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No one saw the real person, and that had always hurt and infuriated. Now it became a plus, an asset, even a weapon.
Of course, it was a long, cold walk, but “careful” was the watchword. When it was done, just leave, walking in the same direction, turn at the corner, turn at the next, and the next.
Zig, then zag, then zig again. Stay away from storefront security cams.
Go in easy, leave easy.
And all the rest in between? Exciting, fulfilling. Just inspired.
Didn’t they say third time’s the charm? Maybe this one, this third one, would show Eve the value of friendship, the importance. The next time she stood before the cameras there would be acknowledgment, and that signal. That look in her eye that spoke, secretly, of unity and appreciation.
It wasn’t too much to expect.
Maybe this third one should be awake when it happened. Tape his mouth, his hands, keep him lightly stunned, but not out cold.
It would be a different experience, and so much of life was just routine, just do what had to be done—without any genuine reward.
This one, this third one, could hear the litany of his crimes and offenses before the ice pick stabbed through his eye, into his brain.
The eye for this one rather than the tongue—though he had a nasty, nasty tongue. Symbolic again. Surely Eve would recognize that, appreciate that. And show that appreciation.
Still, if he moved around too much, it could affect the aim, and that was a factor. But it could be worth it. Take a little more time with this, the third. The charm. More time wi
th a man who’d insulted, demeaned, assaulted—verbally and physically—a woman who was his superior in every way.
As was the person who’d bring him to true justice. His superior, just like Eve.
Just like her.
And Eve would appreciate the time taken—it was, in a way, like reading him his rights. It made it more official, didn’t it—maybe that was what was missing, what Eve wanted. Yes, recite the Revised Miranda, just as Eve would do, list the offenses, as Eve would do.
Then do what only Eve’s true friend and partner could do.
Punish the guilty.
He’d be working late in his studio tonight—alone. He was a man who disliked company, who held people in contempt, though he made his living immortalizing them.
Approach the building without rush—just doing a job, getting in the last delivery of the day.
Make certain ground-floor retail space is closed for the night. Excellent. Scan the two-tiered parking level—the cams were for show because kids kept zapping them anyway.
Second-floor gallery, also closed. Perfect.
Lights glinting against the privacy screens on the third-level studio, the apartment above.
But he’d be in the studio. Wouldn’t like being disturbed, especially from the outside stairs.
But this was a special delivery.
Start up, nobody watching. Shoes quiet on the iron stairs, the coat almost blending into the building. Just dark enough now, and everyone below bundled against the cold, hurrying to get someplace else, somewhere inside, in the warm.
And here we go!
Press the buzzer on the third floor. Angle the box in case any of the cams work.
Careful. Thorough.
Press it again, hold it down. Be patient. Be insistent. Just doing the job, just want to get home like everybody else. Last delivery of the day.
