Abuse: The Complete Trilogy (46 page)

“Don't be a
victim of the urgent. In the long run, much of what seems so pressing right now
won't even matter.”

― Gary
Chapman

~~~

Detective
Bronowski

Secure enough in
his masculinity not to care, Roman wore his wife’s pink, frilly apron as he
made breakfast for the family. With a sparkle in his eye, he was brimming with
smug satisfaction.

Roman had left
his sleepy wife in bed after the alarm clock went off. She deserved to catch up
on some shut eye after he wore her out last night. 

The Bronowski
family had lived in this house for fourteen years. The hot water pipes knocked
loudly within the walls, but that kind of noise was so commonplace, Roman
hardly noticed it anymore.

“Hi, Daddy!”
Janice chimed. The first of his brood to arrive, she plopped herself down at
the table.

“Hi,
sweetheart,” he said, as he dished out scrambled eggs and a slice of bacon onto
her plate.

“Wow,” she said.
“This looks really good daddy. Where’s Mommy?”

“She’s sleeping
late today.”

“Oh.”

Janice took this
explanation easily, as would any child her age. Roman couldn’t remember when he
last got up and made breakfast for the kids. Was it a year ago? Or two?

He worked long
hours and his job was tough sometimes, but that was really no excuse. Angela
was no slouch either.

How had he
allowed everything to slide? He’d taken too much for granted for way too long.
As her partner, it was up to him to be an important part of her life.

Thank you,
Mr. André Chevalier,
he thought.

Decisive and
determined by nature, Roman was the kind of guy who, once he made a plan, he
began putting it into effect immediately. He was still using the stairs and
increasing his fitness level, because that’s what he’d decided to do.

After his
meeting with Chevalier, Roman had begun implementing a strategy of wooing his
wife. Thus, the last few days with his Angela had been miraculous.

When he brought
home flowers, she became suspicious. When he did the dishes, she’d been
genuinely surprised. When he arranged for a babysitter and took his wife out
for dinner and dancing, she’d been elated.

Last night he’d
had the extreme pleasure and honor of making love to his wife and she’d been as
hot as hell for him. Jesus, the sex had been amazing, but even more
importantly, they had talked.
Really
talked, rather than the superficial
chatting they normally engaged in.

At first, he’d
listened. There’s listening and
listening.
Roman had listened before but
not really
heard
her. For the first time in years, he paid attention.

I hear her
now,
he thought smugly to himself, recalling the volume of her screaming
orgasm when he’d shocked her by going down on her.

Chevalier had
been right. The warning the Frenchman gave him echoed in his ears,
“Your
wife? She is learning to live her life and to be happy without you.”

So Roman asked
himself an important question. Did he want to learn to live his life, trying to
be happy without Angela? The answer to that was a resounding
no!

Roman had all
the plates out, full of food, before the rest of his family came down the
stairs. His two older children, Sonia and Matthew, dashed into the kitchen in a
great rush, Matthew openly smirking over his dad’s pink apron.

“
You
made
a hot breakfast?” Sonja asked, astonished. “Oh, no! I can’t eat bacon! I’ll get
fat!” she said, sounding like any normal teenage girl.

“Wow,” Matthew
said, slamming his body down onto a chair. “Is mom sick?” he asked, using his
fingers to snag his sisters bacon and placing it on his own plate.

“No, your mother
isn’t sick,” Roman said, insulted. “She’s sleeping late; she deserves it.”

All of his
progeny stared at him with disbelief and even suspicion.
“What?”
Roman
said, brandishing a spatula. “Can’t a man be nice to his wife without his kids
questioning everything?”

His phone rang,
which was just as well. He picked it up, “Bronowski,” he said.

“Detective?” An
unfamiliar male voice asked.

“Yes?”

“This is Edgar
Gates. I’m the tech guy, going through the computers brought in on the
Wilkinson case. I think you’re gonna want to get down here. I found something.”

“I’ll be right
there,” Roman said and ended the call. He heard Angela coming down the stairs,
and she walked into the kitchen.

“Hey,” he said
with a smile. In her bathrobe, still half-asleep, she looked beautiful. Roman
couldn’t help but remember the fun and pleasure they’d had in bed last night.

“Hey, yourself,”
she said.

With that appealing
smile on her face, Angela seemed to be remembering too. He leaned over to kiss
her.

“Oh, gross!”
Sonia said, rolling her eyes as they embraced each other. “
A-hem!
Kids
trying to eat here—take it to another room!”

Roman ignored
her. “I’ve got to get to work.”

“I know,” Angela
said. “I heard the phone.” There was an alluring twinkle in her eye. “I had a
good time last night,” she said.

“I did too.”

“Call me later?”

“Count on it,
babe,” Roman said, waggling his eyebrows teasingly.

Angela giggled,
an attractive, youthful sound that brought back memories of the good times
they’d had together. He felt grateful for what he had. To think, he could have
totally screwed this up. He almost felt indebted to Grant Wilkinson for
bringing André into his life. Strange how things work out.

He kissed each
of his kids goodbye, took off the apron, grabbed his jacket and walked out the
door.

Roman whistled
as he got into his car. He’d started this new game of pleasing his wife, which
was such an easy and
fun
game to play. And, it sounded as if there were
going to be a break in the Wilkinson case.

Life was good.

“The day I
can't do my job drunk, is the day I hang up my badge and gun.”

― The
Drew Carey show

