Eyes of Prey

done with a knife just like that one, a scalpel. Is that a scalpel, Mike?”
    Bekker stood speechless, the words bouncing through his brain, GOT YOU FOR THE KIDS, TOO, and Davenport moved in on him. One of the other cops, a thin man, said, “Be cool,” but Bekker had no idea what that meant.
     
    Lucas moved in on him, the pistol in his hand. Bekker was startlingly beautiful in the soft light coming off the rose plaster, a violent contrast to the leathery patchwork face of the man behind him.
    Lucas’ mind was pure ice: he could do anything when his mind was like this, he thought. Some of it was the speed. He’d been up three days now, but felt awake and in control, sharp, as sharp as he ever had. He reached Bekker, brushed past him,ignoring the scalpel, stretched past him, lifted Druze’s eyelids with his left hand, just as Bekker had. Bekker turned away.
    Lucas, ice, stepped away from the coffin and glanced at Sloan.
    “Cut them right through. Want to take a look?”
    Lucas was crowding Bekker with his hip, and Bekker tried to move back, letting the scalpel slip from his fingers as he moved. It bounced off the deep carpet, the blade pointing at him like a steel finger.
    “Got them both—really did a job,” Sloan said, bending over Druze’s body.
    “What I want to know,” Lucas said to Bekker in a conversational tone, “is why you killed Cassie Lasch. Why’d you have to do that? Couldn’t you just have done Druze? Just gone in there, stuck the gun in his ear and pulled the trigger? You could have stashed the photos anyway and we’d have gotten the point . . . .”
    Bekker’s mouth was open, but no sound came out.
    “I need an answer,” Lucas said.
    “Cool,” said Sloan, catching his coat sleeve.
    “Fuck cool,” said Del, moving up on the other side of Bekker. He put his face four inches from the other man and said, “I knew Stephanie longer than you did, Mike. Loved that girl. So you know what?”
    Bekker, caught between Lucas and Del, shrinking back against the wall, still didn’t answer.
    “You know what?” Del screamed, his eyes wide.
    “Hey, now,” said the Intelligence cop. He had Del by the coat.
    “What?” Bekker croaked, half under his breath.
    “I’m going to beat the snot out of you, m’boy,” Del said. His right hand came around in an arc and hit Bekker in the nose. Bekker slammed against the wall, his nose broken, blood gushing down his chin. He put his arms up, crossed his face.
    “Wait,” Sloan yelled. He tried to step around Lucas, but Lucas pushed him; and before Sloan could recover, Del hit Bekker twice more, once with each hand, evading Bekker’s feeble block. Bekker’s head snapped back twice more, the back of it knocking the wall like a judge’s gavel, and another cut opened on his eyebrow. The Intelligence cop was on Del’s back, and Sloan wrapped him from the front and pushed him away. Bekker was moaning, one hand cupping his nose, a high, dying sound: “Eeeee . . .”
    “That’s enough, that’s enough!” Sloan screamed. They hauled Del back, and Bekker dropped one of his covering hands.
    “No, it’s not,” Lucas said quietly. He was less than an arm’s length from Bekker. Sloan and the Intelligence cop were struggling with Del but looking toward Lucas.
    The pistol came around like a whip, the front sight leading the arc.
    “ ’Member Cassie, motherfucker?” Lucas said, the words as much a groan as a scream. Saliva sprayed into Bekker’s face, and Lucas had him by the throat with his left hand. Bekker had time only to flinch before the sight sliced across his cheek and the side of his nose. A ragged furrow opened in its wake. Bekker grunted from the impact, a pain like fire ripping through his face.
    Lucas, precise, quick, moving with the easy coordination of a speed-bag man, hit Bekker with the gun a dozen times, leading with the sight.
    Ripped his forehead, twice, three times, opened his eyebrows, carved bloody canyons across his nose, the left cheek, then the right, sliced through his lips, his hands a blur . . .
    Sloan hit Lucas in the back, wrapped up one arm. Lucas flailed with the pistol, a last wild swing ripping across Becker’s chin, opening the flesh as effectively as a chainsaw.
    Lucas, mind blank, focused, could barely feel Sloan’s arms binding him, barely feel the Intelligence cop sweeping him offhis feet, barely feel the uniforms barreling into the room, pinning him.
    Even as he went down, his eyes were focused