Page 153 of Random in Death
Every project, no matter how meticulously planned, how carefully each step is built, will have a failure. Circumstances, timing, an unanticipated event. Science learns from failures as much as from successes.
Perhaps more.
I believe the location chosen contributed to the failure. A crowded interior space. Although the first project achieved the desired results in such a space, this, due to the theater aisle, proved too constricted. And the cool temperature contributed, rather than the overwarm club, as the subject wore a jacket. This may have hindered the injection.
Yet this doesn’t explain the subject’s extreme reaction. Her screams nearly split my skull! She swung around so quickly, screaming that scream. I think she intended to strike me, and I was forced to run to my planned exit.
Accuracy, and one must be accurate, forces me to admit I was very shocked and frightened, and had to force myself not to run or look as panicked as I was when I gained the outside.
She, too, looked at me. She saw me. In this case, this is worrisome. Or was. The facts:
The theater was dark—more accurately dim, but enough. The cut of my wig obscures much of my face, and is much darker than my own hair. The trench coat obscures my build. And the subject was far too hysterical—as females tend to be—to have gotten a clear look.
I am, of course, disappointed, but only more determined. I find this setback only pushes me forward. Not only forward, but upward. The next project will succeed. The next subject will see my face clearly (and last), will know my voice. She will give me what her type refuses to give me.
The first injection will ensure that.
The second will end her.
I wonder who she’ll be. Not that her name will matter, until after, for my logs.
“That’s it? Nothing about when or where?”
“Not that I’ve found, no. I’ll keep at it.”
“Well, fuck me finally! I’m in.”
On a huff of air, McNab opened the tablet. “He had to have paid an e-geek to secure this, because it was prime work. Just standard on the school comp, and… Shit, it’s a journal. First date’s three years ago.”
“Go to the last entry.” Eve strode across the room, hovered at his shoulder.
“I’ve got it. Logged today.”
“‘Leaving now,’” Eve read. “‘It will take time to get there, and to ensure success, I need to be sure I’ve selected the most optimum location for tonight’s project.’
“Go back, go back. We need that location.”
“Wait, wait. Okay, bullshit, snotty-ass bullshit bragging.” McNab skimmed through as quickly as possible.
“Stop!” Eve ordered. “‘The first time I went to Coney Island, I was not quite five. My mother took me. I was so happy she would take me on what she called an adventure. I didn’t understand then that she met her dealer there, got high. When I got sick on the rides, she laughed and laughed. I cried.
“‘I never went back until June third of this year when I realized it would serve as the perfect place for my triumph. Since then I’ve visited that amusement park, the site of my childish humiliation, twelve times. I’ve wandered it during the day when it looks tawdry, and at night when the lights play false color and joy.’”
“What kid talks like that?” McNab wondered.
“He does. ‘I had planned to wait another week or even two before turning humiliation into triumph, but last night’s error convinces me it’s time. One must weigh the risks against the rewards.
“‘Even if she screams, as the subject did last night, who will notice? She will give me what I deserve. And then I will return the favor.’
“Coney Island. Round them up, Peabody. You’ve got the van, Feeney?”
“A van’s too slow.” Roarke pushed to his feet. “I can have a jet-copter here in minutes.”
“Where the hell would you land it?”
“There’s room on the roof.”
She thought of how much she hated flying. And thought of the traffic creeping into Brooklyn.