by Nikki Sex
Floored by the thought, I avert my gaze and swallow with a very dry throat. Logically, I know she’s right. Talk about cruel and unusual punishment.
I can hear my mother’s response already, ‘Oh, Grant, how can you make up such terrible tales about your poor father who isn’t here to defend himself.’
If there are other victims out there, I wonder if they’ll take a class action lawsuit against my family. I can hear my lawyer now, admonishing and advising at the top of his voice, ‘Admit nothing!’
Renata exhales a deep breath. “Deciding to tell this kind of secret is like taking a book out from the bottom of a pile, isn’t it? Everything up above falls down. And falls down is kind of an appropriate way to look at it. Can this kind of thing be hidden? Should it be hidden? How will your life be affected by the truth coming out?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “Wouldn’t telling people about my history of incest be a form of social suicide? Disclosure can’t help but cause disgrace. Most people really don’t want to know, and I can’t blame them. I had sex with my father as a child. The images it conjures up are enough to disturb even the most stable mind.”
“You did nothing wrong!”
“As far as I can tell, skeletons are kept in closets for a reason.”
“But they shouldn’t be! Good or bad, virtuous or evil, every human activity should be open for discussion between intelligent adults—this should be particularly true concerning taboo topics. What’s ‘proper’ or ‘improper,’ is a matter of values which change over time,” she says. “There was a time slavery was legal, women weren’t allowed to vote, and sodomy was against the law.”
I frown. Why does she keep bringing up sodomy? Does she know of my twisted fantasies? Someday, when I work up the nerve, I’ll ask her.
Shrugging, she adds, “Maybe if people learn you, a genuine war hero, have a history of sexual abuse, then it will give them the courage to come forward and tell their own stories.”
“War hero?” I question doubtfully.
“Don’t make me want to bitch slap you, Grant,” she says. “You loyally served your country. I know what you are, even if you don’t. What I’m saying is, societal values differ over time. Maybe it’s up to us to push for change.”
“Maybe.” I nod. “But honestly? I’d forget about the whole thing except for the twelve-step program. Coming forward to seek out others for restitution feels right. I know I didn’t abuse anyone, but he was my father.”
“What kind of amends are you talking about?”
“Well, I’m sending Danny to André.”
“Good plan,” she says with a smile, “But what if you find twenty, or even a hundred others out there?”
I cringe with the thought. “I don’t know what I’ll do if there are, but I doubt there will be—at least I hope not. I’ve another important motivation. As self-serving as it is to admit it, I’m glad Danny was sent a photo of himself with my father. If my father molested others, they could be suspects.”
I don’t want the police to arrest me for my father’s murder. Not my brother either, even if he did it.
Her brows draw together in concentration. “I wonder who sent Danny that picture. And why now, after so many years?”
“It could’ve been another victim,” I say. “Or even a perpetrator. I’d hate to think that any of this shit is up on some disgusting website for sickos to get off on.”
“Oh,” Renata says abruptly. “That reminds me. Something came in yesterday’s mail and I forgot to give it to you. You distracted me with that delicious kiss.”
Our eyes lock, I smile. Just like that, a current of sexual energy buzzes between us. Will we ever get enough of each other?
She laughs, breaking the spell. Her lips are full, her teeth white. God I love her mouth!
She gets up, walks into the kitchen, returns with a letter and hands me a standard, 4 x 6 envelope. My name and address is written in simple block letters. There’s no return address.
The moment I take it, a chill runs up my spine.
I’m familiar with that block writing.
Fuck.
Chapter 17.
“To feel intensely is not a symptom of weakness, it is the trademark of the truly alive and compassionate.”
― Anthon St. Maarten
~~~
Grant Wilkinson
“Shit,” I mutter, stunned with recognition.
This is identical to the envelope Danny received, except my letter wasn’t hand delivered. It was mailed through a local post office with no return address.