~~~

Detective
Bronowski

The forensic and
tech departments were both on the second floor of the station. Roman meandered
through the area until he was directed to a stocky, nerdy-looking guy with a
bad complexion highlighted by his thick red hair. Old and new computers were on
shelves, and on tables, and on the floor. The geek guy was completely
surrounded.

“I’m Detective
Bronowski, are you Edgar Gates?” Roman asked.

Gates stood up
and held out his hand, “Yes, I am.”

Roman shook his
hand, which felt pudgy, sweaty and sticky. A half-empty box of chocolates and
candy bar wrappers rested near Edgar’s workstation, which to Roman’s mind,
explained everything.

“What have you
found?” Roman asked.

The techie
squirmed uncomfortably and gestured toward the computer he was working on.
“Check it out.”

Roman took a
look, initially uncertain as to what he was seeing. It took a moment for his
mind to register the unexpected and unwelcome sight.

What the
hell?
Pictures of naked little boys… and adults. Shocked and appalled,
Roman jumped back as if burnt.

“Fuck!” he
cursed loudly.

It’s impossible
to
unsee
something, but Roman wished he could. He had a strong urge to
run home, lock up his kids and take a long, scalding hot shower.

The visit to
André Chevalier made complete sense now. Chevalier dealt with PTSD and ‘sexual
matters.’ Clearly, Grant Wilkinson—war hero, or not—was a depraved pedophile.
What a sicko! Had he been going to Chevalier in an attempt to alter his
addictive deviance?

Maybe
Wilkinson’s senior found out or caught him in the act? Or perhaps his father
threatened to tell, and therefore he had to be silenced. This changed
everything, including providing motive.

“How many
pictures like that are there?” Roman asked.

“Hundreds. I
haven’t counted,” Edgar replied.

“Dirty fucking
pervert!” Roman muttered. “That bastard’s going down!”

“Sir?” Edgar
asked tentatively. “Are you referring to the defendant, Grant Wilkinson?”

“Who else?”
Roman said, surprised by the question. “Why? Or do you think this filth was
downloaded by someone else? Am I missing something?”

“Sir, the last
time these photos were accessed was over three years ago,” Edgar said. “That
was before the victim was murdered. This computer was one of thirty-eight
technical items sent to us to be examined for this case. It’s the oldest and
had cobwebs on it, which is why I left it for last. It apparently came from the
shooting range. I suppose whomever owned it, must’ve stored it there.”

“Are you
absolutely certain that this filth was
not
downloaded by Grant
Wilkinson?”

“If it was him,
why hasn’t it been accessed for so long?”

Roman frowned.
“Maybe he was trying to quit the habit and only gave it up three years ago.
These photos were in his possession and possession is nine-tenths of the law.
I’m inclined to think he’s a pervert.”

Edgar Gates flinched,
appearing rather ill and even more awkward and uncomfortable—if that was even
possible.

“What?” Roman
demanded irritably.

“Sir,” Edgar
said. “I believe it may be best for you to look at this picture.” He put the
cursor on one small photo, enlarging it so that it covered the whole screen. 
“I think…” He took a deep breath and licked his lips. “If you take a closer
look, you might recognize this child.”

Disgusted, Roman
shook his head. “Jesus H. Christ! The things I have to do in this job,” he bit
out angrily under his breath.

Someone was
going to have to scrutinize every picture and every face. With luck, an entire
pedophile ring could be taken down.

