Chapter 8: Stephanie's story

Growing up in an upper-middle class home, one would have thought Stephanie Wilmont had everything she'd ever wanted — and perhaps she had, materially. What she'd never felt was safe.

She knew her mother loved her, at least as much as her mother seemed to be able to love anyone. Her mother would dote on the little girl and one of Stephanie's fondest memories was the look of pride on her mother's face when Stephanie won the county spelling bee in second grade. It was just about the last extracurricular activity her father had allowed the girl to participate in and the trophy was her pride and joy.

At least it was until last year when her father had smashed it into a million pieces.

From the time she turned 10, Stephanie's life revolved around school and home. Her father rarely allowed her to visit with her friends and she was never allowed to have friends visit her home. She had wanted to join Girl Scouts and 4-H, but she wasn't allowed to.

By the time she hit middle school she was ostracized by the other kids, despite her wealth and beauty. She had no close friends and no one to talk to except her mother — who had far bigger problems than hers, Stephanie believed.

So she put on a happy face at the house, unwilling to allow her unhappiness to intrude upon her mother's, and moped around school. She got good grades because she knew that was expected of her and did her best to avoid her father whenever she could.

Of course, it wasn't always possible. The time she spent with her father left her feeling sick. She hated the way he looked at her and the way he'd touch her stomach so affectionately. But she was powerless to stop him. At least he hadn't gone any farther than her stomach. The thought of him touching her breasts or privates made her physically ill.

When her mother told her to pack her stuff and that they were leaving, she thought she'd burst with joy. She didn't care where they went or if she had to work at a truck stop as a waitress. Stephanie was thrilled at the prospect of having to spend not one more day in that house.

The scene at Aunt Allison's ranged from comical to sad, but she was getting to know a side of her mother she couldn't believe existed and learning more to like about her Aunt Allison every day.

Then there was Steve. He certainly wasn't like her father. That was for sure. He didn't spend much time with her initially, but he seemed to recognize that the girl was starved for positive male attention and relented. Sure, he sometimes treated the teenager like she was a little girl, but Stephanie found she really didn't mind when he did that — although she drew the line when he offered to read her a bedtime story.

At least Steve took the rebuff in good humor. The high-fives and pats on the back he gave Stephanie when she'd help him around his house or with his studying were worth all the gold in Fort Knox to her. When he'd compliment her hair or her clothes, she practically wet herself. Why couldn't her father be like this man?

Then her father had ruined everything — again. She was sure Steve was dead on the floor when she charged into the room, and she realized that she might as well be dead too. She didn't care about her safety, or the safety of her mother and aunt, when she beat Robert to death. She was angry, pure and simple. She was filled with rage and grief and took it out on her father.

She worried that she didn't feel as badly as she should about what she'd done. She said all the right things to the therapist and police — at least she thought she had. When Steve woke up the first time and looked at her, it was all she could do not to wrap her arms around him and smother him in kisses.

Living in Steve's house had proved awkward at best. It was bad enough that Aunt Allison didn't have cable, but Steve didn't even have a TV. Who in the hell lives that way?

She'd tried to use his computer a time or two, but she found she couldn't even read the language that asked for the password, let alone figure out what the password might be. It looked like some sort of Arabic, but she didn't know for sure. As tight as he was about security — half the people in Buckley didn't lock their doors and he had a state-of-art security system — she figured if she screwed around with the computer too much she'd probably set off a nuclear attack somewhere.

She found stacks and stacks of books to read, though. So until life returned somewhat to normal, those became her companions. He had some pretty good books, too — classics, mysteries, thrillers. She found she really enjoyed Edgar Allen Poe, but the Sherlock Holmes mysteries were her favorites. She could tell from the dog-eared pages that Steve had enjoyed these stories more than once himself.

Fittingly, her favorite book was "A Catcher in the Rye." She could feel a real connection with Holden Caulfield, and she was stunned to realize it was written almost 60 years before when Steve pointed out the copyright date in the front. Then she was startled to realize the Sir A. Conan Doyle's classics and the writings of Poe were a hundred years old.

