Chapter 5
Harry Blackstone did not tell Eva about his discovery. He did not tell her what he had done and what he had felt when he had seen Molly in pain. In fact, he stopped speaking to his giant, German wife altogether.
The psychologist was too ashamed to talk to her. When he met her around the house during the day time, he avoided her gaze and acted as if he were rushing somewhere. He slept in his study and he stayed in that study with the door locked during most of the day. Once or twice, he had seen the knob move, as if someone were trying to get into him, and he knew that Eva was standing out there, alone in the hallway, trying to see him. But he would not get up and unlock the door and she would not knock and ask if she could come in. She had too much German pride for that.
At night, he continued to work alone with his patients, all of them except Nancy. He needed his wife for Nancy, and he did not want to ask her to join him. Without Eva to help him, he noticed that Jill had regressed back to her giggling state. She did not have her mother to torture her and she did not accept the torture from Harry as being meaningful. It was just pain then, and it taught the teen-ager nothing that she wanted to know about life. Harry knew that, sooner or later, he would have to invite his wife to come back into the laboratory and help him, but he wanted to wait as long as he could. He did not want to face Eva right away.
He kept to himself so much that Juan had been around for a couple of days before Harry noticed his presence in the house. He came across the young, dark man with the mustache one afternoon in the hallway and he had stopped that young man.
"What are you doing here?" Harry had asked.
"I work here," Juan said. "What?"
"You must be Mister Blackstone," the young man said. "Yes, I am."
"I am Juan Gondalez," the young man said, grinning and sticking out his hand for Harry to shake it. "Your wife hired me to work around the house, on Wednesday afternoon."
Harry did not shake the hand that the young man extended to him. He just turned and walked away, fuming that Eva had done such a thing without asking his permission. They did not need any young, dark man to work around the house, he thought. But then he remembered that Eva had not had the chance to ask his permission to do anything in the past two weeks. He had been locked in his study and in his laboratory, not speaking to his wife, for that long. Harry glanced back at the young man who stood there in the hallway, trying, no doubt, to figure out this strange, little man with the patch over one eye. The young man was tall and handsome in a seedy sort of way, Harry thought, and he began to wonder if Eva was fucking that young man, if that was the reason that she had really hired this Juan to work at the house.
Well, what if she is fucking him? Harry did not care. He had his work, his patients, his experiments.
But, when he was inside his study, when he had locked the door, he sat down on his sofa and put his head in his hands and started to weep.
He did care. He loved his wife. He had hurt her and scorned her and now he was ashamed to talk to her, but he loved her, and he wanted to find some way to let her know that. But he could think of no way to tell her without shoing her that he enjoyed hurting those women, and he was too ashamed of that to show anyone, especially Eva.
That night, the jail sent over a new patient for him. This one was a blonde, a pretty woman named Beverly. And Beverly was pregnant, very pregnant.
Harry looked over her file. Beverly was in jail on a kidnapping charge. She had not been tried because the psychologists who studied her had never been able to decide if she was competent to stand trial or not. She had kidnapped a little baby because she thought that the baby belonged to her, that she was a mother. She had been arrested and the baby had been returned to its parents. Then the psychologists had talked to her, had disagreed on her sanity and her ability to understand what would be going on during a trial, and then they had lost Beverly in the maze. She had not been taken to a mental institution and she had not be put on trial. She had just been left in her cell.
And, ironical, she had gotten pregnant there.
Beverly had been gang-raped by a batch of jail guards. At least, that was the story that she told. The guards claimed that they had never touched her, that she had made up the whole thing, that she was crazy. But she was pregnant, really pregnant. The doctors who examined her were sure of that. Something had happened in that jail cell, and now the people who ran the jail were so disturbed by her case, were so afraid of public embarrassment if the press found out about the pregnant girl who had been forgotten by the system and left to rot and be raped in a cell, that they sent Beverly to Harry Blackstone. Let Harry Blackstone cure her, they thought. At least that way, they would be rid of her.
