Silent Prey

pushing their shopping carts along the broken pavement, guarding their bundles of rags. She knew them, she said, although Bekker didn’t believe her. She’dlook out and make up stories about them. “Now that one, she once owned a grocery on Greenwich . . .”
    Bekker suggested that she spread her cash among three or four unrelated banks, so more would be insured by the Federal Deposit Insurance Corporation.
    “Uncertain times,” he told her in his careful voice.
    She’d talked to her only ambulatory friend about it. Bridget Land, who didn’t like Bekker, had thought that spreading the money among banks would be a good idea. And she’d volunteered to go with them: “To make sure everything is on the up-and-up,” she’d said, her eyes moving almost involuntarily toward Bekker. “At the banks, I mean.”
    They’d moved the money in a single day, the two old women nervously guarding the cashier’s checks like mother hens. Edith Lacey carrying one inside her blouse, Bridget Land the other in a buttoned pocket, just in case. They’d focused so closely on the checks that neither had paid much attention to Bekker as he reviewed Edith’s applications for new accounts. Bekker had simply checked the “yes” box that asked if the applicants wanted automatic-teller cards. He picked up the mail each afternoon; a week after they’d moved the money to the banks, he’d intercepted the automatic-teller codes, and a week after that, the cards themselves. The cards were each good for five hundred dollars a day. During the first month, Bekker worked the accounts almost daily, until he had twenty thousand in cash.
    “Get fruit,” the old woman ordered.
    “I’ll stop at MacGuire’s,” he said on the intercom.
    “Apricots.”
    “Okay.” He started to turn away.
    “Be sure to get apricots . . . .”
    “Yes,” he snapped.
    “You didn’t get them last time . . . .”
    He was seized by a sudden urge to go up and choke her: not the urge that took him to his subjects, but an almost human desire to choke the shit out of a common nag. “I’m sorry,” he said, abjectly, hiding the sudden fury. “And I’ll try to get your pills.”
    That would shut her up . . . .
     
    Bekker turned away from the intercom and, through the dark living quarters, saw Cortese’s body in the bright light flowing from the operating room. Might as well do it now.
    From the kitchen, he brought a long roll of black polyethylene, sold as painter’s dropcloth. He unrolled it beside the dissection table, used a scalpel to cut it to the right length, then unfolded it. Unstrapped the body. Pulled the catheter from the wrist, pulled the temperature probe. The temperature was down to seventy-nine. Cooling quickly.
    Bodies are hard to manipulate, and Bekker, with much experience, didn’t even try. He simply walked to the far side of the table and pushed. The body rolled out of the tray and fell on the plastic sheet with a meaty thwack. He walked back around the table, wrapped it, folded the extra length, tied it with clothesline. He took two extra loops at the waist, to use as a handle. He hauled the body through the living quarters and up the steps to the building’s reinforced back door, struggling with it. Even when you didn’t care if they were damaged, bodies were difficult. And Cortese had been hefty. He should go after smaller people . . . .
     
    The back door of the Lacey building was hidden from the street by a lean-to structure, designed as a car shelter.He popped open the door, chain still on, and checked the lean-to. In the past, bums had sheltered there. Nothing but the Volkswagen, undisturbed. He dragged the body outside, and, with some difficulty, stuffed it into the passenger seat. When it was in, he stepped to the edge of the lean-to and peeked toward the street. Nobody. He went back inside, closed the door, and hurried down the stairs.
    Bekker showered, shaved carefully, dressed, and put on his makeup. The process was intricate: The heavy base makeup covered his ruined face, but had to be carefully shaded into the clear skin at his temples without obvious lines. He took half an hour, working at it. He’d just finished when Mrs. Lacey rang again.
    “What?” Old hag  . . .
    “My hands,” she whined.
    “I’m coming now,” he said. Maybe he should kill her, he thought. He allowed himself to feel the pleasure of the idea. But then he’d have to explain her absence to Bridget Land. Though he could