Prodigal Son

please. I have plenty of money I can receive the finest care and rehabilitation. Help me dispose of… of what's in the freezers, everything incriminating, let me live, and I'll make you rich."
        The New Race was not motivated by money. Jonathan pretended otherwise. "I know the depth of your resources. Maybe we can strike a bargain, after all."
        "Yes, we can, I know we can," Pribeaux said weakly but eagerly
        "But right now," Jonathan said, "I want you to be quiet. I've got work to do, and I don't want to have to listen to your whining. If you stay quiet, we'll bargain later. If you speak once, just once, I'll kill you. Do you understand?"
        When Pribeaux tried to nod, he couldn't.
        "All right," said Jonathan. "We're on the same page."
        Pribeaux bled from his shattered wrist, but slowly and steadily rather than in arterial spurts.
        With a new eyedropper that he had purchased in the same drugstore where he'd bought the comb, Jonathan suctioned blood from the puddle on the floor. He transferred a few ccs at a time to a little glass bottle that he had also brought with him.
        Pribeaux's eyes followed his every move. They were moist with self-pity, bright with curiosity, wide with terror.
        When he had filled the small bottle, Jonathan screwed a cap on it and stowed it in a jacket pocket. He wrapped the bloody eyedropper in a handkerchief and pocketed that, as well.
        Quickly he searched the kitchen drawers until he found a white plastic garbage bag and rubber bands.
        He slid the bag over Pribeaux's damaged left arm and fixed it tightly above the elbow with two rubber bands. This would make it possible to move the man without leaving a blood trail.
        Effortlessly, Jonathan lifted Pribeaux and put him on the floor near the dinette set, out of the way.
        He cleaned the blood from the white ceramic tiles. Fortunately, Pribeaux had sealed the grout so effectively that the blood did not penetrate.
        When he was certain that not one drop or smear of blood remained and that no other evidence of violence could be found in the kitchen, he bagged the paper towels and other cleanup supplies in another garbage bag, knotted the neck of it, and secured it to his belt.
        At the desk in the living room, he switched on the computer. He chose a program from the menu and typed a few lines that with great thought he had earlier composed.
        Leaving the computer on, Jonathan went to the front door, opened it, and stepped onto the roomy landing at the head of the stairs that served Pribeaux's loft. He stood listening for a moment.
        The businesses on the first floor had closed hours ago. Pribeaux didn't seem to have friends or visitors. Deep stillness pooled in the building.
        In the apartment again, Jonathan lifted Pribeaux and carried him in his arms as though he were a child, out to the landing.
        In addition to stairs, the apartment was served by the freight elevator that was original to the building. With an elbow, Jonathan pressed the call button.
        Pribeaux's eyes searched Jonathan's face, desperately trying to read his intent.
        Aboard the elevator, still carrying the paralyzed man, Jonathan pressed the number 3 on the control panel.
        On the flat roof of the former warehouse were storage structures that required elevator service.
        When Pribeaux realized they were going to the roof, his pale face paled further, and the terror in his eyes grew frenetic. He knew now that there would be no bargain made to save his life.
        "You can still feel pain in your face, in your neck," Jonathan warned him. "I will cause you the most horrific pain you can imagine, in the process of blinding you. Do you understand?"
        Pribeaux blinked rapidly, opened his mouth, but dared not speak a word even of submission.
        "Excruciating pain," Jonathan promised. "But if you remain silent and cause me no problem, your death will be quick."
        The elevator arrived at the top of the building. Only orange light of an early moon illuminated the roof, but Jonathan could see well. He carried the killer to the three-foot-high safety parapet.
        Pribeaux had begun to weep, but not so loud as to earn him the unendurable pain that he had been promised. He sounded like a small child, lost and full of misery.
        The cobblestone alleyway behind the warehouse lay forty feet