Eyes of Prey

somebody wanted to get in and touch a body, or look at its eyes . . . he could do it. If you didn’t have some warning.”
    The funeral home man shrugged. “No theory about it—sure he could. No problem. But what can you do to a dead man in two minutes?”
     
    Lucas kept a handset stashed under the seat, and Del caught him halfway back into the loop.
    “Something’s happened with Druze,” Del said. “He’s gone. The surveillance guys swear there was no way he got out of the building, but he doesn’t answer his phone and he’s late for rehearsal.”
    “What do you think? Check his apartment?”
    “I don’t know. I thought we’d wait a while longer . . . . We’ve been calling every two or three minutes, so it’s not like he’s on the can.”
    “Keep watching. I’ll come on up.”
    He didn’t think of her, not right away. The traffic was heavy on Minnehaha Avenue headed north and he was stuck for three blocks behind a dump truck that resisted all of his attempts to pass. Cursing, he finally got around it, and got the finger from a scowling, long-haired truck driver. He hit three red lights in a row, and then she popped up in his mind. Same building. A chill ran through him, and he picked up the handset and called through to Del.
    “I have a friend in that building. She’s an actress with the same theater Druze is at,” he said. “Would you call her?”
    “Sure . . .”
    Lucas could see the apartments along I-94, six blocks from the theater, when Del called back. “No answer.”
    “Shit.” Lucas glanced at his watch. She should be at the theater. “Could you call the theater, ask for her?”
    He was on Riverside, hurrying now, weaving through traffic. He jumped a light, scared a drunk and a student, saw the apartment building ahead.
    “Lucas, we called, and she hasn’t shown up.”
    “Ah, Jesus, listen, I gotta check on her. We’ve been talking about the case . . . .”
    “I’ll meet you out in front. I’ve talked to the manager a couple of times.”
     
    Del was walking across Riverside when Lucas arrived. Lucas dumped the car and met him on the sidewalk.
    “Anything?”
    “No. I called the manager, she should be . . . There she is.”
    The manager was holding the lobby door, and Del introduced Lucas. “This is not official,” Lucas said. “She’s a personal friend of mine, she’s had some serious problems, and she hasn’t shown up at work. We’re worried.”
    “Okay. Since you’re the police.”
    They rode up to the sixth floor in silence, listening to the elevator rattle against the sides of the shaft, watching the numbers click on the counter. There was nobody in the corridor outside Cassie’s apartment. Lucas knocked on her door. Nothing. Knocked again.
    “Open it,” he said to the manager, stepping back. She fitted her key to the lock and pushed the door open. Del shoved past Lucas. An odor filled the small front room . . . .
    “You stay right fuckin’ here, Lucas,” Del shouted. He grabbed him by the collar and pulled him out of the doorway, and held the woman back with the other hand. “You stay right fuckin’ here . . . .”
    Del headed for the bedroom. Lucas pushed past the bewildered woman, right behind him.
    Cassie.
    Her face was turned away. He knew, but he thought Maybe she’s  . . . But the blood was all over the bed, and when he stumbled up to it, and saw her eyes . . . and the huge red gash under her chin, cutting through layers of tape . . . and Druze on the floor beside her, blood everywhere . . .
    Somebody moaned, a long, horrible, low-pitched sound, and he realized that it was coming from his own throat, and he reached out and touched her . . . .
    “Cassie . . .” He screamed it, and Del pivoted, grabbed him by the jacket and pushed him away like a linebacker working a blocking sled. Del himself screamed, “No, no, no . . .”
    The manager, hands clenched in front of her, looked through the bedroom door and then staggered backward, still looking, her mouth hanging open. She ran to the doorway and began retching, and screaming, and retching again, and the stink of vomit overlay the smell of the butchery inside the bedroom . . . .
    Lucas strained against his friend, and Del said, “Stay the fuck out, Lucas, stay the fuck out, we need to process, Lucas she’s dead, Lucas she’s dead . . . .” He pushed Lucas into a chair and picked up the phone.
    “We got another one. We need