Eyes of Prey

liked them like surgeons liked them, for the aura . . . . When he was wearing a scrub suit, people always called him “Dr. Bekker,” which they sometimes forgot when he was in the Path area.
    With his face, and with the aura of the suit, sometimes he simply went down and relaxed in the cafeteria, let the public look at him . . . .
    Not today. When he was dressed, he pulled paper shoe-covers over his loafers, got his clipboard from the locker and headed up another flight of stairs, his heart pounding a bit. It had been a few days since he’d talked to Sybil. He really had to find more time.
    At the top of the stairs, he pushed through the fire door and walked down the hall to the nurses’ station.
    “Dr. Bekker,” a nurse said, looking up. “You’re earlier than usual.”
    “Had a little extra time.” He put on a smile. “Any changes?”
    “No, not since you were last here,” the nurse said, not managing a smile. “Changes” was Bekker’s euphemism for “death.” It had taken her a few of his visits to catch on.
    “Well, I think I’ll wander down,” Bekker said. “Anywhere I shouldn’t go?”
    “Room seven-twelve, we have a radiation treatment there—we’re keeping that clean.”
    “I’ll stay away,” Bekker promised. He left her at the desk, plowing through the endless paperwork that seemed to afflict nurses. He stopped at two rooms, for show, before heading to Sybil’s.
    “Sybil? Are you awake?” Her eyes were closed as he stepped into the room, and they didn’t open, but he could see that a drip tube leading to her arm was working. “Sybil?”
    Still her eyes didn’t open. He glanced down the hallway, then stepped up to her bed, leaned forward, placed his fingertips on her forehead, pulled up an eyelid with his thumb and murmured, “Come out, come out, wherever you are . . . .”
    The television behind him was tuned to TV3, a game show that apparently involved some kind of leapfrog. He didn’t notice; Sybil had opened her eyes and was looking frantically around the room.
    “No, no. There isn’t any help, dear,” Bekker crooned. “No help anywhere.”
    • • •
    Bekker spent an hour at the hospital. He was picked up by the surveillance team as he left through the lobby.
    “He’s got a funny look on his face,” the narc said into her purse. “He’s coming right at me.” She watched Bekker go down the sidewalk, past the bench where she was reading a car issue of Consumer Reports.
    “What’s funny?” the crew chief asked, as the net closed around Bekker again.
    “I don’t know,” the narc said. “He looked like he just got laid or something.”
    “A look you know well,” said a cop named Louis, normally in uniform, but pulled for this job.
    “Shut up,” the crew chief said. “Stay on his ass and don’t spook him. We’re doing good.”
    Halfway across the campus, Bekker did a little jig. He did it quickly, almost unconsciously, but not quite—he caught himself and looked around guiltily before moving on.
    “What the fuck was that all about?” the narc asked.
    “Potty-mouth,” said Louis.
    “Shut up,” said the crew chief. “And I don’t know. We oughta get some video on this guy, you know? I woulda liked to have some video on that.”
    The crew took him home, where another crew picked up the watch. Louis, who liked wisecracks, went back to police headquarters, where he bumped into the police reporter for Channel Eight.
    “What’s happening, Louis?” the reporter asked. “Workin’ on anything good?”
    Louis chewed a lot of gum and tipped his head, a wiseguy. “Got a thing going here and there,” he said. “Hell of a story, if I could only tell ya.”
    “You look like you been on surveillance,” the reporter suggested. “All dressed up like a human being.”
    “Did I say surveillance?” Louis grinned. He liked reporters. He’d been quoted several times at crime scenes.
    The reporter frowned. “Hey, are you working that Bekker thing?”
    Louis’ smile faded. “I got no comment. Like, really.”
    “I won’t fuck you, Louis,” the reporter said. “But there’s a hell of a leak around here somewhere, and TV3 is kicking ass.”
    Louis liked reporters . . . .

CHAPTER
21
    Anderson tossed two manila file folders on Lucas’ desk.
    “Surveillance report, and summary interviews from the theater people and Armistead’s friends,” he said.
    “Anything in them?” Lucas asked. He was leaning back in his chair, his feet