26. Sympathy for the Devil

26

SYMPATHY FOR THE DEVIL

LESTER

It didn't take me long to find out the location of Daisy's therapist. She intrinsically told me his whole name before she stopped herself, but it was enough to go on.

Dr. Beaumont has touched her. He has put his hands on my little nymph, when she was underage and in his care. He was supposed to help her―for what I am not yet aware of.

But it does not matter.

I know nothing of this man, except that he is a well-acclaimed psychiatrist, with an exceptional high number on his bank account. Besides this, I now know that he is a predator, one who doesn't mind abusing his power and taking advantage of those he is supposed to help and protect.

I don't know if Daisy is the only one or if there have been more.

Again, it doesn't matter.

He won't remain in this world for long.

I broke into his practice early this morning after I found out the address and called up his first client to cancel his appointment. I have exactly one hour and fifteen minutes until the next client arrives after Dr. Beaumont comes in.

I've found out that he's a very private person, and that he has a select few clients that he meets with every week on specific days and times. This is why he has no need for a receptionist, which works in my favor.

As soon as I hear the sound of his footsteps entering the space, I come out of my hiding spot behind a large bookcase and snap the lock of the door closed with an audible click. He turns around immediately, panic and confusion in his eyes. "Who the hell are you? What are you doing in here? This is private property!"

Moving my tongue over my teeth, I slowly stalk toward him and take a casual seat on the chaise longue. "Is this where she spilled her guts out? Told you every single thing that haunted her?" I ask, smoothing my hands over the soft fabric.

His eyes are wide marbles and they shift to the door, desperately calculating his escape. My body is calm, and he notices. He knows that running is not going to do him any good.

His other option is to take a step back toward his desk and grab the phone, but he won't have enough time to dial the numbers for help.

"Whatever escape you're trying to plan, it's going to end in your demise. I'd rather you just take a seat and tell me everything I want to hear."

"Who are you?" he asks again. "And who are you talking about?"

Cracking my neck, I take a deep sigh. "Who I am is none of your concern. Yet. Who I'm here on behalf for, sure, I'll tell you that. I'm here for Daisy Burton."

Even from here, I can see the little veins pop inside the white of his eyes, turning it blood red from panic.

"She doesn't know I'm here. But I found out some things that I just cannot get behind. The fact that you seem to have had sex with her."

He steps backward, holding up his hands until his ass bumps into the wooden desk. "No. That's not―"

"Don't even try to deny it," I interrupt. "I checked your client book. She's in there, and I know she would not lie about this. Besides, even from looking at you I know you're a liar. Predators recognize predators." I reach for a cigarette in my pocket and light it, smoking it without a care in the world, though my insides are screaming for justice. "You're going to tell me some things, Dr. Beaumont. Let's start with why Daisy was under your care."

"That's confidential. I can't tell you."

I roll my eyes. "Let's move past that. You find yourself in a terrible predicament, so I don't think you have any choice but to comply to my demands. Let me ask you again―why was she in therapy? I'll get the full story from her later, but I need to know the basic facts now ."

Little pieces of my alter ego slip through the cracks. They're a part of me just as much as I am Lester Gilbert. " Confess… " I hiss, connecting with the Sculptor.

"Nymphomania," he admits, still staring at me with fear in his eyes. "And obsessive-compulsive disorder."

"She was in here for sex addiction?" I take a moment to let that sink in. So much about her makes sense now. Her recklessness, her blatant disregard for her virtue…

"You had sex with an underage client who came to you for help for her sex addiction ?" The last words are coming out with so much force that spittle slips between my teeth, my voice nearly a scream.

I'm vibrating with so much rage that it's a good thing I have practiced keeping my feelings controlled for all the years I've been killing. It's a talent, being able to suppress them.

It seems to be harder to do so now that Daisy is involved, but I manage with aching tension.

"She seduced me," he chokes out in terror. "She blackmailed me! She forced me into telling her parents that she was making progress."

"Did she rape you?" I ask, moving my eyebrows up to my forehead in challenge, taking another drag of my cigarette. We both know she didn't.

"No." He shakes his head slowly. "But after the first time―I… I didn't have a choice but to give her what she wanted. Her father is in the mafia. He'd kill me if he knew."

"Seems like a good father," I comment, and I can't help but think of the fact that he'll try to kill me all the same if he knew what I was doing with his daughter.

"She's sick," Dr. Beaumont continues. "She'll do anything to get her way. Manipulation, blackmail. Stalking, violence…"

I'd say that he was lying, but I've come to know Daisy Burton over the last few weeks. Those things don't seem too farfetched for her. Maybe that's what intrigues me so much. She takes what she wants without apology, without shame or self-doubt.

Crazy attracts crazy.

