Abuse: The Complete Trilogy (77 page)

“The only
thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.”

— Edmund
Burke

~~~

Grant
Wilkinson

“Death is too
good for them,” a man growls. “I don’t think I can—” another murmurs. “We have
to think of ourselves.” A jumble of voices flood the room. Even Renata speaks
across the table to Sally Ann.

Pandemonium
reigns, everyone is still talking.

André raises one
hand, palm outward, but says nothing. Within moments everyone stops speaking,
drawn to silence by his long, commanding fingers.

It’s like magic.

The only other
person I know who could do that was a highly decorated four-star general, who
served over thirty years in the United States Army.

“Mes amis,”
André
says, in a clear, confident voice. “If you can bring yourselves to trust me, I
wish to take this poisonous burden from your hands,” he nods toward Zach, meeting
his gaze, “but not from you, my friend! You and I? We will work together very
well.”

“Why
you?
”
Cody Bentley asks. “Why should we trust you?”

“Why indeed?”
Hands clasped together behind his back, André paces back and forth for a few
moments, considering his reply. He stills, turns and meets Cody's gaze. “I can assure
you my interest is most personal,
n’est-ce-pas?
I have waited many years
for this opportunity. For me, I do this to avenge my friends. People who are not
here to avenge themselves.”

He pauses a beat
to make sure we all understand. Comprehension registers on everyone's faces.
Evidently, people André knew, friends of his, have been abused or perhaps even murdered
in a situation similar to this.

Renata's and my
eyes meet, sharing a moment of sudden realization. Is it possible André's been
through hell on earth
himself?

Logically, it's
no surprise, really. A man like André, who devotes his life to helping
survivors of abuse and trauma, would most likely have been affected by abuse
and trauma himself. It explains his sensitivity, insight and empathy.

I find myself
curious about the details. What led him to become who he is today? Although
very passionate, André isn’t burdened by sadness, depression, rage or feelings
of worthlessness that seem so common in the walking wounded.

How has he been
able to turn his experiences into something good? The amount of love and
positive energy he’s given me blows my mind. I've never met anyone as open and
hopeful.

The guy has the
ability to see beyond the bullshit—the protective walls that people erect
around themselves. However, along with his unique intuition and perception, he
also has wisdom that’s solidly based in reality.

“Over time, I
have found,” André throws up a single hand, “oh, many men and women who are
like-minded and will stop at nothing to exact justice. These are capable
professionals, such as journalists, investigators, computer specialists—hackers
you understand,” he smiles, “and those in law enforcement.

“We will gather
the evidence needed to expose these monsters. Together, we will hunt down your
abusers. It shall be, as you say ‘the sting,’
yes?
They shall know
nothing as the rope tightens around them…” André closes his hands together as
if around a neck. “And then?
Voila!
Suddenly, for those in this cabal of
immoral sin—all is lost. We will ensure they never harm another child again.”

“Why don’t we
just go to the police or the FBI?” Miguel asks. “There's safety in numbers,
right?
If we all go together, they'll
have
to help us.”

“Non!”
André snaps sharply, eyes flashing. “Never! The good policemen and policewomen
with families, those who seek to help us—
they
will be killed. This has happened
many, many times. And institutions of the government? Such cannot be trusted.
Many of those in them have been purchased heart and soul,
je vous assure.
They are in the pockets of these wealthy, powerful men—or perhaps they
themselves are participants, no?

"I promise
you, every avenue for justice is blocked. These men have had many years to
foresee and neutralize potential threats and exposure. I am persuaded we cannot
succeed by direct means,
non!
We must be stealthy and even more cunning
than those we seek.”

André smiles
suddenly, the curl of his lips seems almost wicked. “But the evidence, oh the
evidence! The trick, it is to use the Internet. Individuals may be silenced,
but thousands? No.
There,
multiple posted copies of such clear proof
cannot be destroyed.”

“How will you
get evidence?” Carol asks.

André gives her
a very Gaelic shrug. “Through private detective work, facial recognition,
listening devices, photographic proof as well as recorded audio and visual content.
There are drones, now—
oui, oui,
drones! With the photos of the abusers
in this group alone, we can move forward.

“These men have
friends, who also have friends. They have not been caught before, so now, for
many years, they feel themselves to be safe. Make no mistake, they have access
to children, we will find where. Oh yes, we shall watch them most carefully,
for they will not have changed. They are the leopards with the spots, no?”

“So, if I’m
reading this right,” I say, “you
want
us to do nothing?”

“Of a certainty!
I warn you, the risk, it is too great. I do not wish for any of you—except
Monsieur
Bailey, to be involved.”

He nods his head
appreciatively toward Zach, who smiles broadly, like a wolf on the hunt. The
idea of being part of André’s plans for vengeance gives Zach a thrill.

