Silent Prey

dark figure, intent, humming to himself “You Light Up My Life,” poking the keys with rigid fingers. Overhead, a flock of his spiders floated through the air, dangling from black thread attached to a wire grill. A mobile of spiders . . .
    The PCP made the world perfectly clear, and he marveled over the crystal quality of the prose as it poured forth from the machine onto the white paper.
     . . . refuted claims that cerebral-spinal pressure obfuscated reliable intercranial measurements during terminal brain activity as per Delano in TRS Notes [Sept. 86]; Delano overlooked the manifest and indisputable evidence of  . . .
    It simply sang—and that cockroach Delano would undoubtedly lose his job at Stanford when the world saw his professional negligence . . . .
    Bekker leaned back, looking up at his spiders, and cackled at the thought. A gumball dropped, and he leaned forward, thoughtful now, Bekker the Thinker. He’d made a mistake this night. The worst he’d made yet. His time was probably coming to an end: he needed more work, he needed another specimen, but he had to be very, very careful.
    Mmmm. He turned off the typewriter and laid his manuscript aside, carefully squaring the corners of the paper. Went to the bathroom, washed his face again, stared at the scars. The drugs were still with him, but he was also running down. Might even catch some sleep. When had he last slept? Couldn’t remember.
    He dropped his clothing on the floor, looked at the clock. Midmorning. Maybe a couple of hours, though . . .
    He lay down, listened to his heart.
    Closed his eyes.
    Almost slept.
    But then, just on the edge of oblivion, something stirred. Bekker knew what it was. He felt his heart accelerate, felt the adrenaline spurting into his blood.
    He hadn’t done her eyes. It had been impossible, of course, but that made no difference. She could see him, the dark-haired woman.
    She was coming.
    Bekker stuffed a handful of sheet in his mouth, and screamed.

CHAPTER
9
    The car slowed and the window between the front seat and the backseat dropped an inch. The early-morning traffic was light, and they were moving quickly, but O’Dell was grumpy about the early hour. Lily hadn’t slept at all.
    “You want a Times ?” Copland asked over his shoulder.
    “Yes.” O’Dell nodded, and Copland eased the car toward the curb, where a vendor waved newspapers at passing cars. A talk show babbled from the front-seat radio: Bekker and more Bekker. When Copland rolled his window down, they could hear the same show from the vendor’s radio. The vendor handed Copland a paper, took a five-dollar bill, and dug for change.
    “I’m worried,” Lily said. “They could try again.”
    “Won’t happen. They didn’t mean to kill him, and coming after him again, that way, would be too risky. Especially if he’s this tough guy you keep telling me about . . . .”
    “We thought they wouldn’t go after him the first time . . . .”
    “We never thought they’d try to mug him . . . .”
    Copland handed a copy of the Times into the backseat. A headline just below the fold said, “Army Suspects Bekker of Vietnam Murders.”
    “This has gotta be bullshit,” O’Dell grumbled, scanning the story. “Anything from Minneapolis?”
    “No.”
    “Dammit. Why don’t these assholes check on him? For all they know, the Minneapolis story could be a cover for an Internal Affairs geek.”
    “Not a thing, so far. And the people in Minneapolis are looking for it.”
    Silence, the car rolling like an armored ghost through Manhattan.
    Then: “It must be Fell. It has to be.”
    Lily shook her head: “Nothing on her line. She got one call, from an automated computer place saying that she’d won a prize if she’d go out to some Jersey condominium complex to pick it up. Nothing on the office phone.”
    “Dammit. She must be calling from a public phone. We might need some surveillance here.”
    “I’d wait on that. She’s been on the street for a while. She’d pick it up, sooner or later.”
    “Had to be Fell, though. Unless it really was muggers.”
    “It wasn’t muggers. Lucas thinks they were cops. He says one of them was carrying a black leather-wrapped keychain sap; about the only place you can buy them is a commercial police-supply house. And he says they never went for his billfold.”
    “But they weren’t trying to kill him.”
    “No. But he thinks they were trying to put him out of commission. Maybe break a