Abuse: The Complete Trilogy (74 page)

I snort. “I
wouldn’t call it a relationship, much less a marriage.”

“I knew that mom
and Betty Jo would hate Sky. But I was lucky enough to find her, I wasn't going
to let the best thing that ever happened to me go. That’s why I just up and
married her without telling anyone.”

I grin at him.
“That was a good move. I may try it with Renata.” A thought strikes me. “Does
Sky know about… our father?”

He nods. “She’s
the only person I’ve ever talked to about it. Her dad left when she was a
kid—she never saw him again. Then her mom brought home a string of drop-kicks
that all tried to molest her when she was a teenager. Sky totally understands
what I went through.”

I’m so confused.
My mind is spinning, trying to process information that doesn't match up with
what I believed so strongly, for most of my life.

I protected
Alex?
He was
glad
not
to be our father's favorite?

Shit,
I’m
like a darker, pessimistic version of my mother. I saw only the worst,
magnified it and blamed myself for everything. Yet, she and I were alike, both
unable to see what was going on around us. I was Atlas, crushed by the weight
of my guilt and shame, while she was floating weightlessly with blinders on.

What the
fuck?

I don’t know
what to feel, other than shell-shocked and relieved. These new insights are
going to take me a while to grasp.

All this time,
for over a decade, I blamed myself for what happened to my brother. In reality,
I managed to do the right thing. How the hell did that happen? Thank God it
did. What a huge relief. But why didn't I
know any of this?

Alex smiles at
me. “From the time I was a kid, you always came to my rescue, bro.”

“I didn’t know
my ass from a hole in the ground back then,” I say absently, still attempting
to process this.

Alex bursts out
laughing, his eyes dance with humor.
“There’s
a poor choice of words if
I ever heard one. Hey, have you ever tried anal sex?
No?
It's fucking
shit!”

I smile faintly.
Leave it to Alex to come up with an inappropriate joke. “I’m surprised it took
you this long to find something amusing to say. I think that's a record for you.”
I arch a mocking eyebrow. “I was afraid you might need medical attention.”

We both grin at
each other for an endless moment. It’s a strange sensation, feeling connected
to my brother. I don’t think we’ve
ever
sat down and genuinely talked.
Too bad it took his arrest to get to this place.

Alex has Sky. She
is
his
Renata, someone who listens and understands. I’m sorry for his
past, and I regret my part in it, but Alex doesn’t blame me. It’s such a
relief. I feel
so
many things. Yet most of all, the raw emotion I feel
for my brother seems like… love.

Renata taught me
how to love. To do that, first I had to accept, forgive and learn to love
myself.

Forgiving myself
was the hardest part.

I swallow hard, preparing
to broach yet another uncomfortable topic. “Look Alex, about your arrest—there
are plenty of people with motive to kill our father. That means there are more
suspects.”

I explain that Danny
Berdeaux, Cody Bentley, Miguel Alvarez and I all have photographic evidence of
being molested by our father.

Shock then
horror flares across his features. “No shit? There were more than just you and
me? That’s terrible. Man, our father was one fucked up asshole.”

“Yeah, I agree.
I'm glad he's dead. But, although it's awful, this is good news for your case. This
will muddy the waters because lots of people had reasons to kill the bastard.
About the manslaughter charge…”

I take another
deep breath. I need to ask him if he did it. I want to know the truth. Is my
brother a murderer? He must be, and yet…

Fuck, this is
hard.

I exhale loudly.
“Alex—”

He interrupts
me, “Look, Grant, I want to thank you for that.”

My brows draw
down in confusion. “What are you talking about?”

He shrugs. “I’m
just glad he’s dead. That sick son of a bitch had to die, you know? I wanted to
do it for so long. I fantasized about it, but I never had the guts. You’ve
always been so fucking tough, such a hard-ass. All that army training you went
through only made you tougher. I should've joined the army, too. I’m just not
that
guy, you know? I’m a lover, not a fighter.”

I'm totally
lost… again. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Alex frowns,
looking sheepish. “I’m rich, I’m white and I’m from a prominent local family,
so how bad can a trial be? Besides, I’m pretty sure our mother knows who to buy
off. If we add the abuse angle, especially if we include the other victims,
maybe I won't have to go to jail.”

Alex gives a
what-the-hell shrug. “Court will be a pain in the butt.” He snickers and
waggles his eyebrows, a teasing recall of his anal sex joke. “You know, fucking
shit. But hey, I’ve been through worse, and I owe you so much. You're always
there for me, coming to my rescue. I don’t even mind going down for it. I was
just saying thank you for finally doing it—for killing our father.”

