Eyes of Prey

yet.”
    At Lucas’ house, in the bedroom, Cassie lay on top of him, a compact mass of muscle. She reached down and grabbed an inch of skin at his waist. “No love handles. Pretty impressive for a guy as ancient as yourself.”
    Lucas grunted. “I’m in awful shape. I sat on my ass all winter.”
    “Need a workout?”
    “Like what?”
    “No sex until you pin me for a three-count?”
    “Aw, c’mon . . .”
    “You c’mon, wimpy . . .”
    They wrestled, and after a time, but not too long, she was pinned.
     
    Beauty arrived home at about the same time. The night’s work had been both frightening and exhilarating. A disappointment in some ways, true, but then again: he could go back. He still had Sybil to do. As Lucas and Cassie made love, Bekker ate two more MDMAs and danced to Carmina Burana, bouncing around the Oriental carpet until he began to bleed . . . .

CHAPTER
25
    Lucas heard the first newspaper hit the front porch. That’d be the Pioneer Press. The StarTribune should be ten minutes later. He dozed, half listening, drifting from dream to linear thought and back to dream, dream editing reality, Jennifer and the baby, Cassie, other faces, other times. He inserted the thwap of the StarTribune; but the dream logic wouldn’t buy it, and he woke up, yawned and stumbled out to get the paper. At five-thirty it was still dark, but he could see the heavy gray clouds groaning overhead and smell the rain heavy in the air.
     
    Not responsible  . . . Lucas Smith.
    He glanced at the comics and went back to bed, falling facedown across the sheets. Cassie’s perfume lingered on them, although she’d insisted on going back to her apartment.
    “We’re getting close on the play. I shouldn’t fool around late and get up late. I have to work,” she’d said as she dressed.
    The perfume was comforting, a sign of society. He slept on her side, dreaming again, until the telephone rang. Startled, he thought, Loverboy, and rose through his dreams and snatched at the telephone, almost knocking the lamp off the bedstand.
    “Davenport.”
    “Lucas, this is Del . . .”
    “Yeah, what’s happening?” He sat up, put his feet on the floor. Cold.
    “I’m, uh, over at Cheryl’s. We were talking last night, and she told me that Bekker has been creeping around her ward. He’s been seeing a woman patient almost every day—and the thing is, this woman can’t communicate.”
    “Not at all?”
    “Not a thing. Her mind’s still okay, but she’s got Lou Gehrig’s disease and she’s, like, totally paralyzed. Cheryl says she’s got maybe a week or two to live, no more. Cheryl can’t figure Bekker—he’s not exactly the social type. Anyway, I thought it might be something.”
    “Hmph. I got a guy over there. I’ll give him a call,” Lucas said. “Are you on Druze today?”
    “Yeah, I’m about to go over.”
    “I may see you.”
    Lucas hung up, yawned, glanced at the clock. After ten, already: he’d slept more than four hours after looking at the paper. He dropped back on the pillow, but his mind was working.
    He got up, called Merriam, was told the doctor wasn’t in yet, left a message and went off to shave. Merriam called back just as he was about to leave the house.
    “There’s a woman there I’d like you to check,” he said. “Her name is Sybil . . . .”
     
    Lucas stopped at Anderson’s office first.
    “Where’s Druze?”
    “Still bagged out at his apartment.”
    At his own office, the answering machine showed two messages. Loverboy? He punched the message button as he took off his jacket.
    “ Lucas, this is Sergeant Barlow. Stop and see me when you come in, please.” God damn it, he had no time for this. If he could slip out without encountering Barlow . . . The machine clicked and started again.
    “Lieutenant Davenport, this is Larry Merriam. You better come over here right away. I’ll leave a note at the desk to send you up. Pediatric Oncology. I’ll be out in the ward. Talk to the duty nurse and she’ll chase me down.”
    Merriam sounded worried, Lucas decided. He put his jacket back on and was locking the office door when Barlow came down the steps at the end of the hall and saw him.
    “Hey, Lieutenant Davenport, I need to talk to you,” he called.
    “Could I stop up later? I’m kind of on the run . . . .”
    Barlow kept coming. “Look, we gotta get this done,” he said, his mustache bristling.
    Lucas shook him off: “I’m up to my ass. I’ll get