False Allegations

I stepped away quickly, grabbed my duffel bag out of the back bedroom, slung it over my shoulder.

'You can keep that tape,' I told Jennifer. 'A little souvenir. I got copies. I'll give you three days. Seventy–two hours. That's enough for you to get paid. Then you better get in the wind.'

She sat there with her mouth open, like I'd slugged her in the gut too. I held my hand out to Heather. She took it. I hauled her to her feet, thumbed the cellular into life, hit the memory button.

'Go,' the Prof's voice came back.

'All clear?'

'Quiet as the crypt.'

I held Heather's pudgy hand tight all the way down the back stairs.

It took two complete loops of the FDR before she stopped crying. I finally found a place to pull in near the heliport on Thirty–fourth. I held her against me in the darkness. Her whole body trembled with what she knew.

'I don't believe it,' she said finally. 'The truth…'

'The truth is just a toy they played with, Heather. It's up to you now. It's your call.'

'What are you going to…?'

'Me? Nothing.'

She was quiet for a long time after that. Finally, she turned in her seat. 'I have to know. I have the key. Will you come with me?'

'It's not mine,' I said. 'I'm done.'

She shifted her body against me, pulling at my jacket until I looked in her face.

'I love you,' she said. 'You found the truth.'

I didn't say anything.

'Please…'

The concierge wasn't at his desk, the lobby deserted at that hour. We stood close together in the small elevator. 'Breathe through your nose,' I told her. 'Stay inside yourself. Calm. You wanted the truth, Heather. You know where it is.'

She opened the grille. I followed her down the hall. He was in the fan–shaped chair, like he'd been waiting for us.

'It was the truth!' Heather blurted out. 'We know the truth. She—'

'Shut up, you cow!' Kite hissed at her. 'What's wrong with you? Have you forgotten our work?'

'Our…work? To find the truth…'

'No!' Kite said sharply. 'We know the truth, don't we? False allegations, that's the truth. All the pernicious lies, all the exaggerations. The phony therapists. The witch hunt—remember Heather? There was only one way to stop it. Only one way to put a stake right through the enemy's heart.'

'But you knew…All along, you…'

'This is a chess game,' he said in his empty voice, eyes shielded behind the glasses. 'An intellectual problem. The real weapon in this war is propaganda. And I have just delivered the master stroke. It will take them years to recover. Public perception will never be the same. I did this. Nobody will ever get away with a false allegation again—everyone is on the alert now. Just as I promised you when we started together.'

Heather sat down on the floor and bawled like a little girl. A little girl who had lost her compass.

'No hard feelings?' Kite said to me, talking over Heather's slumped body like she wasn't there. 'We're both professionals, you and I. And I appreciate the work you did—I admire it. You are the finest investigator I've ever worked with. But this was never about investigation.'

'And you got paid.'

'Did I? You know nothing about it, Mr. Burke. No, you got paid. And paid well. For myself, the payment is my syndrome. The syndrome, Heather,' he said, shifting to a gentle, kindly voice. 'You remember all the time I have invested in it? How important it is? Well, my syndrome is now the truth.'

Heather's face snapped up. Her makeup was streaked, black–cherry hair hanging limp. Her movements were stiff, almost robotic. She caught her upper lip with her lower jaw, bit down so hard a drop of blood blossomed.

Kite returned her stare calmly, waiting for the dice to stop rolling.

'Can I still…?' she asked, finally.

'Of course you can,' Kite smiled down at her like a father forgiving a child. 'Things will be just as they were. With us, I mean. There's still so much work to do. Now why don't you go into the bathroom and pull yourself together. Then you can show Mr. Burke out.'

She got to her feet silently. I kept my eyes on Kite, listening to the tap of her heels on the hardwood floor.

'You're not planning on doing anything stupid, are you Mr. Burke? I can't imagine you believe your…testimony would be worth very much in a court of law. And I know some things—'

'I'm all finished,' I cut him off. 'Can I just ask you a question?'

'Certainly. In fact, I'll even answer it for you. I was, shall we say, retained by a certain group in anticipation of certain lawsuits being filed. But the plan, the strategy, the tactics…they were all my own. Uniquely my own. And I have committed no crime. As I said, I did a full–scale investigation. And I proceeded in good faith throughout. And I'm sure you understand that I have a rather complete record of our…dealings. So…'

Heather came back into the room, face freshly scrubbed. 'Will you please show Mr. Burke out, Heather?' Kite said, the control–leash tight in his voice.

She did an about–face and started down the hall. I followed close behind. At the door, I pulled her to me, holding her against my chest. 'For your love,' I whispered, pressing the brass knuckles into her chubby little hand.

I gave the videotape to Wolfe. Just in case somebody at NYPD decided to treat their copy like they had the French Connection heroin.

Jennifer Dalton disappeared the next day. The cops said there was no evidence of foul play.

Kite was a different story. A maid discovered his body in the penthouse a few days later. He'd been beaten to death. His files had been looted, picked clean. 'It could have been anyone—we've got a long list of suspects,' the lead detective on the case told the newspapers. 'But whoever did it was a pro—they knew what they were doing.'

They got that part right anyway.

I don't know where Heather went to. But wherever she is, I know her eyes aren't orange anymore.

AFTERWORD

Every year, millions of children in the United States are victimized by severe abuse. This maltreatment takes many forms, but all have this in common: they rob children of some percentage of their potential, some vital human piece of themselves. And by such robbery, all America is looted. The problem has been documented to the point of nausea. The media dutifully report the body counts, but the one–sided war rages on. Domestic violence, sexual exploitation, rape, sociopathic plundering, homicide…we remain under siege even as our 'protective' institutions rot from within.

We know the root cause of our societal ills and evil—the transgenerational maltreatment of children. We know today's victim can become tomorrow's predator. We know that while many heroic survivors refuse to imitate the oppressor, the chains remain unbroken as abused children turn the trauma inward and lose their souls to self– inflicted wounds—from drug and alcohol abuse to depression to suicide. Their lives are never what they could have—should have—been.

We know the enemy…but where is the counterattack? More social engineering? More pious whining? More networking? More conferences? More unfocused, blundering incompetence? There is a Rosetta stone to societal decay. Child abuse, simply, modifies development of the brain. It alters 'processing,' so that the abused child (of