Silent Prey

impending death a critical point? Could that be it? An intellectual function, somehow, or an emotional release, rather than an autonomic one?
    Too excited to sit, he dropped the book and took a turn around the room. The matchbox was there, in his pocket; three pills. He gobbled them, then looked at the now empty box. Here was a crisis. He’d have to go back out. He’d been putting it off, but now . . .
    He glanced at his watch. Yes. Whitechurch would be working.
    He stopped in the bathroom, clumsily fished himself out of the pants, peed, flushed, rearranged himself, then went to the telephone. He knew the number by heart and punched it in. A woman’s voice answered.
    “Dr. West, please,” Bekker said.
    “Just a moment, please, I’ll page.”
    A moment later: “West.” The voice was cool, New Jersey, and corroded. The voice of a fixer.
    “I need some angels,” Bekker breathed; he used a breathy voice with Whitechurch.
    “Mmm, that’s a problem. I’m short. I’ve got plenty of white, though, and I’ve got crosses. Almost none of the other,” Whitechurch said. He sounded anxious. Bekker was an exceptional customer, white, careful, and paid in cash. A Connecticut schoolteacher maybe, peddling to the kids.
    “That’s difficult,” Bekker said. “How much of the white?”
    “I could give you three.”
    “Three would be good. How many crosses?”
    “Thirty? I could do thirty.”
    “Good. When? Must be soon.”
    “Make it a half-hour.”
    “Excellent, half an hour,” Bekker breathed, and hung up.
    When he’d cleaned out the basement, he’d found a pile of discarded sports equipment—a couple of dried-out leather first baseman’s mitts with spiderwebs in the pockets; a half-dozen bats, all badly marred, and one split; a deflated basketball; mold- and dirt-covered baseball shoes with rusted metal spikes; two pairs of sadly abused sneakers; and even a pair of shorts, a tank top and a jock. He’d thrown it all in a long box with a Frisbee, a croquet set and a couple of broken badminton racquets. He’d pushed the box into a dark corner. Anybody looking into it could see all the junk with a glance; nothing good; nothing you’d even want to touch.
    Bekker had sliced a C-shaped hatch in the bottom of the basketball and stashed his cash inside. Now he picked up the ball, took out three thousand dollars and carefully put the ball back.
    After a quick check in the mirror, he climbed the stairs to the ground floor and padded to the back. Just as he reached the back door, the old woman’s voice floated down the stairs. “Alex . . . ?”
    Bekker stopped, thought about it, then exhaled in exasperation and walked back across the darkened floor to the staircase. “Yes?”
    “I need the special pills.” Her voice was shadowy, tentative.
    “I’ll get them,” Bekker said.
    He went back down to his apartment, found the brownbottle of morphine, shook two into his hand, and climbed back up the stairs, talking to himself. Images of the deathly radiance played through his mind, and, preoccupied, he nearly stumbled into Bridget Land. Land was standing at the base of the stairs that led up to Edith Lacey’s apartment.
    “Ah,” she said, “I was just leaving, Alex . . . . You have Edie’s medicine?”
    “Yes, yes . . .” Bekker kept his face turned away, head down, tried to brush past.
    “Are the pills illegal? Are they illegal drugs?” Land asked. She had squared herself up to him, her chin lifted, tight, catching his shirt sleeve as he passed her. She had smart, dark eyes that picked at him.
    Bekker, his voice straining, nodded and said, “I think so . . . . I get them from a friend of hers. I’m afraid to ask what they are.”
    “What are you . . .” Land began, but Bekker was climbing the stairs away from her. At the top of the stairs, he glanced back, and Land was turning away, toward the door.
    “Please don’t tell,” Bekker said. “She’s in pain . . . .”
     
    “Did you see Bridget?” Mrs. Lacey asked.
    “Yes, down below . . . .” He got a glass of water and carried the pills to Mrs. Lacey. She gulped them greedily, hands trembling, smacking her lips in the water.
    “Bridget asked me if these were illegal drugs. I’m afraid she might call the police,” Bekker said.
    Mrs. Lacey was horrified. “You mean . . .”
    “They are illegal,” Bekker said. “You could never get these in a nursing home.”
    “Oh no, oh no . . .” The old woman