“
What?
” I
gasp. “Are you telling me you
didn’t
kill our father?”

“No,” he says
vehemently. “I mean,
yes.
” His brows draw together in a bewildered
moment of confusion. “I mean no, I didn’t kill him. I thought you did!”

I can’t stop
shaking my head.

Agitated,
astonished or maybe just plain shocked, Alex jumps to his feet. “Wait a minute,”
he says, throwing up his hands excitedly. “If I didn’t kill him, and you didn’t
kill him—then who killed our father?”

“Unrestricted
competition… does not leave us the survival of the fittest. The unscrupulous
succeed best in accumulating wealth.”

— Rutherford
B. Hayes

~~~

Senator
Robert Whitfield

“Well now, Mr.
Speaker,” Senator Robert Whitfield said, talking on the phone. “This liberal
legalizin’ of marijuana is a sin, yes sir. It’s a sin, I say, and it’s got to
stop! What message are we sending the youth of today? What about our children?
Does anyone think of that?”

“Senator, I hoped
to speak to you about—”

“No, you just go
ahead and let people know right where I stand. First, you till the soil, then
you plant the seed, then you water and you weed! Yes sir, you
must
weed!
We are not weeding away evil, Mr. Speaker—we’re allowing it to grow! As politicians,
we are the gardeners of this great society of ours! We must stand up for what's
right, for our children!”

“The
constituents…”

"Our
constituents want family values! The Bible is clear on the sin of
overindulgence. There’s a reason we wage war on drugs!”

“Yes, I
understand but—”

“My brother Isiah,
the well-known evangelical minister with his own TV show, preaches that
scripture stresses abstinence. Ask my beautiful, loyal wife and my three
perfect children. Do they need marijuana? No, hell no! If you'd like to see
your allocations bill sail through my committee this term, you know what you’ll
have to do.”

This was a subtle
threat. Senator Whitfield often found those worked best to achieve his goals.
That and donating huge funds toward the right people.

“Uh-huh,” the Speaker
replied. “Well, you know you’ll have my support.”

Pleased with his
efforts, Robert Whitfield smiled as he hung up the phone. He enjoyed being a
United States Senator. He liked power, prestige and obsequious attention from
all the little people who sought his approval. From his position at the top of
the political mountain, he was most capable of protecting his life of privilege
and wealth.

Damn this
liberal trend in drug legislation right to hell.

Robert had to
wonder, what next? Unfortunately, he could see the writing on the wall. First
they legalize marijuana and before you know it, they’ll do the same with
cocaine.

As his agents ran
his multi-million dollar business
selling
cocaine. Legalizing his
product would be financially devastating.

Cocaine was an
excellent way to unlimited quick money. It's cheap to buy and easy to sell.
Packaging, marketing and moving cocaine—mostly through the darknet, generated
well over 250% profit. That amount included the high cost of buying hundreds of
people in high places.

Whitfield
maintained an army of informants and employees on his payroll to protect
himself and his thriving business. These influential people included judges,
legislators, FBI, DEA, D.A.’s, police, as well as an extremely costly contract
killer, who Robert preferred to refer to as his ‘fixer.’

Every drug bust
of his competitors (orchestrated by his own informants) kept the police busy, and
they sent his cocaine prices skyrocketing, which was exactly as it should be.

Whitfield recently
paid a number of researchers a fortune to alter their results. He needed
‘evidence’ to prove marijuana was hazardous. The faux studies determined legalizing
marijuana increased crime rates, addiction and the chance of overdose, as well
as creating havoc on the roads through car accidents. Other related
disadvantages included production deficits in the workplace.

As none of this propaganda
was actually true, the cost had been steep.

Legalizing
marijuana was the thin edge of the wedge that would ultimately result in
lessening his drug profits.

His other large
income stream—trafficking children and child pornography to select clientele—was
increasing nicely.

Sen. Robert
Whitfield’s famous brother, the evangelical minister, traveled all over the
country finding new customers for this secret industry. Only the most
privileged and affluent could afford the services the Whitfield brothers
provided.

Judges, bankers,
businessmen, politicians… his brother had a nose for very wealthy men who knew
the temptation of prepubescence. Isiah listened to their sins, talked to them
of Jesus and quoted bible passages that justified their compulsive sexual
interest in children. He had ample practice in keeping their business
prospering for over two decades.

Isiah told them
God wanted them to be happy. Then he sold them membership in his flourishing
‘Youth Clubs of America.’ His children’s services were in huge demand.

The senator
smiled to himself at the irony. It was perfect. His little brother, the
nationally well-loved minister, was a very forgiving, very understanding and
very effective pimp. He provided services for those who suffered from an
affliction society just wasn't ready to accept—as long as they were rich enough
to afford it, of course.

The late, great
Chester Wilkinson introduced Robert to the pleasures of corrupting the innocent
all those years ago. He also showed him how easy it was to make a ton of money
through child sex videos, photos and from providing various services. That had
been an invaluable partnership.

When a five
minute clip of sodomizing a child sells for over $1,000 per view on the darknet,
who wouldn’t want a piece of that action?

Robert Whitfield
had twenty-three mansions, set throughout the country. Each one was safely and
remotely located on acreage. All were carefully run by loyal, well-paid staff.
The children who fit into his system were trained and treated very, very well.

They were
categorized by sex, age and various physical traits to fulfill the customers'
specific demands. Chester Wilkinson had relied on amnesic drugs for compliance.
He also considered
any
child fair game—a stupid and dangerous practice.

After his
initial underage tryst, Robert Whitfield had begun his thriving business. He relied
on a trusted few to abduct children of illegal immigrants as well as the
offspring of single, drug and alcohol affected mothers who were often homeless—poor,
white trash. Some parents were willing to sell their children.

The senator knew
what to look for and how to get what he desired. His staff scouted out adoption
agencies, gambling halls and blood banks. Targeting anywhere people went who
might be desperate for money or who might want to unload themselves of unwanted
offspring.

Whitfield also
sought runaways and abused kids from neglected backgrounds. Abused children
with carnal knowledge were perfect for what he wanted. Children who were
starved for attention, affection and often a good meal were easy to train.
They'd do anything to please grownups… and to eat.

No one looked
twice when these kids disappeared. Their parents were rarely in the position to
go to authorities for help. Illegal immigrants seldom reported, and who would
believe an out of work slut or junkie? If his procurement agents were caught,
the senator had people in senior positions who made sure no charges were
brought to court.

Whitfield patted
himself on the back, rationalizing he was actually improving the quality of
life for these children. He was also providing useful employment to those who
wouldn’t otherwise be able to obtain work.

In truth, he was
delivering a much needed service for people of influence and means, who were
misunderstood by a misguided society.

He was an entrepreneur
with the prefect business plan. American was lucky to have him.

“Super-rich elitists, entitled and spoiled from birth are
oh-so easy to deal with—as long as you remember to
never
tell them no.”

—André
Chevalier

