Page 154 of Random in Death
“Do it. Peabody, get some uniforms to sit on this place, and call the sweepers to process every-damn-thing and start transporting to the lab. Move it and do it.”
“Moving and doing.”
“Feeney.”
“I’ll get some boys down here to haul in the e’s. We’re with you.”
Good, she thought as she ran up the stairs. Coney Island wasn’t a crowded theater. It was acres. Boardwalk, beaches, rides, arcades.
But now, she was the hunter.
Chapter Twenty-one
Francis Bryce knew he looked, in the vernacular, frosty. The hair, the shades, the clothes. He’d even worn the trench because he thought it added a little cachet.
Maybe the shoes had rubbed blisters on his heels, his toes, but that was the price he had to pay to blend in with the masses.
And he’d treated them, applied NuSkin.
He’d planned tonight so well, every step. He’d done his research, his due diligence, calculated the timing.
When he thought of the humiliation and ridicule he’d suffered here as a child, it seemed all the more vital he experience his triumph as a man in this place.
He had Seal-It for his hands. He’d taken a couple of his father’s condoms. It wouldn’t do to leave any of his DNA in or on the lucky slut he chose tonight.
As an added precaution he’d walked a full ten blocks from home before hailing a cab. He’d had the cab take him as far as SoHo before getting out, walking again, then hailing another to take him into Brooklyn.
Another walk, a third cab to Coney Island.
Not that the police had the slimmest clue, but 28.35 grams of prevention equaled 0.4536 liters of cure.
He’d do the same on his return. No public transportation, with their intrusive cameras.
Even with walking and switching cabs, he arrived at the amusement park before dark.
Understanding the value of blending in, he bought a Coney Island dog, a fizzy. Disgusting, of course, though he had to admit the first bite was delicious. Still, by the time he’d walked, wandered, and finished the dog, he felt vaguely nauseated.
His mother had bought him a dog on that long-ago visit. And blue cotton candy.
Sit on that bench, Francis. Sit right there like a good boy and eat your candy. Mommy just needs to talk to this man for a minute. Then we’ll ride all the rides!
Her dealer, he thought, though he hadn’t known that at the time. He’d sat, obedient, and fascinated by the texture of the blue fluff on the paper cone.
He found that taste so sweet, sting-his-teeth sweet, but ate it anyway.
Then she’d been so bright and happy. High as Ben Franklin’s kite. He’d ridden kiddie rides. Some she could ride with him, and did with her hair blowing while she went Wooo!
Then the bumpy cars, the revolving carousel, the spinning teacups, the swaying mini-Ferris wheel, the rocking rocket ships had combined to purge his stomach.
Other kids had giggled or made noises of disgust. And his mother had laughed and laughed.
Oh, Francis, isn’t that just like you! Puking up a fun afternoon.
He’d never gone on an amusement ride again.
Until.
Now dusk settled at last, and those of his age group began filtering in. For the most part, his on-site research proved, afternoons were for kids with their nannies or grannies or a parent or two. Families—a lot of tourists there who took selfies in front of the classic Wonder Wheel.