Sweet Revenge thriller

Chapter Twenty Three

FIONA, WEARING A black bra and panties leans against the wall in Patricks office, pushing herself against the wall as if trying to get further away from the pervert with his hand stretched toward her.

Patrick hands her some garments, 'Put them on.'

With my hand covering my wide opened mouth—I can hardly believing what I'm watching—as Fiona pulls on a tight fitting black frock. A cocktail frock, I think they call it, low top showing cleavage and short...several inches above her knee.

My Psychiatrist then hands her a pair of red high heels. 'Get em on babe, strut your stuff.' Fiona takes the shoes, bends down and puts them on.

He says, 'Come on, I know you're begging for it.' But she isn't. A tear falls down her cheek and she's cussing under her breath.

I go into shock. I'm not breathing, just holding my breath as I watch the man I had trusted with my mental well-being, unzip his trousers and shove his pulsating manhood out toward Fiona. I stop the video player.

Many minutes pass with my head in my hands, sobbing. Crying for Fiona, for myself and all his other naive clients. I'm disgusted. I want to run away, put my head in the sand. Leave this for the police to sort out. I start to plan how I can alert the authorities of this dastardly man. But in the end, I know I cannot or I wont be able to find out if he's my Careless Whisperer. There will be another way to get this mother-fucker, I know!

Steeling myself against emotions bubbling within, I click the video player back on and click the screen off. He's laughing, a throaty nasty chuckle. I can't believe this is my quiet and most trusted Psychiatrist. She says, 'I told you in confidence.' He answers, 'Well, now you know different. And if you don't want your husband to know your sordid dirty little secret...'

With shaking hands I stop the video again. My Psychiatrist is a Godsdammed blackmailing rapist!

I know...like I mean I know...if he suddenly turned up now, I would have lunged at him and broken several bones in his body. And then ring the police. No, I reckon I'd have another round with the degenerate first and then call the police.

This was the hardest thing for me to do, but I had to do it. I had to view another video.

One hour later and five video's I had the answer I needed. Every video was the same. He had blackmailed each woman into having sex with him. In fact the legal term for all of them was rape...if a woman, or man for that matter, are blackmailed into performing sex it is deemed rape.

Every part of my body screams, 'this pervert needs stopping.' I have to do something and for the next few hours I mull over how I could teach this motherfucker a lesson.

* * *

I try to sleep but the anguish I feel for those poor women has unleashed something within me. I toss and turn and every time I think sleep is one short breath away I jerk up, sprung like a cork screw.

I can't help myself. The fire in my belly burns and takes over my very soul. I have to do something. Now! And before I've even got my brain into gear...like what the hell will I do to him when I get to his apartment I'm dressed in a navy blue long sleeved Marino jumper and I insert large pads in the shoulders. I match my look with dark jeans, black sneakers and I've got the black balaclava from my bottom drawer. I tremble as I pull it over my face, obscuring everything apart from my eyes. I had purchased the head gear a month after the massacre. I thought if I put it on, checked it out in the mirror I could compare my figure to the masked man with the gun. And now, thanks to the girl in the dark room, I can remember there were two of them. And, to a degree it worked. I know the gunmen to be taller and stockier than myself which to me, suggests they were both men. And in all fairness, when they opened their mouths their voices appeared to be male. But, I knew that could have been because they were using a voice changer device. And thank the Lords, well, The Hulk, I have one of those as well and I'd be bloody well using it tonight.