For once Roman
was extremely glad he worked in homicide. That onerous task was a job for the
‘Child Abuse Squad.’

Taking a deep
breath in through his nose, Roman stretched the muscles of his back and neck.
Bracing himself, he then concentrated his attention on the features of the
victim. It was a young boy, perhaps seven years of age. His face could be seen
clearly.

Roman felt as if
the world suddenly tilted on its axis. Stunned and hastily averting his gaze as
if his eyes had been seared, he backed away.

“Shit!” he swore
in a feral snarl, his eyes focused blankly on the linoleum flooring.

“Yes, sir,” Edgar
agreed fervently. “You can say that again.”

Roman’s eyes
lifted to focus on Edgar. “Print me a copy of the image of Wilkinson and his
father, and give me a memory stick of everything on that hard drive.”

“All right.”

“This is highly
confidential. Don’t talk about this or make copies for anyone else, right?”

“Not a problem.”

“Did you
recognize any other people in any of these pictures?” he asked, but Roman’s
mind was otherwise engaged. Thanks to this new evidence, he could obtain a
subpoena for Chevalier’s records. They would very likely show motive, yet the
DA was
not
going to like it. What an ugly case.

How would I
feel if my father had done that shit to me?
he thought.
Would I want to
kill him?
And the obvious reply.
Of course, I would.

“No.” Edgar
said, looking away.

Astute,
observant and intuitive, Roman Bronowski was a good detective. Usually he
noticed when people were untruthful. However, because Roman was preoccupied,
his mind racing a million miles a minute, he missed Edger’s obvious tells.

Edgar Gates was
lying. Of the hundreds of photos on that hard drive, Grant Wilkinson’s face was
not
the only one he recognized.

“There is no
greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.”

