Silent Prey

a picture up. You’ve got a name and address?”
    “Edith Lacey . . .”
    “In SoHo. That’s good, that’s right,” Fell said, tapping the screen.
    “How about the video . . . ?”
    “Let’s get the reference numbers on those withdrawals . . .” Buonocare said. She wrote the number on a scratch pad and they carried it to the storage. The right cassette was already in the machine, and Buonocare ran it through, looking at the numbers . . . .
    “Here,” she said.
    The screen showed a blonde, her face down.
    “Can’t tell,” Fell said. “I swear to God, I’m gonna pee in my pants.”
    “Let’s try another withdrawal in that sequence,” Buonocare said.
    She ran the tape, stopped, started, searched. Found another blonde.
    “Motherfucker,” Lucas said, looking at the screen. “Nice to see you again, Mike.”
    “That’s him?” Fell asked, peering at the screen. “He’s so pretty.”
    “That’s him,” Lucas said.
    Bekker was smiling at the lens, his blond hair pulled demurely away from his forehead.

CHAPTER
26
    Bekker awoke at noon. He wandered about the apartment, went to the bathroom, and stared at himself. Pretty. Pretty blonde. Too late for pretty blonde.
    He cried, sitting on the edge of the tub, but he had to do it. He shaved his head. Hacked his fine silken hair to stubble with a pair of orange-handled scissors from Mrs. Lacey’s sewing box, lathered it with shampoo, scraped off the stubble with a safety razor. Cut himself twice, the blood pink in the lather . . .
    Sigh.
    He found himself in front of the mirror, dried soap around his ears, hair. Gone. The tears came again, in a rush. His head was far too small, and sickly white, like a marble. Where was Beauty?
    He examined himself with the eye of an overseer, the Simon Legree of inspections. Bald. Pale. No good. Even in the Village, the scalp pallor would attract the eye, and the facial makeup would be obvious.
    The scars—the scars would give him away. He touched his face, felt the furrowed, marbled flesh. A new role,that’s what he needed. He’d thought to cut his hair, shift back to a male role, but that wouldn’t work. Besides, women were allowed a greater latitude of disguise. He’d go back to the wigs he’d worn before his own hair grew out.
    Bekker strode through the apartment, headed for the stairs, stopped to touch the cloud of spiders that hung over his desk in the outer apartment. So fine, so pretty . . .
    Go. Get the wig, get dressed—he hadn’t bothered to dress. Clothes seemed inconvenient and restrictive. He marched now, directed by the PCP, upright and dignified, then he was suddenly aware of his penis, bobbling along like an inconveniently large and flaccid nose, doing a color commentary on his dignity. Bekker pressed his penis to his thigh, but the rhythm of the march was broken . . . .
    A new gumball dropped. From when? The fifties? A comedian on The Ed Sullivan Show? Yes. A small man looking into a cigar box, talking to a voice inside . . . Okay? Okay. Was that the line? Yes.
    Bekker, passing the kitchen, swerved, went in. Opened the refrigerator and peeked inside: Have a Coke, Mr. Bekker. Thank you. I will. Okay? Okay. He slammed the refrigerator door like the comedian and howled with laughter. Okay? Okay.
    Really funny . . . He howled . . . .
    Coke in hand, he staggered back to the television, turned to CNN, and watched for a few minutes. He’d been on one of the news shows in the morning, with the pictures of the Carson woman; they’d ridiculed him, said the halos from Carson had been finger-press points on the photo paper. What did that mean? Was that methodology? He had a hard time remembering anymore . . . .
    He watched, hoping to see the report again, but they’d cut him out of the news cycle.
    He went downstairs, naked and barefoot, stepped carefully through the shambles of the first-floor shop, and down into the basement. Found the dark wig, with the pixie cut. Carried it back up, to the bathroom, put it on. It was warm on his head, like a fur piece, and scratchy. But it looked good. He’d have to do something about his eyebrows, shade them, and his lashes. Maybe something to tone his face . . .
    Mrs. Lacey had been too old for sophisticated makeup, had been satisfied with a pinkish rouge to make two little pink spots on her cheeks, like Ronald Reagan’s. But she had an eyebrow pencil. He found the pencil, came back to the mirror, wet it with his tongue