With shaky fingers, I open it. There’s only photos inside, more than one. Jaw clenched, I steel myself to take a look. I flick through them; six pictures—all are naked images of me as a boy, maybe 7 or 8 years old. Two have my father in them. All are obscene.
I shut my eyes for a moment, remembering. I have a vague recollection of the events in these photos, and the objects in the background are from my father’s den. Yet, in two of these shots I look to be asleep. I can’t recall this at all. An unpleasant thought disturbs me. Was I drugged?
I’m surprised by my icy composure. Am I as calm as I feel?
Renata sits beside me on the sofa. I turn to her for warmth, for shelter in this storm. Briley and Mitten are both playing at our feet with various dangling toys.
She places a hand on my arm. “What are they pictures of?”
“They’re similar to Danny’s photo. All of them are of me, or my father and me.”
“Are you OK?” While her features remain unruffled, her eyes light with concern.
“Strangely, I am,” I tell her.
She makes no attempt to sneak a peek at the pictures in my hands. I’m grateful for her restraint. I want her to see them if she wants to, but not now. I can’t let anyone see them just now.
Her expression softens and she places a hand on mine. Renata doesn’t have to speak for me to know how she feels. She’s there for me. I hate that I’m putting her through all of my crap, but I know she’s glad to help. Her support means so much to me.
Words won’t explain exactly how I feel, but I think of some anyway. “They’re only pictures, after all—they can’t hurt me,” I say, neglecting to mention the possibility of being drugged. “They simply confirm what I already know. But who sent them? How many other people will receive their own personal set?”
As we ponder the mystery, the doorbell rings. Who would come calling at 8 o’clock in the morning? Danny maybe?
“I’ll be right back, darlin’,” I say. I slip the photos into the back pocket of my jeans, and jump up in order to answer the door. I quickly stride through the kitchen to the front entry, leaving Renata in the living room with Briley and Mitten.
When I open the door, I’m greeted by two unwanted visitors. A uniformed policeman stands beside another man in a gray suit. He has dark brown hair and a large Roman nose. Detective Roman Bronowski.
With a nose like that, is that how he got his name?
No one smiles, which is mildly alarming. A muscle in Bronowski’s cheek twitches. The man is seriously pissed off. In fact, he looks as though he’s mad at me.
Why am I not surprised?
Well, shit. I guess they haven’t come here to tell me they’ve found my father’s killer, or I’m no longer a suspect.
“Detective,” I say, with a nod. “Somehow, I doubt you have good news.” I glance anxiously over my shoulder, thankful Renata’s still in the other room.
He looks me up and down, cranes his neck, peers uneasily around me. I’m certain he’s wondering where Briley’s panic prone babysitter is.
“Renata’s in the next room with the baby… and her cat,” I offer helpfully.
Detective Bronowski flinches at the mention of Mitten. “Good.” He nods with a satisfied jerk of his head. “Grant Wilkinson,” he says in a very quiet voice. “I’m here to arrest you for the murder of Edgar Gates.”
“Who?” I quickly search through my memory, coming up blank w
ith the unfamiliar name. As far as I can recall, I've never heard it before.
“Listen, Wilkinson,” the detective snaps, keeping his edgy voice low. There’s a peculiar look of anger combined with anxiety on his face. “Do you think your babysitter will be able to cope if we do this out here?”
I arch my eyebrows. Strangely enough, I find myself trying not to laugh. So much has happened in the last 12 hours, it’s hard to keep up.
Last night, I remembered something I managed to block from my awareness since I was six years old. Then I received wonderful oral sex—a healthy, open and ordinary pleasure I’d never experienced with a woman. Somehow, I managed to enjoy it without a lick of guilt or shame. I smile inwardly at my own pun. This was followed by the best sleep of my entire life.
This morning, I had even more soul liberating realizations concerning my father, God, fear and love. Then I was sent explicit photos, by a person or persons unknown, for reasons unknown.
Finally, it seems I’m being arrested for the murder of someone I’ve never even met.
