A serious expression closed up Sammy’s face. “It wasn’t any fun, even though I got to watch TV all day. I was stuck in bed and felt awful—sick and itchy. You wouldn’t like it.”
To confirm this important information, he pointed out a few little scabs on his arms and chest. They were still red and a bit sore.
Susie frowned and made sympathetic murmurs as he showed her his marks. She sighed. “But I’d still like to go on a vacation. If I went on a real vacation then I’d go to Disney World.”
“Oh, me too!” Sammy reached into the bag for a second candy. “I want to see Tigger, Cinderella’s Castle and Mickey Mouse. I can’t wait. When we’re older, we’ll go together. The House Master told me I could go if I’m good. I’m being really, really good so I can go.”
“¡Él es el padre de la mentira!” Susie said, fierce and low.
“What?”
“He is the father of all lies,” she translated.
At Sammy’s crestfallen features, Susie immediately retracted her statement. Her friend was still very young and she didn’t want to upset him.
He was too young to understand.
“I was just joking,” she explained with a teasing grin on her face. “Yes, you and I will go together to Disney World. There, we’ll eat ice cream and hot dogs and go on all the rides!”
Unable to remain still, they bounced up and down with excitement. Sammy laughed so loud Susie had to shush him.
In the Big House, a single utterance of the magical words ‘Disney World’ never failed to brighten the expression on every child’s face. Disney toys were sought after. Often clients brought them in as special gifts for their favorites.
Countless clients wanted the children to play ‘dress-ups.’ There were so many different costumes, but Susie loved wearing princess gowns most. It was a highlight to her workday or work night.
Dress ups made it easy to make-believe. Susie would often pretend she was a princess being found and taken home by the people she loved. Seeing her parents again was a dream she often imagined. She missed them. If only…
The children in the Big House were cared for by supervisors. Supervisors could be men or women. They weren’t old, they were maybe twenty.
House Masters were old.
House Masters often promised the children they would go to Disney World if they were good. Susie knew this was a lie. No one she knew had ever been there.
Susie’s real name was Gabriela Lopez. When she first came to the Big House, she’d been told to forget that name, because it was not her name—but Susie knew better. The men who stole her away also told Susie her parents had no money so they sold her.
Susie knew this also was a lie. Mamá and papá would never sell her, no matter how poor they were. They loved her very much. They would come for her very soon.
“I told you daddy just wanted to watch,” Sammy said importantly.
They both giggled like loons over that fascinating piece of information. Sometimes a customer asked to see kids play with each other. That’s what Sammy and Susie had done tonight.
It had been easy, fun work for both of them.
The two children—each armed with carnal knowledge they should never have been exposed to—sat naked on the rim of the huge bathtub, side by side. Together, they enjoyed their candy, each other’s company, and the irrepressible and inexplicable happiness only children can know.
So far, it had been a really good day.
Chapter 45.
“Those who do not move, do not notice their chains.”
― Rosa Luxemburg
~~~
Grant Wilkinson
I was expecting André's visit, however I’m surprised when he turns up on our doorstep with a stranger. André introduces the man simply as, “Albert.”
I greet him with a smile. “Hello, Albert.”
Albert flashes a smile back at me in acknowledgment, appears blind to my facial scars and says nothing. Perhaps four-five years old, he’s a tall, African American with a perfect set of straight, white teeth. Thickset and sweating heavily, he has alert, watchful eyes and a shaved, bullet-head.
Albert silently proceeds to bring equipment in to scan my entire house, looking for listening devices.
Are there bugs in my house? Have we been under surveillance? Fuck.
My mind feverishly searches back in time, trying to remember everything I’ve said to Renata, and she to me. So many of our conversations revolve around crimes, ranging from my father's murder and victims, to pedophilia, to my brother's murder charges and the details of my abuse.
Lord, I sit on a ton of secrets.
I’m greatly relieved when Albert confidently says, “All clean here, no wires, no devices.”
As the rest of our guests arrive, Albert scans each of them at the door.
Maria has the day off and Renata’s made a ton of finger food, which she’s placed in the middle of the table. At over ninety degrees outdoors, with high humidity, it’s a relief to get inside into the air-conditioning.
All in all, we found eight people who were sent photos of themselves being sexually abused as children. I have to wonder how many others there are.