“I’d like to do
more, if there’s something that can be done… ” I offer.

Something
that isn’t dangerous to Renata.

André tilts his
head, gives me a knowing look. “I shall keep this in mind,
mon ami.
As
the investigation comes toward the end, there will be things you can do.
Oui,
oui,
those of you who are willing, they may stand and be counted.”

I sigh in relief. “Oh,
that’s good. Really good. Count me in.” I say as I glance at Renata.

She smiles at
me, once again squeezing my hand.

“
Très bon.
What we do now, it will be very, very dangerous,” he warns. “Any photos,
diaries and evidence any of you have—please take care to place these items in a
safe, or better yet, in a bank. Tell no one! If you can find it in your heart
to trust me,” he places his hand on his chest, “I vow, by my honor, I will
safely find a way to expose these dangerous men, to avenge the innocent and to
free the children who have been placed into slavery.”

As much as I
don’t want to be involved in order to protect Renata, I realize suddenly I
already
am
involved. I was recently framed for murder, maybe by the same
people that killed my father. What else are they capable of? What will they do
next?

André’s gaze
searches the room. I feel as though he is looking and speaking only to me.

“
D
'accord.
Together, we will avenge those who cannot
avenge themselves. And for those that have harmed us personally? Ah, for them
we will have our revenge.”

“Happiness is
an attitude. We either make ourselves miserable, or happy and strong. The
amount of work is the same.”

— Francesca
Reigler

The doorbell
rings then rings again, and again in rapid succession.

Everyone around
the table freezes with wide-eyes. In our current mind-set, with fear and danger
at the forefront of our thoughts, the presence of an unexpected visitor scares
us shitless. Who the hell would be here
now
, of all times?

Maybe one or
more of the other guests have been under surveillance. Did word somehow get out
about this gathering? Could an assassin have been arranged by some powerful
pervert to silence us by killing us all?

Nobody moves a
muscle.

The doorbell
stops ringing, replaced by the brisk sound of knuckles pounding against wood. Then
the doorbell rings yet again.

Whoever this
visitor is, they’re impatient as hell.

Zach and I meet
eyes across the table. We both grin as logic overcomes anxiety. What kind of
hired gun would make such a ruckus? The others begin to talk to each other,
smiling at their fears.

I excuse myself
and jog down the stairs. Maybe there was an accident and somebody needs to use
the phone to call 911? Unless it's an emergency, whoever's knocking is rude as
hell.

I open the front
door. There on my front doorstep is my sister, Betty Jo.

Dammit. What
does she want?

“Grant, what are
you doing about Alex’s arrest?” Betty Jo demands in her typically accusatory
tone, as if it’s my fault he’s been arrested, so it’s up to me to fix it.

This is exactly
how I feel, but that doesn’t mean I’m gonna take her shit.

“You don’t think
a phone call might have been the way to get that question answered?” I ask her
in an intentionally slow drawl.

I’m getting
better when dealing with my sister—I don’t immediately fly into a rage. Renata
helped me realize Betty Jo’s moods have nothing to do with me. The poor woman
is unhappy. Renata feels sorry for her, and while I can’t go that far, I’ve
learned to count to ten…

With her I
need to count to a hundred!

On the other
hand, I refuse to be her punching bag.

“Have you talked
to him?” I ask.

She throws up
her hands. “You know Alex, nothing
ever
bothers him. The whole world is
a big joke,
but he might wind up in jail!
” She glares at me. “We can’t
let him rot in prison.”

“Listen, Betty
Jo, I have visitors,” I say firmly, hoping she’ll take the hint and go away.
“Can we discuss this tomorrow?”

“No! We have to do
something!”

I frown and regard
her uncertainly. Ordinarily I’m unsympathetic to my sister, but the wild
desperation I see in her gaze disturbs me. I wonder if our mother has been on
her case, or if something else is bothering her.

“Have you been
talking to mother?”

My sister’s
perfect, delicate features, usually so carefully schooled to look their best
are flushed and furrowed. “Of course I’ve talked to mom! She’s so upset! I’ve
never seen her like this.”

It seems to me
as though Betty Jo is the one who’s upset. Or is she frightened? Now, there’s a
disturbing thought. Betty Jo is
never
frightened—she scares everyone
else.

“What we have to
do is find out who really killed our father,” I tell her calmly. “I’ve been
working on that.”

“I had to hire
another salesperson,” she whines. “It’s too much work for me. Alex and I have
been together for years. I don’t think I can run the business without him!”

Her features
screw up, kind of falling in on themselves. Betty Jo looks as if she’s going to
burst into tears and she
never
cries. This is my hostile, disapproving sister.