Now, here I stand before Detective Bronowski, an experienced and somewhat hardened officer of the law—a man who's probably seen every type of crime, evasion, perversion or lawless activity. He’s probably had his life threatened more than once.
Yet, what is he afraid of right now? He's worried about upsetting my babysitter, and he appears to be genuinely scared of sweet, little Mitten.
I curb a ridiculous need to snicker hysterically.
It’s pretty amusing.
So is the fact I can find anything humorous about this situation. I can't begin to wrap my brain around the shit storm of events that have taken place. Any one circumstance could be emotionally overwhelming. Add them all together and here I am, trying not to laugh.
Laughter would be highly inappropriate. Also, it would surely piss Bronowski off, even more than he already is. I'd like to avoid doing that.
Up, down. Up, down, I’m riding the teeter-totter of life. I wish my brother Alex, with his irreverent sense of humor were here. He’d know exactly what to say. If I can’t find an amusing caption for these unexpected events, then there’s something wrong with me.
Hmm… Why is the detective frightened of Renata’s cat? Because Bronowski isn’t with ‘Claw Enforcement.’ What would Mitten be called if Bronowski arrested him? The purrpetrator.
I curb a real need to laugh, if only to let some of the tension out from the very strange, inexplicable and nearly hysterical, events of the day.
“Do you trust me not to run off?” I ask, managing to keep a straight face.
His eyes narrow with suspicion. “Why? What do you have in mind?”
“Give me five minutes with my babysitter. I think we’ll be able to avoid another full-blown panic attack that way.”
The detective frowns, then nods his agreement. “We’ll wait out here for exactly five minutes. Don’t close the door.”
“Thank you.” I spin on my heel and stride back into the living room, leaving the front door wide open. The detective won’t be able to hear our conversation at that distance.
Kneeling on the carpet, she’s pulling a sweater over Briley’s head. I adopt a calm posture, casually sitting on the sofa, hooking my ankle onto the opposite knee of the other.
“Who was at the door?” she asks.
“Remember when you said the police turning up at our door might be good for you in the long run? You know, because of aversion therapy? You told me once I’m arrested three or four more times, you’ll get over it.”
Renata’s eyes widen and she instantly pales. I’m glad she’s sitting down. Her chest rapidly rises and falls. I’m sure her heartbeat has kicked up, right along with her breathing.
I hop off the sofa and take Briley from her, placing him onto his baby play blanket. He gurgles happily there. Then I squat down on the floor beside her, taking her hands between my own.
“Listen to me, darlin’, the police are outside, they’re waiting for me,” I say, rubbing her cold fingers. “They don’t want to upset you or cause you to panic. Nor do they want Mitten attacking them.”
“Is it your father? Have they found more evidence or something? I don’t understand.”
“Honey, I have no idea what’s going on,” I tell her honestly. “I’m going to go with them and I’ll contact my lawyer. The moment I know anything, I’ll get word to you. You have Sally Ann’s phone number, right?”
She nods.
“Please call her if you need anything, OK?”
“I will.”
I stand up, reach down, take her by the hands, and pull her to her feet. Her face has gone very white. It makes the sprinkling of freckles on her upturned nose seem much darker. Brave girl. She’s trying to be strong, but she looks so lost.
I brush a lock of her soft blonde hair back from her face. A few strands have become caught in her mouth, but I pull them away. Almost childlike apprehension shines from her wide, blue eyes. Her steady, trusting gaze captivates me.
My chest tightens. I’d do anything for her. Renata’s open vulnerability brings out every protective instinct I have.
“Is it Detective Bronowski again?” she asks softly.
I nod. “It is.” I gather her into my arms, putting every ounce of love and feeling I can into my embrace. At first, she remains motionless, frozen with shock. Yet, after a moment, she hugs me back, squeezing me tight—holding on as if her life depends on it.