Four of us were molested by my father: Cody Bentley, Danny Berdeaux, Miguel Alvarez, and myself. Those abused by others are Katrina Hanlon, Zachary Bailey, Carol Minster and Mike Boyle.
It’s a shocking truth, but we’ve stumbled onto a pedophile ring. It appears that someone from there ordered the assassination of Edgar Gates and then framed me for the murder. Did they also murder my father?
Our gathering today is to discuss and decide where to go from here. Of course we want justice, but how? We all sit at a large table which I’ve moved into the upstairs living area for this occasion.
Sally Ann is here to support her brother Danny. She’s been doing that all of her life.
I’d forgotten what a knock-out Danny’s sister is. Sally Ann’s ultra-feminine, curvy figure is obvious under her pretty yellow, summer dress. Her thick, wavy brunette hair contrasts with her striking light blue eyes. Other than Renata, she’s the most kind-hearted woman I’ve ever known.
Right now, she’s sitting beside Zach.
This draws my attention because she’s staring at her fingers, her hands clasped together in her lap. There’s color in her cheeks; Sally’s natural shyness has apparently hit an all-time high.
Then I finally notice—Zachary Bailey is openly admiring. He hasn’t taken his eyes from her since he arrived.
What the hell?
Renata glances at me with a shrewd smile, clearly enjoying the show. Something in her gaze says, “Check out the budding romance!”
Evidently she thinks these two were made for each other.
I don’t see it. How would that work?
Sally Ann Berdeaux is sweet, kind and caring—beautiful, modest and shy. She’s the classic Southern Belle. I have no doubt she’s ‘saving herself’ for marriage.
Saving herself… for Zach?
This afternoon, Zach arrived on his Harley. Decked out in black motorcycle leathers, complete with romp ‘em, stomp ‘em, shit-kicking boots, he could pass as a terrify-you-shitless sadist. Independent, violent, aggressive and unemotional (except for enduring rage) he has colorful tattoos everywhere, a nose ring, and God only knows what other kinds of piercings he has in hidden places on his body.
My mind boggles with that thought.
Zach’s a huge, scary, tough-looking guy. With all of my combat training, even I’d find it daunting if I met him in a dark alley.
Sally Ann and Zach? Talk about the beauty and the beast! Zach is rough-edged, fierce and wild. He reminds me of a blue-painted, highland warrior. Could Sally Ann be the woman to tame him?
I surreptitiously check out her brother’s response to this unexpected match. Danny has a subtle smile, clearly he’s not opposed to the match. Sally Ann has been repressed by social tradition and bullied by a severe father. Perhaps Danny feels it’s time his sister was liberated.
br />
Zachary Bailey is his own man, someone who escaped societal constraints long ago. Well, who knows? Perhaps he’ll set her free.
André stands before us at the head of the table, an open, yet somber look on his face. We all come to attention, he’s ready to speak.
“Mes amis,” he begins, “in Belgium some 20 years ago, a number of young girls disappeared. It was discovered they had been abducted by a man, Marc Dutroux. He kept them looked in a secret room in his basement. He told the girls that others would come who would hurt them, and they should not make noise. He manipulated them with fear, so he appeared as their protector.
“Several children died, their bodies buried in his garden. The last two girls were discovered and saved. The enquiry took years, it was oh—most incompetently carried out. Witnesses disappeared, evidence lost. Throughout the trial, Dutroux insisted he was part of a pedophile ring that operated throughout Europe. He named police officers, businessmen, doctors and even high-level Belgian politicians as accomplices. They called this pedophile cabal, Les Ballets Roses, ‘The Pink Ballets.’
“In America, there was the ‘Franklin case’ in 1988. It began as a financial investigation but soon became a sordid study of drugs, money-laundering and a nationwide child abuse ring.
“Eh bien, the chief investigator assigned to the case died—suddenly and violently, as did more than a dozen other people linked to this case. They were murdered, vous comprenez? Witnesses changed their testimony out of fear. Some child victims refused to alter their personal stories of molestation. Two of these young people were sent to jail for perjury.”
Several gasps are heard but mostly a thick, stunned silence results as shock reverberates through the room. Renata squeezes my hand as my jaw drops open. My mind wants to shut down rather than process the words I hear.
Could this happen in America? In our country?
