Obliterating Any Blood Evidence.

Carlton Scythe didn't waste any time. In order to temporarily stop the bleeding, he tore a strip from his shirt and used it to bandage his thumb. After that, he cleaned frantically at the blood on the wall and floor. He looked for a method to remove any evidence of his presence because he knew that DNA might be extracted by contemporary forensic technology even from surfaces that had been cleansed.

Never thinking he'd need it for a theft, he left the apartment and went down the corridor toward a laundry room he'd seen on the plan.

He investigated three doors, unsure of its precise placement, a risky move because anyone could be hiding behind them. Fortunately, he was able to locate the dryer and washing machine without any problems. The psychological curse that had plagued him since the Ivory Tower had been sufficiently punished by the guard.

The bleach was hidden from view. With each cabinet he unlocked, Carlton Scythe ran the risk of setting off alarms. The fourth gave up his reward. He grabbed the bottle with his gloved right hand, the unhurried one, and ran back.

He sprayed bleach on the wall and floor, erasing any traces of blood. He threw the empty bottle next to the guard after the purge was over and went back to work.

With renewed speed and accuracy, he manipulated the wires without making any mistakes as he removed the electronics box plate once more. He disconnected the safe from its security system, grateful for this lucky break. He was no longer afraid to open it now.

As he listened for the clicks that indicated a correct number, his ears were filled with his racing heart. His joy increased with each accomplishment since he was getting closer to the money, the target set by his employers.

Then came the last click, the last roar of this metal beast, a cry of victory and liberation. Carlton Scythe froze after effortlessly opening the safe. He had been tricked. Two or three million, judging by the appearance, peered back at him, far more than half a million. He lacked the tools necessary to extract such a haul. He would need to make several dangerous visits to his escape car. They had misled him. He might be caught for it. And that would really make him angry.

Martin Wilkerson found it difficult to remember what had transpired. His thoughts became blank. He recalled a guard, a judge, and then nothing. There was a problem.

"Martin Wilkerson, can you recall what transpired prior to our discovery of you in the corridor?" The judge asked straightforward questions.

"I'm not sure. Actually, I don't. Why? Why am I unable to recall? Then he screamed defiantly, "What's happening to me! I can't remember what took place! What's the matter with me? He broke down, tears running down his cheeks. He had never felt so alone and hopeless—no support, no help. He could no longer be anchored by arithmetic, physics, or knowledge. He was unable to concentrate on anything.

His mind was a whirlpool of fragmented, unfinished thoughts. Every time he tried to think of something coherent, he felt exhausted and lightheaded. To persuade people, he had always exaggerated his insanity, making himself seem normal to outsiders. He appeared really insane now.

“You know who I am, Martin Wilkerson?”

Judge. Why? We are on our way to the sun. I feel like I'm going totally crazy. Please assist me.

"Martin Wilkerson, I'm trying, but you have to help."

"I'm attempting to assist, but it appears that I've lost my pencil."

Martin Wilkerson, you were never given a pencil. Tell me what you recall now, please.

"Gun! Light! Cutlery! Quick! A shot! Anguish! Kick! Stab! Murder! I'm dying! Scream! Automobile! Nothing! White! Hold on tight! Police! Handcuffs! Court! Be careful! Judge! Crazy! Recall! The judge interrupted him as the statements came out in quick succession.

"Listen, Martin Wilkerson. I need you to concentrate. What took place?

"A mental health facility. The psychiatric facility was a place I had to avoid. I would die—I almost died the last time. To be safe, I had to get away. I was unable to return.

"Is that the reason you struck the guard?"

"Guard? Which guard? Have I struck a guard?

"Yes, you succeeded admirably in rendering him unconscious. Would you mind sharing what transpired?

"If I could, I would, but I really can't recall."

He claims that you appeared to have wounded yourself as you were flailing about. That's why he intervened to assist.

"Watch out! I recall a guard! He was on the ground, and I turned to leave. I was at a loss for what to do. I was unsure of what to do as he was just lying there.

"Do you remember hitting him or thrashing him?"

"No, I was only thinking that someone ought to assist him after seeing him there. All I can recall is that.

"Why did you not assist him?"

"I had never witnessed a guard being knocked unconscious on the ground, so I wasn't sure what to do."

"Did you intentionally do it?"

"Do what intentionally?"

"Assault the guard."

"Did I strike the guard? I struck a guard when?

Only a few minutes ago. You fled your room after hitting him.

Which room? What made me leave?

I don't care, Martin Wilkerson. Simply return to the room. No matter what, I'll have someone lead you to the location where I want you to remain. Do you understand?

"I believe so. Simply remain where this guy instructs me to?

"Exactly. Follow his instructions, and everything will work out.

It was Carlton Scythe's second journey. His expectations were exceeded by the haul, increasing the likelihood of being caught. On his way back from his escape vehicle, he saw the guard moving, moaning in spite of the bruising on his face and the screwdriver wound in his shoulder. Carlton Scythe dressed his wounds and tied him up, unwilling to do him any further damage. A death on his conscience was the last thing he wanted.

He knew that one more trip would be plenty after his sixth. He was almost unconscious, on the verge of letting go of his curse. Freedom was calling. That's why he didn't expect more problems.

As he entered the room, he noticed that the guard had moved since he had gone. Carlton Scythe dismissed it as a mental illusion and proceeded to take money out of the safe without noticing the guard's hands coming free. It wasn't until the guard hit him from behind and viciously stabbed his kidney that he realized what had happened. Carlton Scythe immediately crumbled.

The only defense Carlton Scythe could make was to roll away from the strikes as the assault continued. Up until he pushed himself between the guard and the wall, it worked. Then things became bleak.

Carlton Scythe felt awareness slipping as the kicks became more intense. This is where I will die. My efforts will all be in vain. I can't allow that to occur. He gathered his strength and stood up, taking in the slashing blows. As the guard lunged, he pulled out the handy screwdriver and pushed it forward in one seamless move.

The impact was immediate. Blood spurted from the jagged wound as the screwdriver penetrated seven inches into the victim, causing a muffled scream to pierce the gag. Carlton Scythe quickly and precisely rebounded the guard, but this time he refused to let go.

Carlton Scythe quickly collected the remaining funds, cramming safe and floor cash into his bag. Then he closed the safe door, which was his worst mistake.

Alarms went off at once. A dual security system—one for opening and another for closing—was not what he had expected. He ought to have been prepared. He wasn't.

Carlton Scythe grabbed the bag and ran for his escape route. The alarm could not be turned off in time. The shackled guard would be found soon. They would hunt him soon. He ran along the corridor.

He was rapidly approaching as his path headed through the electronics maintenance tunnel. He had only one chance to get inside. He would have to find another way out if he missed.

"Hey, you! Just stop there! He had guards following him. To get out, he needed to get to the tunnel quickly.

As they turned the corner inside the escape room, Carlton Scythe knocked over chairs and desks, blocking the way. They knew where he was and could catch him if he wasn't swift and careful, so every second mattered.

He ran to the dangerous portion, the corner where the maintenance shaft joined the wall. He would be stuck if they broke in while he was climbing. To get out of sight, he had to climb the upward-sloping shaft and round the bend.

Wincing from his previous pounding, he leaped onto a desk for support and then dived into the open hole. As guards barged in, he clambered up the slope, negotiating the strewn-about furnishings. Unfortunately, as he turned the corner, they noticed him. They might catch him if they chase him soon. To stop that, he had to do something.