And Harry Blackstone took her with pleasure. He read all about her history, and he found one thing very interesting. Beverly had once been a member of a commune of thieves and killers in California. Some of the people that she had lived with were put on trial and convicted of the murder of several people in a strange, almost Satanic massacre. But Beverly had had nothing to do with that massacre. She had been living in the commune at the time but she only took care of the place for the others. She was like a maid for the whole, murderous bunch.
But Harry Blackstone thought that that period of her life might be the basis of her problems, and he vowed to re-enact parts of that massacre for Beverly, to let her play a role in the piece of brutal history that she had missed.
The psychologist did not tell the blonde girl that when he talked to her. He just explained his methods in general and let her sign the paper. She seemed to be rational", to be capable of making a decision in the present. It was the past, her notions about what had happened to her, that was all wrong, all fuzzy. She could not tell what had really happened to her from what she had just imagined. For example, she swore to Harry Blackstone that she had been with the others when they killed those people in that California massacre, although Harry knew from the police reports that she had been nowhere near that mansion when the murders had taken place.
Harry took Beverly down to the laboratory and there he asked her to take her clothes off.
"Are you going to fuck me?" the blonde asked rather innocently. "Are you going to give me a baby."
Harry looked at the swollen belly on the girl, the pregnancy that she refused to admit was there! Then he spoke to her softly and calmly.
"I am not going to fuck you," he said. "I am not going to give you a baby. You already have a baby."
"I know," the blonde said, "but they took that baby away from me and claimed that it did not belong to me at all. I thought it would be nice to have another baby so that I could prove to them that it was mine."
Of course, the baby that had been taken away from her had not been hers, Harry thought. And the baby that was growing in her body did not even seem to be there in her mind. The girl was a strange case.
"You will have a baby soon," Harry said, trying to reassure her. "You are pregnant right now."
When he said that, he thumped on her belly as if it were a watermelon or something like that, as if he were checking to see if the fruit was ripe.
Beverly looked down at the swollen belly. Then she looked up at Harry and shook her head.
"No," she said, "I am not pregnant. They took my baby away from me."
Harry gave up trying to convince her of these obvious truths that were not at all obvious to her. He decided that this girl needed pain, needed to live through that brutal part of her history again. That was the only way that he could help her.
"Please take off your clothes," he said again.
And, this time, the girl did it without hesitation.
Harry had vowed to her that he would not fuck her, but, as she stripped, he thought of what he had planned for her and he felt that old sexual urge coming up in his head again, the one that he tried to fight down every time he was with one of his patients now. He felt it coming up and he knew that he would want to fuck her. She was a very pretty girl. But he also knew that he could not give in to these impulses. That would not be right. That would not be professional.
But she was so white and sexy with her big belly sticking out.
When she was naked, she stood before and stared at him as if she were a child, waiting for something that she did not understand.
She did not even notice the instruments of science, of torture, that surrounded her in that room. They were part of reality and this young woman had obviously given up trying to see reality, trying to understand anything that happened to her.
But she would follow orders now. Harry was certain of that.
He picked up some leather garments and handed them to Beverly.
"Please, put these on," he said.
He wanted her to dress in leather because many of the members of that murderous clan had dressed in leather when they went to kill and massacre the wealthy victims. He also wanted her to dress in leather so that she would not be naked. He did not like looking at her naked, pregnant body. Her white flesh brought back all of those feelings that he tried to suppress. It was becoming more and more difficult for him to act like a professional in these matters, when he was with his patients.
Beverly started to put the things on. Harry had to help her with the headgear. It was a leather cap that came down over her face and around her head. It had a large hold in it and she looked through that hole and breathed through that hole. Harry pulled her long, blonde hair out of another hole in the back of the headgear and the young woman looked like a teenager with a pony-tail when he did that.
She put the leather bands around her arms and pushed them high up her arms until they were tight. Then she slipped on the leather briefs that covered her soft, light-haired pussy.
Finally, she pulled on the heavy, leather boots that came up to her thighs.
When she was dressed, she stood before Harry and looked at him, seeking his approval for the way that she looked in leather.
But Harry did not give Beverly his approval. That was not part of his plan. Instead, he took her hand and led her to the device that he had chosen just for her. It was similar to one that he had seen in the newspapers, similar to one that the band of murderers had carried with them when they went to that mansion a few years before. They had used such a device on a wealthy, famous, beautiful movie star, a woman who had been pregnant at the time.