It was discussions on literature that really allowed Stephanie to open up to Steve. She was surprised to learn that Steve found a lot of Holden Caulfield in himself, too. He seemed so sure of himself — most of the time anyway.

In the first week he was home, Stephanie told Steve more about her life than she'd shared with anyone else. He was surprisingly easy to talk to and he seemed to ask better questions than her counselor did. She was glad he was more interested in the thoughts behind her feelings than her feelings themselves.

She also liked the fact that he no longer treated her like a little kid. He didn't treat her like an adult, either, but some of the stories he'd given her to read probably wouldn't have made it past her mom, if she knew.

But that was OK. She liked having a secret she could share only with him.

Jeannot Gilaumme was a chameleon. He seemed to be whatever you wanted him to be. He parlayed his good looks, charm and wealth into a jet-set lifestyle that included friends in Nice, St. Moritz, and Monte Carlo. He gave generously to charities and he would make sure he appeared at a major fund-raiser at least once per month.

He did this so no one would question from whence his wealth had come.

Gilaumme liked little girls. He had taken his obsession and turned it into a multi-million dollar enterprise. But unlike most purveyors of debauchery and pain, he refused to dwell in the slums and gutters. He hid his money in a multitude of investments and off-shore accounts, and cultivated his friends so he gave the outward appearance as a model of decorum.

But his soul was a cesspool. Far from his villa on the French Riveria, Gilaumme would spend days, sometimes weeks, raping and torturing teenaged girls. He willing put himself through the rigors of normal life so he could revert to his true form for whatever small amount of time he could make available for his pleasure.

In fact, he'd been anticipating the completion of his set when he took delivery of the little red-haired teenager next week. She was a little older than he liked, but she would do for a while. In fact, he already had her contract sold to her next owner for only slightly less than what he'd paid for her. He willed himself to make sure not to damage her too much. She was an investment after all.

When the red-head arrived, Gilaumme would have a girl from every nationality under his control — a girl with whatever features he desired. He could have a Ukrainian blonde or a Mongolian with raven hair. He could take his pick from a dark-skinned Somali or a copper-skinned Grecian. Ah, the choices he looked forward to.

Then he learned from his contact that the little red-haired girl wouldn't be arriving after all. That couldn't be allowed. She'd been bought and paid for already. It was times like this that Gilaumme was glad the law didn't apply to the rich. He immediately made arrangements for the red-haired girl to found and attained — regardless of cost.

"You're a warrior now," Steve said quietly. "Just like me. We share a bond with others like us because I was willing to kill or die for you and you were willing to kill or die for me."

The answer stunned Stephanie into silence. It wasn't the answer she was expecting when she'd ask Steve why he'd told her about parts of his life he'd kept from her mother and aunt.

"I wasn't much more than 10 years older than you the first time I killed another," he continued, choosing his words carefully. "I hesitate to call him a person or a human, because just as in your case, the term doesn't apply.

"I was outside a small village in the Middle East. It's been more than 10 years and I still remember it like yesterday. I was scared and I was so unsure that I had what it took to do it if it was necessary.

"When I saw the person trying to ambush another member of my group, I reacted just like you did. I didn't think about it or consider the options. I did what I had to do to protect someone else.

"I don't feel guilt. I don't really feel remorse. But there is a sadness. A sadness that I know what I'm capable of doing."

Stephanie nodded her head. She knew exactly what Steve felt and she was happy that someone else knew what she was feeling. She had been positive that no one would.

"It's like it was another person, not me," she said. "When everything was over — when I was sitting there looking at the room — I couldn't figure out who had done it. I looked at mom and Allison and they were just staring at me. Then I realized my hands were sweaty. But it wasn't sweat. It was blood. I had blood all over me, Steve. On my face, in my mouth. I could taste it. I could smell it. I still can sometimes. It makes me sick."