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"Oh, I'm from home, Paddy, and I'll be sending you there." He let the unconscious man slide to the floor before turning and carefully resetting the locks.
It was easy enough to drag a man of Pat's size from the back room into the main lounge. Once there, he set his valise on a table, carefully unpacked what he would need.
He tested the laser—one quick shot to the ceiling—and smiled in approval. The shackles were lightweight and fashioned from a material approved by NASA II. The 'link was heavier, loaded as it was with its maxi-battery and interfaced jammer. He found a handy outlet behind the bar and quickly set up his communications.
Humming a little, he turned the tank system to drain. It sounded like one huge and slightly clogged toilet flushing, he thought, amused, then walked back to kick Pat sharply in the ribs.
Not a stir, not a whimper.
With a sigh he bent down, efficiently checking vital signs. The man was stinking drunk, he realized. And he'd used too much of the tranq. Vaguely irritated by the miscalculation, he took a pressure syringe filled with amphetamine
and jabbed it against Pat's limp arm.
There was barely a stir, hardly a whimper.
The anger built quickly, until he shook with it. "Wake up, you bastard." Rearing back, he slapped Pat's face, front handed, then back, over and over. He wanted him awake and aware for all of it. When the slaps didn't work, he used his fists, pummeling until blood spurted and soaked his gloves.
Pat only moaned.
His breathing was ragged now, his eyes beginning to sting with tears. He only had two hours, for God's sake. Was he supposed to work miracles? Was he supposed to think of everything?
Had God abandoned him after all, for his failures?
If it hadn't been for Dallas, he'd have finished with the pig Brian by now, and Pat would have waited another day or two. Another day or two to observe more closely his habits and patterns and he wouldn't have been in such a hurry to put him under.
He heard a crash, blinked dully. He realized he'd thrown a chair and broken the mirror behind the bar.
Well, so what? It was just a filthy sex club in a filthy city. He'd like to destroy it, to smash every glass, set fire to it, watch it burn.
Christ Himself had destroyed the marketplace, hadn't he? In righteous anger at the moneylenders, the harlots and sinners.
But there wasn't time. That wasn't his mission.
Pat Murray was his mission tonight.
Resigned, he picked up the laser. He'd just have to remove the eye while Pat was unconscious. It didn't matter, he decided, and bent to his work. There would be plenty of fun after that. More than enough entertainment.
It pleased him that he removed the eye so neatly, so efficiently. Like a surgeon. The first time he'd been sloppy. He could admit that now. His hand had shaken, and nerves had screamed. Still he'd done it, hadn't he, as he'd been bidden. He'd finished what he started. And he would finish it all. Finish them all.
He took a moment to slip the organ into a small bottle of clear fluid. He would have to leave this one behind, of course. He'd accepted that too. If the plan was to move forward, he wouldn't be able to add Pat Murray's eye to his collection.
It was enough to have taken it. An eye for an eye.
Pat began to moan again as he dragged him to the tank. "Ah, now you wake up, you drunken sinner." Sucking in his breath, he heaved Pat over his shoulder and, with the shackles dangling over his arm, climbed the ladder.
He was proud that he was strong enough to do this, carry a grown man on his back. He hadn't always been so fit. He'd been sickly as a child, puny and weak. But he'd been motivated to change that. He'd listened to what he was told, did what was necessary. He'd exercised both body and mind until he was ready. Until he was perfect. Until the time was right.
Inside the empty tank he laid Pat down, took a small diamond bit drill from his pocket. He hummed a favorite hymn as he punched the small holes into the tank floor. He fit the shackles onto clamps, tested them by standing and pulling with all his strength. Satisfied they wouldn't give, he turned to remove Pat's clothing.
"Naked we're born and naked we die," he said cheerfully, then locked the shackles over Pat's thin ankles. He studied the battered face, noted the slight flicker of the eyelid. "How loud will you scream for mercy, I wonder?"
He slipped a token from his pocket, then dropped it with a clink on the floor of the tank. The statue of the Virgin Mother was kissed reverently then affixed to the floor facing the sinner.
"Do you remember me, Paddy?"
There was red-hot pain and stomach cramping nausea as Pat swam toward consciousness. He groaned with it, whimpered, then screamed.
"Oh Jesus, sweet Jesus, what is it?"
