still
in the corner, but her color has improved. Mitten looks calmer, too. I sit on
the floor beside them both.

“Hey.” I give
her a half-smile.

“I’m OK,” she
murmurs. “It’s getting better.”

“Good,” I say in
a low voice. “Look, I have to go with these men now, but all these people will
soon be gone. I have a friend coming over to stay with you. Her name is Sally
Ann Berdeaux. She’s a very sweet woman—you’ll like her. I’ve left a key out for
her, so she’ll let herself in. Is that all right with you?”

“Yes,” she says
quietly.

“I’m so sorry
about this.”

Renata gives me
a faint smile. “Me too. Will you be back soon?”

I shrug. “I have
no idea,” I tell her honestly. “I’ll call when I can.” I stroke Mitten, stand
up and walk out of her line of sight.

I take a key to
the house from my key ring and give it to the detective to place under the
front doormat. An officer cuffs my hands together in front of me. The metal is
cold and hard. It’s a novel experience, to say the least.

As I walk out, I
see a couple of neighbors looking out their windows. My humiliation is complete
as an officer puts his hand on my head, and guides me into the back of the
police car.

And to think, my
day started out so well.

“Motive: In
Law, this is why one committed the crime, the inducement, reason, or willful
desire and purpose behind the commission of an offense.”

