Silent Prey

this . . . His hand groped for the PCP bag, found it; only two. But the coke had him, and he popped them both: the angels would hold the coke in place, build on it . . . . He could see for miles now, through the dark. No problem. His mouth worked, fathering a wad of saliva, and he popped a hit of speed, crunched it in his teeth. Only one, just a sample, a treat . . .
    A red light. The light made him angry, and he cursed, drove through it. Another. Even more angry, but he held it this time, rolled to a stop. One more pinch of the white: sure. He deserved one more. One more hit . . .
    He hadn’t taken an experimental subject in more than a week. Instead, he’d huddled in the basement, typing his papers. He had a backlog now, data that had to be collated, rationalized. But tonight, with the angels in his blood . . . And Davenport in town, looking for him.
    In taking the other subjects, he worked out a system: hit them with the stun gun, use the anesthetic. And more important, he’d begun looking for safe hunting grounds. Bellevue was one. There were women around Bellevue all the time, day and night, small enough to handle, healthy, good subjects. And the parking ramp there was virtually open . . . . But Bellevue wasn’t for tonight, not after he’d just come from there.
    In fact, he shouldn’t even think of taking one tonight. He hadn’t planned it, hadn’t done the reconnaissance that provided his margin of safety. But with the angels in his blood, anything was possible.
    A picture popped into his head. Another parking ramp, not Bellevue. A ramp attached to a city government building of some kind.
    Parking ramps were good, because they were easy to hide in, people came and went at all hours, many of them were alone. Transportation was easily at hand . . . .
    And this one was particularly good: each level of the parking ramp had an entrance into the government building, the doors guarded by combination lockpad. A person entering the ramp in a car would not necessarily walk out past the attendants in the ticket booth. So Bekker could go in, and wait . . . .
    The ramp itself had a single elevator that would take patrons to the street. In his mind’s eye, he could see himself in the elevator with the selected subject, getting off at the same floor, hitting her with the stun gun as they came out of the elevator, using the gas, hiding her bodybetween a couple of cars, then simply driving around to make the pickup . . . . Simple.
    And the ramp was close by, on the edge of Chinatown . . . .
    The rational Bekker, trapped in the back of his mind, warned him: no no no no  . . .
    But Gumball-Bekker cranked the wheel around and headed south, the PCP angels burning in his blood.
    Chinatown.
    There were people in the street, more than Bekker would have thought likely. He ignored them, the PCP-cocaine cocktail gripping his mind, focusing it: he drove straight into the parking garage, hunched over the wheel, got his ticket, and started around the sequence of up-slanting ramps. Each floor was lit, but he saw no cameras. The sequence had him now, his heart beating like a hammer, his face hot . . . .
    He went all the way to the top, parked, opened the cocaine twist, cupped some in his hand, snorted it, licked up the remnant.
    And went away . . .
    When he came back, he climbed out of the car, taking his collection bag from the backseat. A stairwell wrapped around the elevator shaft and he took the stairs down, quietly, the stairs darker than the main ramp area. Bekker was on his toes, his collecting bag around his shoulder, hand on the stun gun . . . .
    At the second floor, he stopped, checked the anesthetic tank and mask. Okay. He rehearsed the sequence in his mind: get behind her, hit her with the stun gun, cover her mouth against screams, ride her down, get the gas. He stepped out of the stairwell, glanced into the tiny elevator lobby. Excellent.
    Back to the stairwell.
    He waited.
    And waited.
    Twenty minutes, tension rising. Fished in his pocket, did another cross, chewing it, relishing the bite. He heard a steel door close somewhere overhead, echoing through the ramp, and a few minutes later, a car went down. Then silence again. Five more minutes, ten.
    A car came in, stopped on the second floor, high heels on concrete . . . Bekker tensed, his hand going quickly to the tank, flicking the switch once on the stun gun.
    Then . . . nothing. The sound of high heels receding.