I'm lost in my thoughts before Dr. Beaumont shakes me out of it. "Who are you?" he tries again, his hands squeezing the desk in fear.

I sigh, letting my head hang back as I look up at the ceiling. "I have killed many like you. You may have even heard of me." Rolling my neck, I look straight at him, putting my burning cigarette out on an expensive-looking side table, the wood sizzling. "Ever watch the news?"

He gulps, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. "Of course I do."

"Perfect. Then you have definitely heard of me." I get up from the sofa and step forward, reaching for something inside my pocket. "I'm the Sculptor of Death. Nice to make your acquaintance." Sticking out my hand for him to take―which he obviously doesn't―I move closer to him slowly.

I am not the Sculptor today, though. I'm only Lester. No need to hide behind my masks and secret identity.

No, this kill is for me.

For Daisy.

He holds up his hands once more. "I told you! She made me! She blackmailed me!"

"Doesn't matter," I answer without remorse for what I'm about to do. "She was a child ."

As I'm always looking at life through the narrow filter of a broken childhood, you might say I'm overreacting because of my past. But that's simply not true. I know evil when I see it. I recognize rapists and bad men who take advantage of the innocent, because I've stared into their eyes many a time.

Now, I wouldn't exactly call Daisy innocent, but she was only fifteen years old. It doesn't matter if she really did blackmail her doctor. The truth remains that she was taken advantage of, and that simply cannot go unpunished.

"Take a seat at your desk, Dr. Beaumont," I order. "Grab a pen and write down your goodbyes. If you have a wife, tell her you're sorry. If you have children, tell them they're better off without you."

"N―no," he stammers, nearly choking on his panic. "No! Please, don't do this! Please!"

I take my gun out of my pocket, then aim it at his head. " Now , Doctor. Your next client will be here in―" I hold my wrist up to check my watch. "Thirty-five minutes. We need to hurry this along, or we can just skip your suicide letter and I'll write it myself."

He ends up obeying my demands and writes his letter with shaky hands while I stand behind his chair and read along. He does have a wife and he does have children―two girls, as it turns out.

"How old are your daughters?" I ask, my tone cool.

Tears, snot, and saliva drip onto his letter, smudging some of the words as he cries hysterically, begging for his life. "Eig―eighteen," he weeps. "A―and―fourteen."

"I see." I'm not surprised in the slightest. The number of men who secretly want to fuck their own flesh and blood is astonishing. "So your oldest was the same age as Daisy was when you first fucked her. Is that a coincidence? Or did you secretly want to fuck your little girl and used Daisy to satiate your depraved fantasies instead?"

I'm getting tired of the noises of pure, unrelenting wails and fear. Gives me a damn headache. I wait until he writes out his name on the bottom of the paper, then put the gun to his head and take the safety off. "Time's up, Doctor."

I pull the trigger, the bullet blasting straight through his head, painting a bloody picture on his white wall. Bits and pieces of brain matter stick to it, a wide arrangement of red and pink shades.

A stunning display of horror and justice, an artwork in itself.

Goes to show that I don't always need to work so hard to create masterpieces. Sometimes it just happens when you least expect it.

I've staged a suicide before. It's easy enough.

I wipe the pistol grip clean with a handkerchief, then stage the scene. I put Dr. Beaumont's head down on the desk, blood leaking out of the bullet hole where it went straight through, dripping down onto the floor. Sliding his ‘suicide' note to the side on the desk to prevent it from staining with blood, I move onto the gun, putting it in his hand.

I decided against making him write a confession about touching Daisy. That will cause trouble for her and unwanted attention. Justice can be served without the public knowing about it.

When all is said and done, I'm ready to leave.

Even though it's not the right time of the year, no preparations were put in place, and I haven't turned my victim into a sculpture… it doesn't satisfy me any less.

Because this time, I didn't only kill for myself.

This time, it was for my little nymph.

I close my eyes for a few seconds as I think of her, then hold up my wrist to check the time. In exactly two hours, I'll see her again in my class.

I get out and leave the horror scene behind me for the police to find.

"Tell me what's been going on with you, brother," Landon says as we sit in the conversation pit in my living room. He showed up on my doorstep earlier tonight, a surprise visit because he was in North Carolina for work.

He couldn't have come at a better time, because I need to talk about everything that has happened over the past few weeks. It's going to eat me alive otherwise. We often speak on the phone, but this is something that needs to be confessed face to face.

"Too much," I tell him with a sigh, then proceed to spill my guts out about the student who has both enlightened my life and turned it into a living hell.

He's quiet, but I know exactly what he's thinking. He's shocked, at a loss for words about the mess I find myself in.