― Maya
Angelou

~~~

Grant
Wilkinson

Renata and I
lean against the headboard, sitting side-by-side. I adore that slight dusting
of freckles over her thin, straight nose. With her full, kissable lips, high
cheekbones and delicate, feminine features, all set in her heart-shaped
face—the woman is a stunner.

Yet, it’s so
much more than her beauty that draws me. Renata’s presence seeps into my soul
like some kind of magic. So cheerful and kind despite everything that’s
happened to her, she inspires me to work toward vanquishing my demons. I want
to be better, not only for myself, but for her.

I still can’t
believe Renata wants me.

An inner voice
whispers caustic thoughts.
This can’t last. I’m too damaged to be with
others. I deserve to be alone.

It’s a relief
she guessed the truth about my father. Thanks to police interference, I
wouldn’t have been able to tell her. I still haven't disclosed details, but
that shouldn't be as difficult as it was when I told André. I'm sure Renata has
a good idea of what happened already. Sadly, my story isn't unique.

Now, I’ve
committed to revealing a more dangerous secret, one I vowed to take to my grave.

“So, you want to
know how I got these scars?” I ask her.

“Yes!” she says,
turning toward me. “Are you going to tell me now? Is that why you look so
serious?”

“Darlin,’ this
is a very big secret, a national security kind of secret,” I reply. “Considering
all the stuff you already know, we’re both in hot water as it is.” I throw up
my hands. “So, what the hell, you may as well know the rest.”

Renata laughs.

God, the sweet
sound of her laughter chases every doubt and shadow away. I feel like Superman around
her—well, except when it comes to sex.

“I don’t want to
get you into trouble or anything,” Renata says. “Maybe you shouldn’t tell me.
What you’ve just said is enough, I can fill in the blanks.”

I meet her
worried gaze with a serious expression of my own. “You keep asking about my
scars—but that’s not the only reason I’m telling you. Now that you know this
thing about my dad, you may as well know my other big sin.

Renata’s
eyebrows shoot up. “Sin?”

“Sin,” I confirm
with a firm nod. “Until I met André, as you know, my life was rolling out of
control in one direction—all downhill and straight to hell. I went through some
real shit, but this is something I did as a soldier.”

I shake my head.
“It was the last straw, like the cherry on top of a life-long cake made of
crap. I came away from that mission more confused about my life, the things
I’ve done and who I am than ever before—which is quite a statement given my
history.”

Her gaze
softens. “If that’s the case, now I
really
want to know. It sounds as
though you need to unburden yourself.”

“Ain’t that the
truth.” I reach for my phone and start punching in numbers.

“What are you
doing?”

“Ordering a
pizza,” I explain. “I’m going to be hungry after this.”

Renata laughs.
“Be prepared, eh? I had you pegged as a Boy Scout. I’ll have a pizza supreme
with everything on it.”

I smile. “Mm, a
girl after my own heart,” I say, and call in the order. “They say it’ll be here
in about thirty minutes.”

“Perfect,”
Renata says.

I clench my jaw
for a moment, bracing myself to finally tell the untellable. “You know I was a
sniper in the Army?”

“Yes,” she says.

“When a sniper
is on active duty, he may be loaned out to other government agencies. He’ll get
his orders from his commanding officer, who will have received his orders from
the Joint Chiefs, who gets their orders from the Secretary of Defense at the
request of the CIA. In many instances the sniper doesn’t know he’s being used
as a CIA operative.”

“OK,” she says
doubtfully, following my story.

I smile and
continue, “So, at this one point in my military career, my sniper services were
used by the CIA in an undercover operation. I was perfect for this particular
assignment because I can pass as Hispanic and I’m fluent in Spanish. My spotter
and I were flown down to
Michoacán,
one of the largest ports in Mexico,
for the job.”

Renata watches
me closely while chewing on yet another fingernail. I know just how she feels.
My hands are shaking so I put them against my thighs. I could use a couple of
fingers of
Maker’s Mark
bourbon to settle the rawness of my nerves.

“Michoacán
is located between two large mountain ranges,” I tell her. “It’s a beautiful
place, with a tropical climate. Once a year, the forests of
Michoacán
welcome millions of monarch butterflies who fly down from the cold Canadian
mountains.”

“Really?” she
asks. “I’d love to see that.”

I make a sound
somewhere between a laugh and a snort. “As lovely as the place is, if you go, I
won’t be coming with you. If I did, I might not get back home again.”

“Oh,” she says,
as understanding dawns in her eyes. “I see.”

I nod. “The
Target of my mission was the head of a drug cartel called
Los Caballeros
Templarios—
‘The Knights Templar.’ My spotter and I spent five days keeping this
guy under surveillance, scrutinizing his every move.

“The more time I
spent observing this man—” I gesture with my open palm, “—The Target, the more
I
liked
him. He spent quality time with his wife and with his three
children—the oldest a boy, around sixteen. The Target was teaching his son how
to jump his horse; he was an excellent horseman and a patient teacher. My
spotter and I were hidden, watching and waiting for the ideal moment in which
to take the shot.

“When you study
a target, day after day, you get to know them, to some degree. I felt
conflicted by my orders to terminate him, partially because I was already so
conflicted about father-son relationships.

“The Target
wasn’t a predator, I’d have known if he was. The more I studied him, the more I
found myself becoming envious of that teenage boy. I couldn’t help but admire
his father. There was tremendous evidence of love in that family; between the
parents and the children and between the husband and the wife.

“However, I was
on mission and I know how to push unwanted emotions away. When the time came to
kill him, I didn’t hesitate,” I say quietly, not looking at her. My mind
returns to that moment, remembering.

It was early
