Eyes of Prey

cave, still on his hands and knees, suddenly afraid. He crawled to the dresser and reached over it, groping, found the book of matches and scuttled back to the closet, his eyes cranked wide, not handsome now, something else . . . . In the semi-dark of the closet, he struck a match and stared into the flame . . . .
    Safe. With the fire. His anger grew and darkened. Bitch. Her face flashed, and melted. Pain flared in his hand, and suddenly he was in darkness. Match gone. He struck another one. Bitch. A bed popped up, not their bed, and strange wallpaper, with fleur-de-lis, where was that? The hotel in New York. With the acid singing through him, Bekker saw himself come out of the bathroom, naked, holding a towel, Stephanie on the phone . . . . Pain in his hand again. Darkness. He dropped the match, struck a third. Bitch. Step into the bathroom to shower; when I come out, she’s already on the phone, calling her paint stripper or someone . . . .
    His mind stretched and snapped, stretched and snapped, cooled, chilled. Pain. Darkness. Another match. He wiped spittle from his chin, staring at the guttering flame. Pain. Darkness. He crawled out of the closet, the first rush going now, leaving him with the power of ice, of a glacier . . . .
    And the answer was there, in the acid flash to New York. He stood up, his mind chilled, precise. Pain in his hand. “Am I stupid?”
    Bekker walked out of the bedroom, still nude but unaware of it, down to the study, where he settled behind the big oakdesk. He opened a deep drawer and took out a gray plastic box. The tape on the front said “Bills: Paid, Current.”
    “New York, January . . .” He dumped the box on the desk and combed through the stack of paper, receipts and stubs of paid bills. After a minute he said, “Here . . .”
    The phone bill. He hadn’t called anyone, but there were six calls on the bill, New York to Minneapolis, four of them to a university extension. He didn’t know the number . . . .
    Mind like ice. Riding the speed, now. He punched the number into the desk phone. A moment later, a woman answered. “Professor George’s office, can I help you?”
    Bekker dropped the phone back on the hook, heat flushing the ice from his head. “Philip George,” he crowed. “Philip George . . .”
    There was work to do, but the drugs had him again and he sat for half an hour, rocking in the chair behind the big desk. Time was nothing in the grip of the acid . . . .
    Pain. He looked at his hand. A huge blister bubbled from the tip of his index finger. The ball of his thumb was raw, a patch of burned skin. How had he burned himself? Had there been a fire?
    He went to the kitchen, pierced the blister with a needle, smeared both the finger and the thumb with a disinfectant and covered the burns with Band-Aids. A mystery . . . And Philip George.
    Bekker pawed through the library, searching for the book. No. No. Where? Must be in the junk, must be in the keepsakes, where could she . . . Ah. Here: Faculty and Staff, University of Minnesota.
    His own face flashed up at him as he flipped through the pages, then the face of Philip George. Bland. Slightly stupid, somewhat officious, he thought. Large. Blond. Fleshy. How could she? The pain bit into his hand, and confused, he looked at his finger again. How . . . ?
    • • •
    “Carlo?”
    “God damn, I thought . . .” Druze was shocked.
    “I’m sorry, but this is an absolute emergency . . .”
    “Have you seen the television?” Druze asked.
    “Yes. And nobody has even begun to look at you. Yet. That’s why I’m calling. I found our man.”
    “Who?” Druze blurted.
    “A law professor named Philip George. We’ve got to move—you’ve seen the television.”
    “Yes, yes, where are you?” Druze asked impatiently. “Are you okay?”
    “I’m a block down the street, in the VGA supermarket,” Bekker said. He was using a convenience phone at the news-rack, and a woman customer was heading toward him with a shopping list in her hand. She’d want the phone. “I’ve checked and I’ve checked and there’s nobody with me. I guarantee it. But I’m going out the back and down the alley. I’ll be at your place sixty seconds after I hang up here. Buzz me in . . . .”
    “Man, if anybody sees you . . .”
    “I know, but I’m wearing a hat and a jacket and sunglasses, and I’ll make sure the lobby’s empty before I come in. If you’re ready for my