~~~

Senator
Robert Whitfield

This is how it
was done; the senator preferred to acquire children under the age of ten, and
he provided the best of everything; quality clothes, a nutritious diet that
included candy, cake and ice cream for rewards, as well as toys, TV, movies,
music and video games. He had a standard of conduct for clients.

Ironically,
Whitfield did not believe in cruelty, violence or physical abuse above the
expected services that the children were required to provide. Such behavior
made bad business sense.

Happier children
looked better, were well-behaved and were more likely to do as asked simply for
praise and rewards.

The key to
success was to have children who grew to enjoy their new life. For these kids,
the mansion was their home—a better home with more security than they’d ever
had before.

The
‘mistakes’—those few who fought the system and who couldn’t be trained, were
disposed of. Whitfield literally buried his mistakes.

The senator was
too intelligent, rich, powerful and well-connected to allow himself to be
caught, no matter what happened to his businesses. He would never be taken to
task for his crimes. He’d separated himself from his entrepreneurial efforts
years ago.

Besides, who
would believe it?

No one would
dare
attempt to bring
him
to court.

The carrot for
his powerful, important customers was as many children as they wanted. If that
didn’t work for compliance, then came the stick—blackmail. This tactic never
failed. Exposure would lead to their loss of privilege, status and
reputation... as well as jail time.

Whitfield intimately
understood the addictive, obsessive craving for the innocence of youthful
flesh. He knew greed and
need.
In the play rooms of his mansions, he had
discreet cameras installed. Key players in the media, judges and police would
quash any sign of trouble in his paradise, simply due to the evidence he had on
them.

It had been costly
to buy himself into office, but the senator kept his personal record spotless.
Whitfield’s connections to his financial interests were untraceable. With
creative accounting and a paper trail as large as the library of congress, he
had nothing to worry about. There was an entire network of people between him
and his thriving businesses.