evening and the Target and his wife were in the bedroom. The woman was sitting
a safe fifteen feet away from him, brushing her long, dark hair. The Target was
looking out the window. I was counting my heartbeats and taking slow, measured
breaths. I heard the sound of my weapon as it fired, felt the kick of its
instant recoil, the smell of the gunpowder. I felt a detached, clinical
pleasure of achieving two perfect shots fired in quick succession: heart and
head.

I ignored the
wife’s reaction, as I ignored the estate lights turning on and illuminating the
entire forest.

I return from my
reverie and clear my throat. “After completing our mission, we ran to the Jeep.
Luis was behind the wheel when our Jeep was suddenly hit by a shoulder-fired
missile. There was nothing left of him at all—it was a direct hit. That’s how I
got my scars, from burning fuel and flying debris. Somehow, I managed to
survive in the jungle for several days, while my enemies and their dogs
searched for me.”

“You could have
been killed,” Renata whispers, her face very pale.

“Yes,” I agree.
“I certainly came close.”

Eyes glistening,
she reaches out and takes my hand between both of hers, holding it tightly.
Shit.
Is she about to cry? Her tears shred me.

I’ve had so
little experience with women and even less with their tears. My mother was
unemotional and my sister has always been an angry screamer. Renata’s cried a
few times, but I always seem to find a way to comfort her.

I squeeze her
palm. “I’m here,” I reassure her. “I’m OK.”

“Thank God,” she
breathes softly.

Instinctively, I
press her hand to my lips and release it. It surprises her, this chaste attempt
at comfort from the man who doesn’t kiss.

Renata smiles at
me.

Briefly, I
return her smile. I find myself absently rubbing the scars on my neck and
face—the wounds I received that night.

“Eventually, I
was found by a priest, taken to his church and nursed back to health by him.” I
explain. “At least healthy enough to travel and make my way back across the
border.”

My mind returns
to
Padre Sigala
, and to me, lying on a cot in the basement of his
church. The light from a single candle hurt my sensitive eye—the one I could
still see out of, in any case. The priest, a cautious and patient man, cared
for me by himself.

“I’ve never been
acquainted with a priest,” I say. “People bandy around terms like ‘unconditional
love’ and ‘non-judgmental’ but
Padre Sigala
was the real deal.”

“What do you
mean?”

I worry my lower
lip between my teeth, while I try to find words to describe him. “He was slim,
about my height and perhaps forty years old,” I say. “His manner was
unimposing. If you passed him on the street, you wouldn’t notice him. It was
his eyes I found so compelling.”

Wisdom,
compassion and serenity shined out of those dark, brown eyes.

“He was
spiritual, I guess.” I explain. “I suppose he was trying to emulate Jesus in
his attributes and attitudes. Not many people can pull that off.”

“Certainly no
one I know,” she says.

I slant her a
wry smile. “I still send money to his little church—through an untraceable
account, of course.”

She grins. “Of
course.”

“Anyway,
throughout the long nights I was with him,
Padre Sigala
and I had many
philosophical discussions. He never asked for my name, and I didn’t reveal
personal details. Together, we mainly talked about God and the meaning of
life.”

My mouth is dry
as dust so, I jump up and snag a Coke out from the small hotel refrigerator.
“You want anything? I ask Renata.

“A 7-Up or
Sprite, thank you,” she says, in her soft voice.

I hand her a can
of 7-Up. Desperately thirsty, I open my soda and take a long drink. My craving
for alcohol becomes particularly intense in the face of disturbing memories.

I take a deep,
fortifying breath. “Due to the circumstances, as you can appreciate, I spent
many, many hours alone and in agony. My face was hideous. I was badly injured
and very near death. The man who had been my spotter for two years and who was
the closest person I had to a friend, was dead. My military career was over.
There was absolutely nothing I wanted to go home to—and nothing to live for
either.”

I swallow hard
and confide a humiliating truth. “I could barely eat anyway, so I decided to
stop drinking and to just let myself die.”

I hear Renata’s
sharp intake of breath, then she takes my hand again. “I’m so sorry.”

“I was pretty
sorry back then, too,” I quip, but neither one of us laughs.

After a beat, I
say “That was my breaking point, that moment when death seemed an easy option.
It wouldn’t take much to ‘shuffle off the mortal coil.’ The
Padre
was
great—only you or André would have been better company.” I smile at Renata and
her eyes light up.

“Still,
Padre
Sigala
was experienced in dealing with despair. The stubborn man badgered
me constantly, giving me reasons to keep living.”

Renata squeezes
my palm in encouragement. “Like what?”

“He argued that
at the very least, suicide was bad manners,” I say with a grin, squeezing her
hand in return. “The good Lord gave me life, so I shouldn’t throw His gift
away.”

“So utterly
de
rigueur,”
she chuckles. “That definitely sounds like something André would
say!”

I laugh. “True,”
I agree. “To André’s mind, there’s never a good excuse to be impolite.”

We grin at each
other.

Grant licks his
lips and averts his gaze. “There was a moment when I lay sick and half-dead in
the basement of that church. For the first time in my life, I honestly prayed.

“You were
brought up as a Christian and never prayed before?” Renata asks. “I thought you
went to church every Sunday.”

I give her an
ironic smile. “I did and each time I went through the motions, but none of it
was real. I wasn’t a believer.”

“Oh.”

I smile. “Still,
there’s something about near-death that makes you think of God, I guess. So I
thought, ‘
Jesus, this has to be rock-bottom. I can’t get any lower. If I’m
going to keep living, I can’t go on like this.’”

“That’s when I
made a pivotal decision. If I was going to live, I
had
to change my
life. So, when I returned to the States, I eventually looked for help and was
lucky enough to find André.”

“The priest
saved your life,” Renata says.

“Yes, he did.” I
smile and add, “Twice.”