Eyes of Prey

get off the street,” Bekker said. His body was stiff as marble, betraying nothing, but his mind was working feverishly: They knew about Carlo. Christ, were they watching him?They must be. Bekker gestured with the tip of the barrel. “Lie down on the floor. On your stomach. Put your hands behind you.”
    “Don’t hurt me,” she said again. She slipped off the couch onto her knees, her eyes large. She was getting old, Bekker’s mind thought: she had tiny wrinkles around her eyes and on her forehead.
    “I’m not going to hurt you,” his body said woodenly. He’d thought about this, what to say. He wanted her reassured, he wanted her to go along. “I’m going to tape your hands behind you. If I were going to hurt you, if I were going to rape you, I wouldn’t do that . . . . I wouldn’t put your hands under you . . . .”
    She wanted to trust him. She turned, looking over her shoulder, and lay down. “Please . . .”
    “The gun will be pointing at your head,” he said. “I tried your neighbor first, but she wasn’t home—so I know I could get away with a shot, if I had to . . . . I don’t want to risk it, but I will if you try to fight. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
    “Yes.”
    “Then put your face down on the floor, straight down, and cross your hands. I’ll be taping with one hand. The gun’s still pointing at you.”
    She did it: the marvelous power of the gun. She rolled, her hands behind her, and he awkwardly turned a wrap of the two-inch plastic packaging tape around her wrists, then another, then a third.
    “Don’t move,” he said. He didn’t say it viciously, but his tongue was thick, slurring the words. That was more frightening than if he’d been screaming at her . . . . He did her ankles, more quickly now that her hands weren’t a threat, but still staying clear of a possible kick. When they were tight, he slipped the gun in his coat pocket and went back to her hands, added more tape, tighter now.
    “You’re hurting me,” she said.
    He grunted. No point in talking anymore. He had her. He walked around the couch, put one knee across her back to hold her flat, and slapped a palm-sized strip of tape across her mouth. She fought it, but he held her by the hair and wrapped more tape, tangling her hair across her face, plastering it to the sides of her head.
    “That should do it,” his body said, more to his mind than to her. The bottom part of her face had been encapsulated, leaving her nose and eyes uncovered. He put the tape in his pocket, grabbed her under the arms and dragged her to the bedroom. When she started struggling, he backhanded her across the nose, hard. “Don’t do that.”
    In the bedroom he laid her facedown on the bed and taped her feet to the endboard. He wrapped another length around her neck, once, twice, and led it to the headboard.
    “I’m going in the front room to watch television, see if the cops have figured me out,” he said. “I want you quiet as a mouse; you’re not hurt yet, but you will be if you cause me any trouble.”
    He closed the bedroom door and turned on the television. Now the tricky part.
     
    Cassie tried to fold her body against the tape. If she could get enough pressure, she might pull free . . . . If she could get up on her feet, even hobble, there were scissors in the bureau, and she might be able to cut the tape. And if her hands were free, she could push the bureau in front of the door and hold him off—throw something through the window, if necessary, scream for help . . . .
    But when she tried to fold herself, the tape around her neck threatened to strangle her. She pulled as long as she dared, then released the tension. The tape on her mouth kept her from gasping for the needed air and she strained to get itthrough her nose, her vision going red for a moment. No good.
    She lay still for a moment, calculating. Nobody coming over? No. If Davenport dropped in, like he had the day before . . . Fat chance. She’d have to do it on her own. She tried rolling, rocking back and forth. She was at it for a minute, two minutes, got over on her back, then another half-turn. Was the tape ripping? She couldn’t see. She pulled her arm in close to her body and tried to roll again . . . .
     
    Bekker left Cassie’s apartment door unlocked and padded down the hall to the stairs. On the way, he wrapped his right hand in a handkerchief. Druze was three floors down and the cops knew something.