And, when Harry remembered all of that, he suddenly stopped and looked at Beverly. That was it, he thought. He had it. She would play a part in the ordeal, in the recreation of the terrible massacre, but she would play the role that her friends had played. She would be that movie star, and that way she would work out all of her guilt, all of her terrible feelings that were caused by the fantasy that she had.
She thought that she had played a part in that murder and now she would relive that murder as the victim and that way she would be able to think more clearly, to work out her fantasy guilt with real pain. But she would not have to die as the movie star had died. She would just be hurt.
And that meant that Harry would have to . be the murderous leader of the clam, the man who claimed that he was Christ, the man that his followers had worshipped so much that they were willing to kill for him.
Yes, Harry thought, it all became clear then. she saw it, she gasped. She recognized it too. "I am Sharon, " she muttered.
That was right. She had taken on the role of the movie star in her own head. Somewhere deep in her soul she understood what Harry wanted her to understand. And she was ready for the ordeal that would save her sanity and make her whole again.
The device was a block of wood with a half-circle cut out of it. Spikes were coming out of the crevice that had been formed by that circle. There was a rope at one of end of the block of wood, a rope that would be used for keep a victim on the spikes.
"Kneel over the wood, Sharon," the psychologist said.
And the blonde was so transfixed by the sight of the wood that she could not disobey him. She moved over the spikes and knelt down. One of the spikes was only about an inch from the leather-covered pussy then.
Harry grabbed Beverly's wrists and lifted would just be hurt.
And that meant that Harry would have to be the murderous leader of the clam, the man who claimed that he was Christ, the man that his followers had worshipped so much that they were willing to kill for him.
Yes, Harry thought, it all became clear then.
Then he took Beverly to the device. When she saw it, she gasped. She recognized it too.
"I am Sharon," she muttered.
That was right. She had taken on the role of the movie star in her own head. Somewhere deep in her soul she understood what Harry wanted her to understand. And she was ready for the ordeal that would save her sanity and make her whole again.
The device was a block of wood with a half-circle cut out of it. Spikes were coming out of the crevice that had been formed by that circle. There was a rope at one of end of the block of wood, a rope that would be used for keep a victim on the spikes.
"Kneel over the wood, Sharon," the psychologist said.
And the blonde was so transfixed by the sight of the wood that she could not disobey him. She moved over the spikes and knelt down. One of the spikes was only about an inch from the leather-covered pussy then.
Harry grabbed Beverly's wrists and lifted them high over her head and tied the ropes around the wrists with ease. It was then, when she was bound, when she knew that she was completely at Harry Blackstone's mercy. It was then that Beverly began to sputter.
"No," she stammered. "No. Please, don't. I have a baby."
Harry Blackstone heard that statement and smiled as he stood behind her. She was beginning to experience the kind of ordeal that that movie star had experienced. And she was beginning to get some sort of gasp on reality. But her troubles were not over yet. She was not yet cured. Harry Blackstone said nothing. He turned his back on her and walked to the wall that was near the blonde. He picked up the can of red, blood-like paint and the brush, and he quickly put the words on the white wall.
'The End Bitch," he wrote.
It was what the others had written in their victims' blood, on the walls of the mansion.
When she saw those words, Beverly screamed in fear.
"No! Don't you see! I am going to have a baby! Please, have mercy on me!"
And then Harry Blackstone knew that he had conquered some of her fantasy. She was speaking the words that that movie star might have said when she saw those words on the wall, if she was still alive when the words were painted. But she was also telling the truth about herself. She was pregnant. She was going to have a baby.
She struggled against the ropes that bound her wrists and screamed in fear.
"Please! Have mercy! Have mercy on my unborn child!"
As she struggled, the spikes bit into the leather briefs. Harry Blackstone could tell that that leather was ripping. Each rip was accompanied by another scream from the blonde who was reliving the massacre, who was seeing things for the way that they really were for the first time in years.
