Eyes of Prey

Bekker didn’t know how they knew, but they did, and they’d be watching.
    A camera in the corridor? Unlikely. If the cops were secretly watching Druze, they wouldn’t do anything that might call attention to themselves. His mind equivocated: the woman had seen him, so he’d have to do her. But he hadn’t exposed himself to any watching cops yet, and he might be about to do that. His mind worked at it, and finally told his body to go ahead. To risk it. There was no other way, if the cops were this close to Druze. He opened the door and peeked out: the third-floor corridor was empty. He pulled up his rain hood, hurried to Druze’s door and, about to knock, reconsidered. If the apartment was bugged . . .
    He scratched on the door. Heard movement inside. Scratched again. A moment later, the door opened a crack and Druze peered out. Bekker put a finger over his lips for silence and gestured for Druze to step into the hallway. Druze, frowning, followed, looking up and down the hall. Bekker, finger back on his lips, pointed to the door of the stairwell.
    “I can’t explain it all right now, but we got a problem,” he whispered when they were on the stairs. “I talked toDavenport and he said they had a suspect but no evidence. I asked how they were going to catch him, and he said, ‘We’ve got to catch him in the act.’ And the way he said it, it sounded like a pun he was making to himself . . . .”
    “Aw, shit,” Druze said, worried. “What happened to your hand?”
    “She bit me. Anyway, I thought I’d come over here, early enough to catch the girl, like we’d talked about . . . .”
    “We hadn’t talked about it for sure . . .” Druze said.
    “Something had to be done and I couldn’t risk calling you on the phone,” Bekker said. “You may be bugged.”
    “We don’t even know it’s me.”
    “We do now. I went up to her apartment, stuck a gun in her face and taped her up. I was planning to wait until you were at the theater, whack her on the head—you know, do it so they couldn’t separate that injury from the injuries in a fall—and then pitch her right out the window. You’d have an alibi, and nobody knows about me.”
    “What happened?”
    “The first thing she said was, ‘You’re not with Carlo?’ ” The honesty was there in his voice.
    “Aw, God damn it,” Druze said, running his fingers through his hair. “And you think the apartment may be bugged?”
    “I don’t know. But if this woman goes out the window while you’re at the theater, that’s one more piece of evidence on your side . . . . They’ll know you’re not involved, anyway . . . .”
    There was something wrong with the reasoning, but Druze, shocked, couldn’t figure it. And Bekker said, “Come on up to her apartment. You scare her. We need to find out what the cops know . . . .”
    “God, I kind of like her,” Druze said.
    “She doesn’t like you,” Bekker answered harshly. “She thinks you’re the killer.”
    • • •
    Bekker led the way quickly up the stairs, feeling the gun bang against his legs. All clear. In the apartment, he gestured at the bedroom and Druze walked back. Cassie was still facedown on the bed, but she had been struggling against the tape, which had been twisted between her legs and the bed.
    “Turn her over, so she can see you,” Bekker said, moving to Druze’s right side. Druze stooped and grabbed Cassie’s near shoulder and hip, to roll her over.
    His mind was clear as ice, his body moving with the precision of an industrial robot. Bekker pulled the pistol from his pocket—his mind watched it in slow motion, guiding each small movement of the drawing gesture—with the handkerchief-wrapped hand.
    In a single move, Bekker’s body put the muzzle an inch from Druze’s temple.
    Druze sensed the movement, started to turn his head, his mouth opening.
    Bekker pulled the trigger.
    Dropped the gun.
    Recoiled from the blast . . .
    The blast, confined in the small bedroom, was terrific, stunning. Bekker jerked back as Cassie arched up, twisting frantically at the tape.
    Druze simply collapsed, the gun disappearing beneath him.
    Cassie’s sweater was speckled with Druze’s blood and small amorphous shreds of bone and brain tissue.
    Bekker’s robot-controlled body touched Druze’s. Dead. No question of it. The drugs sang in his blood and he went away. He sighed, and came back: Jesus. He’d been gone. How long? He glanced at his watch.