I love the incredible sensation of having her wrapped around me. After my realizations of last night and this morning, I’m unable to feel anything except optimistic.
“Darlin,’ life is good,” I murmur. “Life is great. You deserve to be happy and I aim to help you make all your dreams come true.”
I feel her body loosen at this determined pronouncement. Good.
I stroke her hair, her neck and back, still hugging her for all I’m worth. “Besides, I simply can’t believe after all I’ve been through, after I’ve come so far, that I’ll end up in jail for a crime I didn’t commit.” I pull away, meeting her eyes with a confident smile. “God can’t be such an asshole.”
“You’re right,” she says with a sniff. Her eyes gleam, my stomach twists.
Damn. Is she going to cry?
I squeeze her shoulders. “Promise me you’ll be OK while I’m gone.”
“I promise.”
“You’re sure?”
She nods, a quick jerk. “I’ll call André right after you leave. I’ll be fine. We’ll get through this.”
I frown. “I’d rather you stay right here than come outside and watch me get into the back of the police car. Will you do that for me?”
Our eyes lock, she pauses, swallows. “Yes,” she murmurs, “of course.”
“Maria’s due to arrive within the hour, so you won’t be alone. I’ll figure this out and be home as soon as humanly possible.”
Renata’s eyes are bright with unshed tears, but she’s keeping it together.
“I’ll be fine.” She puts on a brave smile, there’s fear in her eyes. “See? I told you I’d get better at this with a bit more practice.”
“So you did, and I think you’re amazing.” Our kiss is short, sharp and passionate. “I have to go,” I say in a low voice.
God, I hate to leave her.
I pet Mitten, who arches under my hand. He begins to purr as I admonish him to look after Renata. Then I kiss Briley and I tell him the same thing. I sweep up my cellphone and tuck it into my pocket on my way to the front door. The police will take it, but I need my lawyer’s number.
“Give Detective Bronowski my regards—oh, and Mitten’s too,” she quips, well aware last time he was here, every officer was cowed by her ferocious, furry friend. Or is that furocious? Terrible!
I grin. “Will do. Bronowski has a healthy respect for the indomitable Mitten.” I take one last, long look at her, proud of her strength, awed by her beauty—both inside and out. “They won’t keep me long,” I assure her.
There’s a quick flash of satisfaction in his eyes when Bronowski hears this. It occurs to me despite having a job to do, Renata’s welfare is high on his list of priorities. I can’t help but like him for his consideration. I wonder if he’s married. Maybe his wife taught him this courteous, caring behavior.
The detective nods and gets right back to business. “Grant Wilkinson, as I said before, I’m arresting you for the murder of Edgar Gates,” he pronounces.
Who the hell is Edgar Gates?
I’m instructed to assume the position, so the officer can pat me down to make sure I’m unarmed. Bronowski reads me my rights and takes my phone. The officer unclips handcuffs from his utility belt, shackling my wrists in front of me. The cuffs are cool, hard and utterly disconcerting.
An aura of déjà vu comes over me, particularly when a curtain twitches in my neighbor’s window. Haven’t I been here before?
The officer puts his palm on my head as he firmly guides me safely into the backseat of the police cruiser. Yeah, this is distinctly familiar.
The uniformed cop steps on the gas. The car pulls out, speeds up. “Do you mind telling me who Edgar Gates is?” I ask.
“We’ll discuss everything once we get to the precinct.”
I say nothing. What else is there to say?
I’m an unwilling passenger on board this train. There’s no way off this ride until we get to the station, but I’m quietly confident I’ll find an exit once I’m there.
Nothing can keep me away from Renata.
Chapter 18.
“Men in general are quick to believe that which they wish to be true.”
― Julius Caesar
~~~
Grant Wilkinson
Here I am, neck-deep in cow patties again. I’m back in the police interrogation room, sitting on a metal chair that is bolted to the floor. The uncomfortable chair, no doubt, is designed to add another layer of discomfort to interrogation.