And Harry was surprised that he did not feel very much lust toward that blonde now. He was completely, professional, watching her and feeling proud that his theories were working again, that she was being helped.
Then he sensed that she was getting too excited. He had to remember that she was about to give birth in a few weeks. He did not want her to give birth there over the spikes.
So Harry quickly untied her hands and lifted the blonde off the spikes. He carried her to the other side of the room and gently lay her on the floor. She was still screaming.
"Please! My baby! I am going to have a baby!"
Harry held her and tried to soothe by telling her the truth about herself.
"Yes," he murmured in her ear. "You are going to have a baby, but you are not Sharon. You are Beverly. You did not do it. You did not take part in that terrible thing that was done to Sharon."
And then the blonde stopped screaming and cried, wept on his shoulder. He held her while she did that. He held her until she pushed away from him and looked up at him through her tears.
"I was not there," she said. "I did not have anything to do with that."
"Yes," he said, reassuring her and letting her know that she was finally moving into reality.
"But I am going to have a. baby," she said.
"Yes."
"I am not guilty."
"No, you are not guilty."
"I have to think of my baby. It will be a pretty baby."
"Yes, it will be a pretty baby."
The blonde was too weak with discovery to undress herself. So Harry had to her pull the leather off her pregnant, white body. He helped her strip and then he handed her a blanket to cover herself. He did not want to look at her naked body. He was afraid to do that.
He was a professional, Harry Blackstone kept reminding himself. Professionals do not get hard and want to fuck their patients. He just wanted to help this young woman. He did not want to fuck her. And he was happy that she had been helped on that first evening. She still had a long way to go, but she was also coming down the road very quickly.
With the blanket wrapped around her body, Beverly left with Harry and let him lead her to her cell, where she would stay until she was completely cured. She seemed happy, more happy and more sure of herself than she had been when she had come into that big, white house.
But Harry wanted to get away from the woman as quickly as possible. He wanted to get away from her before he forgot again that he was a professional, before he wanted to fuck her white, lovely body.
After Beverly was in her cell, Harry thought of rushing to his wife to tell Eva about his new success with Beverly. But then he remembered that he did not speak to Eva any longer. He remembered that his shame had kept him away from his giant, German wife for days.
And he could not overcome that shame right then. There was too' much of that old-fashioned, non-professional lust left in him. He closed his eyes and remembered how
Beverly had looked when she was naked, how he had yearned to put his mouth on those breasts, those nipples that had been meant for her baby.
No, he decided, even though he was still excited by his success with Beverly, the excitement was still tinged with guilt because he had been so lustful with her, -because he had been so filled with yearning for her.
He was a professional psychologist, he reminded himself again as he walked down the hallway to his study, a man of great learning, a man who was famous in his field.
And he was a married man.
He wondered what Eva was doing that night. Probably sleeping, he thought, as he glanced toward the door that led into her bedroom. Maybe fucking Juan and getting what she deserved for being such a sexy, wonderful, intelligent woman. He could not disturb that woman with his lust, even though he was her husband. He was too ashamed to do that.
Then Harry Blackstone opened the door to his study and walked in. He locked the door behind him as he had done so many nights before.
This is where he belonged, he thought, looking over the books that were placed neatly on the shelves and the papers on his desk. Here he could be alone with his work and his ambitions and his theories. And his shame.
More than anything else, he was alone with his shame.
Harry Blackstone threw himself on the sofa in his study and cried himself to sleep.
And he dreamed. He dreamed of Eva fucking that Juan, riding him and letting him ride her while Harry looked on, unable to overcome the shame that covered him like a terrible stink. He could only watch them fuck with joy and know that he would never again be able to taste the sweetness of his wife's giant body.
He woke with a start and sat up. Something wet was on his face. He tried to shove that something off and then he realized what it was. His patch. That black piece of material over his eye was wet with his own tears.
He pulled the patch off and held it in his hand and studied it. It seemed to him that, at that moment, his life was as black as that tear-wet patch, as black and as wet and as useless. He threw the patch across the floor and lay down on the couch and tried to go to. sleep again. But he would not be able to sleep, he knew because he did not want to dream again of his wife fucking that young man named Juan.