He looks into my eyes as he sits there in his expensive suit, with his hair combed neatly in place despite his long flight. "It's clear from hearing you talk that you have feelings for her. I don't think I've ever heard you talk about a woman this way." I don't miss the way he calls Daisy ‘a woman' instead of ‘a girl'.

"That's not all, Lan." I tip my head back defeatedly on the backrest of the sofa. "I found out that her therapist touched her when she was underage."

He sits up instantly, his eyes widening and some of his whisky spilling out of the glass. "You didn't ," he grunts, and it's clear that he already knows what I've done.

"I did."

"Fuck, Les. How? You killed him as the Sculptor? Do you realize how dangerous that is? This shit can't happen in your own city, man. We agreed to that a long time ago. Once a year, in a different state. And I supply you the victims. That's the only way this works. I can't live with it if you go to prison. Fuck !"

I hold up my hand, signaling for him to calm down. "It wasn't like that. Who do you take me for? I staged the scene. It will be signed off as a suicide."

Some of the panic evaporates from his dark eyes, relief taking over instead. "You couldn't have started with that? Jesus, brother. I nearly shit my pants. And these are expensive." He raises his eyebrows to reinforce his point, smoothing his hand over the fabric. "Cashmere."

Rolling my eyes, I ask, "Can we move on? I've handled it, but I feel lost. It was like I went into a blind rage as soon as she told me. I haven't slept. I couldn't rest until I knew he was dead. And then I still couldn't rest, because there was no way in hell that I was missing my class with her. I feel like I'm going insane."

"And you haven't slept with her yet?" he asks in confirmation of what I've already told him.

I shake my head. "Things… happened. But technically not sex."

"But you want to," he states, taking a calm sip of his eighteen-year-aged Balvenie whisky.

"It's all I can think about." My expression is pained, and all Landon does is nod understandably, not once ounce of judgement in him. "I can't get her out of my head. It's not just the lust she instills in me. It's her . Her talent, her wit. She's smart, so goddamn beautiful. She's just so unapologetically herself."

"I think there's part of you that hopes that I will tell you to put a stop to it. To tell you that it's wrong, confirm what you already think. But I'm not going to do that." He takes another sip. "You want to hear my honest opinion?"

"Always honesty. You know that, Lan."

Luna jumps onto the couch, first making a stop at me, rubbing her fluffy face against my hand, then moving onto Landon, whom she loves dearly. He takes her on his lap and pets her. "I think you should go for it."

About to take a sip of my whisky, I halt my glass mid-air, my eyebrows furrowing.

"I have never heard you talk about anyone this passionately in my life . Thirty-six years we have been here on this earth together, brother. Never, not once, have I seen this look in your eyes."

He's right about that. Not only has sex been an issue that's followed me into adulthood―I have never bothered with relationships either. I couldn't. Not after all that happened to me in the years that shaped the course of my life. Not after all the parties. Not after they gambled with my life like I was just a useless pawn in their game.

Not after all the demons that put their hands on me.

The bondage scene was an awakening for me, a way for me to search for pleasure in ways that comforted me. Because there was always that barrier.

A dominant and a submissive. No touching. Rules and mutual respect. Giving out pain in a way that brings pleasure, instead of only destruction.

But now there is Daisy Burton. And her touch doesn't make me feel like I'm going to emerge into fire. I have accepted her touch and I still cannot understand why.

All I do know is that I want more of it. I need more of it.

The way her soft hands have the ability to make my skin prickle in the most extraordinary way, like tiny stabs with sculpting tools, applied in a way only she can. The way she is not always soft, but rough, too, despite her small hands.

I can still feel her tight grip on my cock. The feeling of her nails digging into my balls and squeezing them tightly. The way her kiss felt on my lips. How her tongue brushed against mine. Desperate and passionate, as if I'm the only thing she's ever wanted to taste.

I think… that I was saving my lips for you.

My thoughts are spiraling until Landon pulls me out of them, his voice a kind reminder that he's here in the room with me. "I think you should stop denying yourself what you want. Who cares about her age? She's an adult." He reaches for the bottle on the table and pours himself another shot of the expensive whisky he brought, before sitting back onto the couch. "You were already a killer at that age, Les. You had a body count of eleven by the time you turned nineteen. Don't act like she's just a kid. The fact that she got into the academy already tells you that she's not."

I don't know what to say to him, but he doesn't let me speak anyway.

"Take what you want from the world, brother. The world has taken so much from you. Too much. It's about time you took something back. And I'm not talking about art or murder. But something pure . I'm not going to say the word, because knowing you, that will lead you into an existential crisis that will put a hold on this beautiful thing you're building. For now, let's call it lust or passion or whatever other damn thing. Take it , Les."

I decide to listen to the one person who has always wanted what's best for me.

I'm going to take it.