— Black's Law
Dictionary

~~~

Grant
Wilkinson

A police officer
holds my upper arm as I exit from the back seat of the police cruiser. Still in
handcuffs, I do the perpetrator walk of shame—the kind I’ve watched countless
times on TV.

Pedestrians gawk
as I stride into the police station. Thank God no reporters have yet gotten
wind of this. That's something to be happy about, at least. Tough to find the
silver lining in this particular cloud.

I’d probably be
humiliated if I wasn’t so worried about Renata. I hope she’s OK, but there’s
nothing I can do at this point. At least I sent someone to look after her.

I’ve known Sally
Ann all of my life. She’s sweet, nurturing and kind. She also has a degree in
child psychology, so she’s the perfect person to help with Briley. More than
that, I trust her, which is rare for me.

As I sit in the
interrogation room, it’s like being on an episode of “True Crime." I'm
sitting on a hard, uncomfortable chair. There's cheap linoleum flooring, no
windows and the faint smell of unwashed bodies and stale air.

“So,” Detective Bronowski
says, as he studies me. “We have a witness who says you killed your father.”

What the
hell?

I purposely
maintain my blank stare, so I don’t display any noticeable reaction, but this
is certainly news to me.

What witness?
How could there possibly be a witness when it never happened? Who would commit
perjury just to make my life miserable?

My sister
suddenly comes to mind.

Betty Jo is the
one person I know who
truly
hates me. Still, the Wilkinson façade must stand
at all costs. Childhood brainwashing would prevent my sister from tainting the
public image of the Wilkinson dynasty. Who cares that we’re screwed up and
dysfunctional? Keeping up appearances and playing ‘the perfect family’ was the
first and most important rule of the Wilkinson clan.

“With his
testimony, plus the evidence of drugs we found in your father’s body,” the
detective pauses and looks straight into my eyes, “we have enough evidence to
go to trial. This is your chance to explain. Did he deserve it? Or was it a
misunderstanding? Maybe it was an accident.”

I don’t move. He
said, '
HIS
testimony.' That rules out my sister.

Nope. I'm at a
total loss. I have no idea who
he
is.

I say nothing
and count my heartbeats—fifty-five, less than one beat a second. Despite the
pressure I’m under, I’m relaxed and remote. After a lifetime of being
disconnected, it’s second nature to jump back into that headspace.

My interrogator
sits back in his chair as though he has all the time in the world. The smell of
mints drifts through the air. Maybe the detective is giving up smoking.

“Did you hate
your father?” he asks.

Sure. But I
loved him too.

Despite what my
father did to me and my numerous fantasies of ways to make him sorry, patricide
was never something I considered. Images of him on his knees, apologizing and
begging for forgiveness was more my imaginary style.

I resolve to
keep my mouth shut. I'm familiar enough with the concept of
'anything you
say will be used against you in a court of law.'
I have the right to remain
silent, and I choose to exercise it.

Meanwhile, I pay
attention to Detective Bronowski. The man has cop’s eyes, penetrating and
acute. I doubt he misses much. He’s clearly a professional who’s done this kind
of thing many times before.

I want to get an
idea of what the police
think
they know. Even though I plan to take the
heat for my brother, I don’t want to—if I don’t absolutely have to. I'll save
any responses for later, when my lawyer is present.

“Was it an
accident?” he suggests.

Apparently
not. Damn it, Alex, what were you thinking? Who else did you tell? And why are
they coming after me? At least no one blames him.

If I'd only
stepped in, if I’d saved him from my father then this would never have
happened. André says I was not to blame, but I was the older child. I was
supposed to look out for Alex.

There’s no
way I’ll let my little brother go to jail.

“Do yourself a
favor,” the detective says, sitting forward. “As the prime suspect, you're in a
seriously bad situation, here. It's not looking good for you. If you cooperate,
we can probably plead your charges down to manslaughter. No one wants to put a
war hero on trial.”

Oh goody—I
guess that's something I can hang onto.

“This is your
chance to avoid the death penalty. Think about it.”

Appealing…
but, no.

The thick
silence lengthens and becomes oppressive, as we both stare at each other.

I can sit here
as unmoving as a statue all day. I’ve done it many, many times before while
waiting for to take the perfect shot. This kind of questioning goes on for some
time. I have to give Detective Bronowski points for his patience.

What am I
waiting for? I’m not completely sure. The police arrested me, but I bet they
can’t hold me. They’re eager to find something with that search warrant. How
strong can the evidence be to tie me to a crime I didn't commit?

The detective’s
eyes soften and I curb my instant desire to smile. He’s
good.
It’s just
him and me, two men who understand each other—at least that’s the attitude he
projects.

“We just want to
understand why you did it,” he says in a fatherly tone.

My heart kicks
up a beat or two as I experience an ‘
ah-ha!’
moment. Something suddenly
gels in my mind. My eyes narrow before I have the presence of mind to school my
facial expressions.

Bronowski is
looking for
a motive.
I don’t think he has enough evidence to convince
the D.A. to actually go to trial, but if he discovers I had a good reason to
kill?

That
it
would be a different story.

Shit.
No
matter what, I can’t let the police find out I was sexually abused by my
father. Shit, shit, shit!
That means now I can’t tell Renata who my abuser
was, either.

I feel as though
I’m standing under a freezing waterfall, as cold consciousness of my past
washes over me,

Monster!
Pervert!

For one long
moment, my lifelong fear returns. I’m
not
a monster, I’m
not
a
pervert—I
know
this now. Yet I still have a long way to go before I
truly believe it. I have to keep reminding myself.

The details of
what my father and I did are a secret I
no longer
want to keep. I want
to share everything with Renata, but how else can I guard her from this
ugliness? I’ll have to continue to hide the truth. I simply cannot allow her to
be dragged into my mess.

Speaking about
my past will be excruciating, so delaying that pain is an attractive option. A
part of me is glad to use this as an excuse.

Yet, a greater
part of me is saddened by it. Intimacy is such a difficult challenge. I
must
learn how to be open and honest in order to heal.

I need Renata.

Seeing the
police today was enough to drive Renata into a state of panic. How can I add to
her stress by getting her involved in a murder investigation? The poor woman
has already lived through hell on earth.

If I talk to her
about my father, anything I tell her might be used against me. She could become
an unwilling witness for the prosecution.

Fuck.
My
life just became much more complicated.

I’m not prone to
nerves, mainly because I’ve had a stranglehold on my emotions for far too long.
I will get through this. I’ll manage as I always have, by taking one step at a
time.

My mind wanders
as the detective continues to question me. I’m thinking about the missed calls
I saw on my phone. Bobbie my AA sponsor, left a message, I know. That’s
probably because I haven’t been attending meetings lately.

I’ll also have
to call Trey and Zachary, the two managers of my indoor/outdoor shooting range.
They’re both smart guys. When the computers were seized by law enforcement, I’m
sure they immediately began to record any financial transactions on paper.

An army of
police invading my shooting range during business hours would’ve been a huge
pain in the ass.

Still, a love of
guns often attracts an anti-government segment of the population, so I have no
doubt our customers will remain loyal. If anything, with the speed at which
gossip travels, the execution of a search warrant will probably have increased
business.

I’ll bet that
every Tom, Dick and Harriett will be trying to get more information or will
just come out for a peek to see what's going on.

“Am I boring
you, Wilkinson?” Bronowski asks in a mocking, irritated tone.

I jerk out of my
reverie, astonished to find that I’ve tuned-out. “I beg your pardon,” I reply
with a faintly embarrassed smile. We both know I haven’t been listening. “I
think I’d better talk to my lawyer now, don’t you?” I ask the detective.

“Fine,” he says,
as he stands up and storms out.

When my lawyer
finally arrives, he’s furious. He bustles, he glares and makes every possible
attempt to intimidate the police.

“Mr. Wilkinson,
are you OK? Have you been denied counsel?” he asks in a melodramatic way, as if
he’s appalled by what has transpired. I suspect he was on stage as a child. I
think he would’ve been a huge success if given half a chance.

I smile.

They say you get
what you pay for. This is particularly true when you buy the services of a
lawyer. My guy’s costing me a fortune, but he’s worth every penny. I spend the
whole day in custody, but in the end, they can’t hold me.

The police
release me in time for dinner. Unless they can find a motive or more evidence
of my guilt, I’ll remain a free man.