Eyes of Prey
the whole time. He had a friend with the authorities, did he not?
The surveillance net picked up Bekker as he left the alley, headed down to Hennepin Avenue and took Hennepin to the interstate. He went to the library, parked and went inside. The net was with him. Looked at a book in the reference section. Headed back to the car. One of the cops in the net looked at the book, a cross-reference directory for St. Paul. He noted the pages: if he’d had time to scan the names, he’d have found Lucas Davenport listed about halfway down the second column . . . .
Across the Mississippi and then south. Nice neighborhood . . . Damn St. Paul addresses, the numbers had nothing to do with the streets. Started at 1 and went however high they needed to go . . .
Davenport’s house was not particularly impressive, he thought when he found it, except for the location. One-story rambler, stone and white siding, big front yard. Nice house, but not terrific. Stephanie wouldn’t have given it a second look. Lights in the windows.
He rang the doorbell, and a moment later Davenport was there.
“Officer Davenport,” Bekker said, nodding, pleased to see Lucas. He had his hands in the pockets of his hip-length leather coat. “You said you would see that I’m not harassed. Why am I followed everywhere?”
Davenport, perplexed, stepped out on the porch. His face was like a chunk of wood, and Bekker stepped back. “What?”
“Why am I being followed? I know they’re out there,” Bekker said, flipping a hand at the street. “This is notparanoia. I’ve seen your officers watching me. Young men in college clothes and police shoes . . .”
Davenport’s face suddenly tightened, seized by some sort of rictus, Bekker thought. He stepped close and gripped Bekker’s coat at the lapels. He lifted and Bekker went up on his toes.
“Put me down . . .” Bekker said. He was strong, but Davenport held him awkwardly close and his arms were bent. He tried to push Davenport away, but the cop held him, shaking, apparently gripped by rage.
“You never come to my house,” Davenport rasped, his eyes wide and crazy. “You hear that, motherfucker? The last guy that came to my house, I killed. You come to my house, I’ll kill your ass just like I did him.”
“I’m, I’m sorry,” Bekker stuttered. Davenport was not the cool, rational cop who had walked through Stephanie’s bedroom. His eyes were straining open, his head cocked forward on a tense neck, his hands hard as stones.
Davenport shoved Bekker back, releasing him. “Go. Get the fuck out of here.”
Bekker staggered. Down the sidewalk, ten feet from the porch, he said, “I just wanted the surveillance pulled, I don’t want to be hectored . . . .”
“Call the chief,” Lucas said. His voice was cold, brutal. “Just stay the fuck away from my house.”
Davenport stepped back inside and shut the door. Bekker stood on the walk for a moment, looking at the door, not quite believing. Davenport had been friendly, he’d understood some things . . . .
Bekker was in his car when his own anger caught him.
Treated like a Russian peasant. Kicked down the stairs. Thrown off. He pounded his palms on the steering wheel. Saw himself striking out, the edge of his hand smashing under Davenport’s nose, blood rolling down his dark, bleak face; saw himself kicking, going for the balls . . .
“Fuckin’ treat me like that, fuckin’ treat me like a . . . a . . . Fuckin’ treat me, you can’t, you better think about it . . . Fuckin’ treat me . . .”
As Bekker drove away from Davenport’s house, the net still in place, a teenage boy strolled up to Kelsey Romm’s car and peeked inside. Was she fuckin’ somebody? What was she . . .
He’d been leaning on a trashcan outside the mall entrance, waiting for something to happen, somebody to show up, when he saw something happen. He didn’t know what. There was this guy . . . . He had gotten a videocassette for his birthday, a movie, Darkman, his favorite flick. And this guy looked like Darkman, no bandages, but the hat was right . . . . And something happened.
He saw the guy duck inside the car. He was in it for a moment or two; then he got out, went to another car and drove away. It never occurred to the kid to look at the license plate. And he was not the kind of kid who knew his cars. He was just a kid who hung out and watched Darkman in the afternoons, after
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