"Do I know you? Are you from home?" Pat took the offered hand and never even felt the slight pinch as he pitched forward.
"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?"
"Retribution."
Sobbing, Pat pushed a hand to his face, trying to cover the worse part of the agony. And he found what had been done to him and wailed. "My God, my eye, my God, I've lost my eye."
"It's not lost." Now he laughed, laughed so hard he had to hold his sides. "It's on the table out there."
"What's happening? What's done?" Desperate and cold sober, Pat dragged at the shackles. Pain boiled through him like acid. "You want money, they don't leave anything after closing. I don't have the code for the lock box. I'm just the janitor."
"I don't want money."
"What do you want? What have you done to me? Oh, sweet Mary. What do you want?"
"Don't use her name." Fired again, he struck Pat hard in the face with a balled fist. "I don't want her name in your filthy tongue. Use it again, and I'll cut it out of your sinful mouth."
"I don't understand." Pat wept it. The blow had knocked him to his knees. "What do you want from me?"
"Your life. I want to take your life. I've waited fifteen years and it's tonight."
Tears swam out of the eye he had left and the pain was a hideous thing. But still he swung out, tried to grab a leg. When his fingers swept air, he tried again, cursing now, threatening, weeping.
"This would be fun, but I have a schedule." He moved to the ladder, climbed nimbly while Pat's pleas and threats echoed up to him. "It'll take nearly an hour for the water to cover your head at the speed I'll use. An hour," he repeated, grinning at Pat through the glass wall as he climbed down. "You'll be nearly insane by then. The water will rise, inch by inch. Ankles, knees, waist. You'll be straining against the shackles until your ankles are raw and bleeding and burning but it won't help. Waist, chest, neck."
Still smiling he turned to the controls, adjusting until the water poured through the side channels.
"Why are you doing this, you bloody bastard?"
"You have nearly an hour to think about that."
He knelt, crossed himself, folded his hands, and offered a prayer of celebration and gratitude.
"You're praying? You're praying?" Struggling to focus, Pat stared at the statue of the Virgin as the water rose over her robes. "Mother of God," he whispered. "Dear Mother of God." And he prayed himself, as fiercely, as fervently as he ever had in his life. If she would intercede on his behalf, he would swear by her mercy never to lift a bottle to his lips again.
For a silent five minutes, the supplicates, one in the tank, one outside it, mirrored each other.
Then one rose lightly and smiled. "It's too late for prayers. You've been damned since you sold a life to a devil for profit."
"I never did. I don't know you." The water licked slyly at his knees, urging Pat to struggle up. "You've got the wrong man."
"No, you're just one ahead of schedule." Because he had time before he needed to make the necessary calls, he went behind the bar and helped himself to a soft drink as Pat shouted and begged for mercy. No spirits had ever passed his lips.
"I hope you remember me before you're dead, Pat. I hope you remember who I am and who I come from."