First she shows fear, now tears? What’s next?

“We’ll figure
this out,” I assure her in my most calming voice, disarmed by her rare
vulnerability.

“What are you
going to do?” she wails.

André surprises
me with his arrival. He sidles up beside me and looks Betty Jo up and down with
an openly admiring gaze. “
Mon ami,
will you please introduce me to your lovely
friend?”

I sigh. “André
Chevalier, this is my sister, Betty Jo. Betty Jo, this is André Chevalier.”

André beams her
an angelic smile with a less than angelic glint in his eye.
“
Ooh là
là
!
You did not tell me you have a most beautiful sister!”

His comment seems
somewhat cheesy, yet somehow André gets away with it. While it sounds like a
line, I think it works because he genuinely means it.

When it comes to
women, André can get away with anything. The good-natured Frenchman is openly
honest in his praise, but there are no hidden strings attached. He’s not saying
it in order to take advantage of her.

Or is he?
God, I hope not.

The truth is,
Betty Jo is spectacularly good-looking—except to me. I know her too well to
find her attractive.

Betty Jo’s lips
curve in an automatic smile for a couple of beats, then she frowns. No doubt,
she abruptly remembered she makes it a point not to like me or my friends.

“Listen, whoever
you are,” she snaps. “Go away. I’m trying to talk to my brother.”

“But of course!”
he replies cheerfully. “Please, you must call me André.”

“Yeah, well,
André
…
fuck off.”

André lowers his
head in a gracious half-bow. “
B
ien sûr,
as you wish,” he says
with amicable respect, but makes no move to leave.

“Let me in,
Grant, it’s hot out here! I don’t care who you have in your house. Send them
all home. This is more important.” Betty Jo aggressively yet ineffectively pushes
against me, trying to get past.

My temper,
slowly heating like a switched on furnace, immediately hits flashpoint.
Why
does she have to be such a bitch?
As always, I hide my pulsing rage behind
a stony mask. Taking her shoulders firmly in my hands, I shove her back.

“You
fuck
off, Betty Jo,” I bite out in a deceptively mild voice. “I told you. I’ll talk
to you about this tomorrow.”

André joins in
suddenly and ferociously nails me with a spate of heated, incomprehensible
French. I have no idea what he’s saying, but he’s clearly pissed off…
at me!

What did I
do?

“
Monsieur
Wilkinson!” he complains angrily, when his rapid-fire French diatribe finishes.
“Can you not see your most beautiful sister is extremely upset?
Oui! Oui!
You must treat her better than this!”

Huh? Monsieur
Wilkinson? What the fuck?

My mouth falls
open in surprise. I immediately drop my hands from Betty Jo’s shoulders,
shocked by how my trusted friend, counselor and confidant has taken her side.

“Mon Dieu!”
His hands fly into the air in a gesture of disbelief. “You do not know how to
treat a lady; this is of a certainty!”

He indignantly dresses
me down, telling me how crass, ill-mannered and uncaring I am. This tirade goes
on for some time, with me gaping at him in astonished shock, and Betty Jo
watching appreciatively, her expression spellbound.

When he’s done, André’s
dark eyes soften with kindness and understanding as he turns to look at my
sister. How did he manage to soothe the dragon? By taking pot shots at her arch
enemy, her older brother, I guess.

Lips parted,
Betty Jo stares wide-eyed at her savior.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen
her at a loss for words.

“S'il vous
plait, venez avec moi
. Please, come with me,” André says, placing an arm
around Betty Jo’s waist. With seamless ease, he gracefully guides her away from
the house.

“Forget about him,
ma belle.
Your brother?
C'est un imbécile!
Speak to
me
of
your troubles, for
je vous assure,
I will most ardently listen.”

André’s
compelling accent is more French than ever, while his rich velvet voice
positively oozes charm. His natural charisma settles over my sister like a
blanket, magically changing her from the wicked witch, into a delightful
princess from a children’s tale.

Inexplicably pacified
and docile, Betty Jo amenably leaves with him.

“Do you wish to
go for a drive in my sports car?” I hear André murmur enthusiastically to my
sister. “It is most agreeable. The top is down and it is very fast,
n’est-ce-pas?
The two of us? We shall enjoy it exceedingly.”

My head swims.

Indignant, perplexed,
and puzzled, I feel as though I’ve been hit by a Mack truck.

The last I see
of them both is when André speeds past the house, driving his shiny silver
sports car. My sister sits beside him, her head thrown back.

What? I can’t
believe my eyes.

Betty Jo is
always
in a bad mood, except apparently she isn’t right now. Is my bitter, hypercritical,
contrary sister—actually
laughing?

I blink,
astonished.

She is!