Eyes of Prey

lover was still at large, and was circulating an identikit picture of the man. Davenport, she said, was a genius.
    “What?” Bekker blurted, staring at the television, as though it could answer him. Could Davenport be right? Had they missed with George? He needed to think. Nothing ephemeral. Needed something to reach him, something tofocus. He opened the brass case, studied it. Yes. He lifted it to his face and his tongue flicked out, picking up the capsule the way a frog picks up a fly. Focus.
     
    The flight was not a good one. Not terrifying, like the snake, but not good. He could manage it, though, steering between the shadows where Davenport hid. Goddamned Davenport, this case should be done, he should be free . . . .
    Bekker came back, the taste of blood on his lips. Blood. He looked down, found blood on his chest again, stirred himself. He’d been away again . . . . What had happened? What? Ah . . . yes. The lover. What to do? To settle, of course.
    He staggered to his feet and wandered toward the stairs. To the bathroom, to wash. He went away, came back a few minutes later, his hand on the banister leading up the stairs, his eyes dry from staring. He blinked once. Druze had been uncharacteristically moody on the trip to Wisconsin, the trip to cut George’s eyes. Hadn’t really understood the necessity of it. Was he pulling away? No. But Druze had changed . . . didn’t have moods.
    Need to involve him again. Bekker’s eyes strayed to the phone. Just one call? No. Not from here. He must not.
    He went away once more while he groomed himself and dressed, but he could not remember the content of the trip—if there was any content—when he returned. He finished dressing, took the car out, drove to the hospital. Inside the building, he took the stairs down, hurrying, not thinking.
     
    The quickness of Bekker’s move confused the surveillance team. One of the narcs was behind him by ten seconds, walked straight down the hall past the elevators and the staircase door, which were in an alcove. And Bekker was gone. Perhaps the elevator had been waiting, ready to go? The narc hurried back outside and told the team leader, who had a cellular telephone and punched Bekker’s office number into it.
    “Can I speak to Dr. Bekker?” The team leader looked like a mail clerk, short hair, harried, gone to a little weight.
    “I’m sorry, Dr. Bekker hasn’t come in yet.”
    “I’m downstairs and I thought I saw him just a minute ago.”
    “I sit right here by the door, and he’s not in.”
    “We’ve lost him,” the narc told the rest of the team. “He’s got to be in the building. Spread out. Find him.”
     
    Bekker hurried down the steps to the tunnel that led to the next building. He stopped at a candy machine, got a Nut Goodie, then hurried on through the tunnel to a pay telephone.
    Druze was not at his apartment. Bekker hesitated, then called information and got the number for the Lost River Theater. A woman answered and, after Bekker asked for Druze, dropped the telephone and went away. Not knowing whether she was looking for Druze or simply had been exasperated by the request, Bekker stood waiting, for two minutes, then three, and finally, Druze: “Hello?”
    “You heard?” Bekker asked.
    “Are you at a safe phone?” Druze’s voice was low, almost a whisper.
    “Yes. I’ve been very careful.” Bekker looked down the empty hallway.
    “I heard that they found the body and that this cop, Davenport, doesn’t think George was the lover . . . . And it’s not a game they’re playing. He’s got some good reason to think so.”
    “How do you know that?”
    “Because he’s been seeing one of the actresses here, Cassie Lasch. She was the one who found Armistead, and she and Davenport struck up some kind of relationship.”
    “You mentioned her. She lives in your building . . . .”
    “Yeah, that’s the one,” Druze said. His words were tumbling over each other. “Cassie was telling us this morning thatthe lover’s still out there. I think Davenport’s talking to him, but doesn’t know exactly who he is. And something else. The cops have supposedly got some kind of picture of me. Not a police drawing, it’s something else.”
    “Jesus, can that be right?” Bekker rubbed his forehead furiously. This was getting complicated.
    “Somebody asked Cassie why we wouldn’t have seen it on television, if that’s true,” Druze said. “She said she hadn’t seen the