Artist Read Online Free PDF

doting mother and alcoholic father, Watt spent the better part of his youth wandering the streets of one capital or another. His father, an engaging industrialist with a taste for good bourbon and violence, was a monster. Thankfully, he was gone most of the time, only returning to beat his son, or his wife, or both of them together. At 10 years old Watt realized his mother bordered on the feeble minded, a weak woman, easily manipulated. Or perhaps his father made her that way. Growing up, he was drawn to gritty streets, the back alleys where the only rules were to survive, take what you want, and leave the weak to suffer from their own inadequacy. He was a good student, making his way through a top school in Paris, where he spent his days at University earning good grades and the respect of his professors while ravaging the prostitutes he found in the littered streets.
    His first kill was a young American he found standing at the gate to Pere Lachaise cemetery. She was clutching a map, a confused look on her face. He smiled at her. The friendly smile gave her the confidence to approach him, map in hand. She was looking to visit the grave of Jim Morrison, couldn’t find it, could he help?
    “Certainly,” he said. He had a vision of her slender neck twisting under his hands. “Head straight up this street, take the first two right turns, then the first left. It’s a little off to the side. You’ll see the barricades. They fence it off to keep people from damaging it anymore.”
    “Thanks. I’m not good with maps.” She was a small girl, slightly built, wearin g a yellow tank top and jeans. She was also talkative now that the ice was broken. “This is my first trip to Paris and all my friends said I had to come see the grave and take pictures. I’m not a big Doors fan though.”
    “Everyone is a fan of The Doors,” Watt said. “At least t he tourist industry in Paris is. Lots of people come just to see his grave. Come on, I’ll show you where it is. I have the day off anyway. Where else have you been?”
    It was just that easy. She was a young and naïve young traveler with wealthy parents and no street smarts. The Paris trip was a graduation gift. He spent the day with her, taking in the Eiffel Tower, the Old Paris streets of Rue Clere, and the bustling shopping district around the Arc de Triomphe, walking the twelve radiating streets among throngs of tourists and vendors and merchandise peddlers. They ate lunch on Boulevard Housmann, dinner on Boulevard de Charrone at a small café where the waiter had excellent manners, and a generous hand with the wine. The neighborhood clattered around them. He paced himself. She drank freely. He offered to walk her back to her hotel. She accepted.
    The killing was easy, the sex afterward delightful. When it was finished he stroked her hair, took a shower in the small room, let it run while he rummaged through her things. He took the money, left the rest. He had plenty of money but there was no use leaving it behind. Before he left he bent over the bed where the girl lie sprawled, eyes staring at a ceiling she wouldn’t see again, and kissed her on the forehead. “I hope you enjoyed your trip to Paris,” he whispered in her ear. “C’est la vie.”
    Four years and some number of dead women women later he left Paris with a degree in European history, took a job in the United States at the University of New Orleans, a young and growing commuter college in a city with deep connections to France. His pedigree was perfect, his personality pleasing. The University was happy to have him and he was happy to be surrounded by flocks of young and eager minds with lithe bodies and the easygoing party atmosphere of the Crescent City. Perfect.
     
    For Victor Watt, who now saw himself as The Artist, Cindy Kelt was the next step in the evolution of his art. The spontaneous killings of opportunity had to end. He was a respected professor in a growing college. He had too much to lose now.