“Alors,” André continues, “the case was ‘investigated’ and dismissed as a ‘public hoax.’ Why, you may ask? How could this happen? First, a most comprehensive effort was made to hide the truth through the use of bribery, blackmail, threat and murder. Second, it is difficult for people to conceive, perceive or believe such evil exists in the world. Most of us do not wish to imagine such ugliness, no?”
I find myself nodding.
People have become more comfortable openly discussing bullying. There are public service ads, books, blogs, billboards, assemblies and classes highlighting the phenomenon. Yet when it comes to child sexual abuse, people balk.
Countless children are abused every day, physically, sexually, psychologically and through neglect. Incest is common, yet ninety percent of incest victims never tell anyone.
These cold, hard facts are ignored because such evil is uncomfortable to talk about or acknowledge. Is it willful blindness or wishful thinking?
Cunning, careful and camouflaged. Pedophiles have relentless, unnatural cravings.
Many adults prefer to believe children imagine they have been abused, or that their request for help is simply a childish cry for attention. They cannot believe friends, neighbors, loved ones, or their own relatives—people they know and like, are only pretending to be nice.
André raises his chin. “If you wish, read the book The Franklin Cover-up: Child Abuse, Satanism, and Murder in Nebraska by John DeCamp. He details treacherous corruption of the institutions of government as well as the press. Just like the Belgium case, only one person was charged. The true offenders? No one could touch them.
“In 1994, the Discovery Channel was to air "Conspiracy of Silence," a documentary that detailed the Franklin case. It exposed a network of religious leaders and Washington politicians who used children for sex. The screening was legally quashed by a judge, halted due to pressure applied by powerful politicians. Now, more than twenty years later, the ban has been lifted. I recommend you view this documentary. It can be found on YouTube.”
André’s lips firm, his expression tightens. “Here and now, I have no doubt you have stumbled upon another powerful pedophile ring.” He gestures to everyone at the table. “What happens next is up to you. What are each of you prepared to do? By personally exposing these men, you jeopardize your reputation, for they command the media and will vilify you. Worse, you risk the lives of your friends, family and yourselves.”
Zach leaps up from the opposite end of the table. Chest out, he has a belligerent, to-hell-with-everyone expression on his face. “They’re not going to get away with this!” he snarls loudly, sounding somewhat like a rabid dog. “I don’t care what happens to me. I’ll tell the world. Fuck them all!”
Sally Ann slants him a furtive gaze, her face shines with awe and admiration. Oh, yes. Clearly opposites do attract. Zach is courageous. He’s a real hero to take on this powerful group.
André’s accepting smile brightens the room. “Très bon! Bravo, mon ami!” he says, clapping his hands. “If this is what is in your heart, I will make great use of you.” His head raises and lowers, nodding happily.
For the next twenty minutes, the nervous energy in the room soars. Everyone talks at once. They speak to each other as well as addressing the group. André continues to stand, watching everyone patiently, answering an occasional question and listening intently.
It seems Zach is the only one of us who fearlessly wants to be an active and public part of this crusade. No one else seems to be far enough along the road to recovery to tackle his or her molesters. There is too much at stake, too much to lose.
Standing up and going public is a monumental step to take. It's like jumping off a high cliff into the unknown. Not only are our own reputations and lives on the line, but also, the lives of our loved ones. This is particularly the case when our enemies are part of such a formidable group.
I want to throw myself into the battle, I want to expose these monsters and personally take them down. At this point I don’t care who knows about my father and what he did to me. If it helps, I’ll tell my story to the world.
But how can I?
Once, not long ago, I was broken, alone and empty. I ached with the desperate isolation that can only come from intense, unrelenting self-hate.
Now, all of that has changed.
I am a soldier and a fighter. I’ve been trained to kill. Yet, war is easy when you don’t care if you live or die. Indifference makes one brave. Indecision or wondering if I should back down from a fight is something I’ve never done.
I’m forced to think about it now.
Renata’s my soulmate and my very best friend. I don’t have to act differently around her. I don’t have to be perfect. By being honest and dropping every pretense, I’ve found true intimacy. With her, I’m free to be myself.
My darling girl is my reason for living. How could I possibly put her at risk? The short answer is, I can’t.
To not stick my neck out for such a worthy cause, shames me deeply.
I’m putting the life of one person over countless children who may be suffering at the hands of these monsters, yet there’s no other choice. I’d do anything to keep her safe.
I’m beginning to understand how men like this so easily get away with their crimes.
Chapter 46.
“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.