Now, all he did
was sit back and make money on his investments. Just like Al Capone, at the worst,
the IRS could put him in jail for billions in unpaid taxes—
if
they ever
went looking for the money trail, and
if
they ever found it—both
unlikely events that neared impossible.

The senator was
physically attractive, highly intelligent, unscrupulous and narcissistic. He
had a powerful influence over others, a natural charismatic ability that defied
explanation. He shared the magnetism of Chester Wilkinson, although Robert was
much more far-sighted than his late predecessor.

Raised in a life
of ultra-excess and privilege, Whitfield still considered himself to be a
‘self-made’ man. Arrogant and elitist, with a superiority complex bigger than Texas,
his home state, the senator genuinely believed he deserved his position of
power and influence.

Robert Whitfield
knew what was best for the country. Who better to govern the ignorant rabble
than himself? With his wealth and connections, he could run for president. Only
business interests and the economic elite made an impact on U.S. government
policy, as it should be, after all.

For all of his
hard work, he deserved his simple pleasures, such as the innocence of untouched
children, unlimited privilege, power… and recreational cocaine.

He was already among
the ranks of the richest 1% of Americans, but it wasn’t enough. As his daddy
used to say, “I never knew a rich man who didn’t want to be richer!” There were
no truer words to Whitfield’s mind.

His most driving
goal in life was to be rich—not just rich, but ultra-super rich, Koch-brothers
rich. Wipe your ass with thousand dollar bills rich. He wanted infinite income,
enough so he could buy, bribe or blackmail anyone or anything.

The thought made
him feel like a god.

He considered buying
himself into the presidency.
Why not?
He already had enough wealth to
afford a small country. He was untouchable. No one had
anything
on him.

He frowned. The
unpleasant events with Chester Wilkinson and his ancient computer's hard drive
no longer seemed to present a problem.

All evidence was
gone—amen, halleluiah and praise the Lord.

Robert, however,
still couldn’t help feeling a bit nervous. Incriminating evidence against him
had appeared out of nowhere, growing legs all too quickly. Who would've guessed
Wilkinson had kept it after so much time?

It was over
twenty years ago when Chester had first provided the senator a barely conscious
child to fuck—for a very large fee, of course.

Ah, those were
the days. Even now, he often thought back fondly of his earlier heady times of
wicked, decadent pleasures.

Robert never had
the patience to spend endless time grooming a child and seducing him into his
bed. Chester provided a way around that tedious process, going straight for the
fun part.

As was usual for
him, Whitfield simply wanted what he wanted—and he wanted it
now.

Since that
pivotal day, Robert had countless orgasms by his own hand while watching the
video of himself with that boy, over and over again. With grim conviction and
wretched unhappiness, he finally gritted his teeth and destroyed the tape years
later.

It had been the
only way to be safe.

Luckily, the
images remained safely in his mind. The Lord helps those who help themselves,
and oh, God Almighty! He had helped himself to exquisite, erotic delights that
day, yes, indeed!

For a moment Robert
idly wondered where that Texan kid was. Of course, the boy would now be an
adult. He doubted he had any memory of his rape. Yet, even if the man could
recall every detail, he’d get nowhere legally.

Few criminal
prosecutors would take on a sexual abuse case from twenty years earlier. No one
would prosecute a powerful, well-respected senator with a spotless record.

In terms of
civil law, the statute of limitations prevented prosecution. Most states have a
ten year or less window to take legal action. What abused person can get it
together enough to talk about their abuse, much less sue the perpetrator in
that short amount of time?

Robert Whitfield
and his like-minded friends (and many powerful organizations such as the
Catholic Church) consistently voted
against
raising the statute of
limitations for sexual crimes. The statute of limitations is
intentionally
small, one reason why it’s rare for a priest to spend time in jail.

Robert smiled. If
abuse didn’t effectively silence a victim, the law certainly would. The law was
on his side.

Nevertheless, if
someone found a copy of that video, it would be another story—particularly if
the sensitive footage found its way to the masses via the internet. In that
case, nothing could save him. While individuals could be blackmailed, bought or
manipulated, the countless numbers of people with internet access cannot.

Luckily,
everything on Chester's drive had been wiped. The evidence was gone.

I’m safe,
he thought, reassuring himself for the millionth time.

Yet, he’d still
like to watch that video just
one
more time. Remembering that first boy made
Robert’s groin begin to warm. He shifted uncomfortably, his pants tight from
the memory.

Senator Robert
Whitfield smiled.
It’s true what they say,
he realized with sudden, fond
reminiscence.
You never forget your first.