Silent Prey

walls, bounced and turned. Bekker pointed the pistol at him, from two feet.
    “No way . . .”
    Bekker pulled the trigger again, firing into Whitechurch’s forehead. Then he pushed the gun into his pocket, hurrying, took out a scalpel, stooped, and ruined Whitechurch’s dead eyes. Good.
    Down the hall, a door banged open. “Hey.” Somebody yelling.
    Bekker looked down the corridor: empty. He grabbed the baggie full of pills, stood, remembered the money, saw it half trapped under Whitechurch. Down the hall, the door banged open again and Bekker jerked at the money envelope. The envelope ripped, but he got most of it, just a bill or two still trapped under the body.
    “Hey . . .” He looked back as he went through the door, but there was nothing in the corridor but the voice.Outside, he gathered himself and hurried, but didn’t run, down the alley, turning left on the sidewalk to the parking ramp. He went inside to the stairs, heard footsteps behind, and half turned.
    A young woman was hurrying after him. He started up the steps and she caught up with him, a few steps behind. “Wait up . . .” Breathless. “I hate to go up here alone. If there were somebody . . . You know.”
    “Yes.” The woman was worried about being attacked. There was only one open entrance to the ramp, but anyone could get in over the low walls. Judging from the graffiti spray-painted on the concrete walls, several people had.
    “God, what a day,” the woman said. “I hate to work when it’s so nice outside, I never see anything but computer terminals.”
    Bekker nodded again, not trusting his voice. If he’d had the time, he could have taken her. She’d have been perfect: young, apparently intelligent. A natural observer. Might possibly understand the privilege she was being given. He could take her, he thought. Right now. Hit her in the head . . .
    Behind her, he balled his hand into a fist, and he thought, Or the gun. I could use the gun. He felt the weight of the gun in his pocket. Empty now, but a threat . . .
    But if he hurt her, struck her, had to fight, if she was less than a perfect specimen . . . his results would be impeachable. People were watching him, people who hated him, who would do anything to impeach his results. He fell back a step, his heart beating like a drum.
    “See you,” she said, one half-level below his car. She looked out on the open floor before she went through the door. “Nobody here . . . makes you feel a little stupid, doesn’t it?”
    He could, but . . . wait. No improvisation. Remember the last time . . . Easy, easy, there are plenty of them.
    Bekker lifted a hand and risked it: “Good-bye,” he said, in his careful voice.
    He had to get one. Had to. He didn’t realize, until he saw the woman get in the car and lock the doors, how strong the need was now.
    He rolled out of the ramp, straight down the street; there was some commotion in the emergency entrance alley, but he didn’t stop to look. Instead, he went straight back to his apartment, almost frantic now, and got out his collector’s bag: the stun gun and the anesthetic tank and mask. He flicked the stun gun once, checked the discharge level. Fine. And dug through the bag he’d taken from Whitechurch: just a taste. He snapped one of the angels between his teeth, thinking to take a half, but a half wouldn’t do, and he took a whole, waiting for the power to come.
    Cruising, thinking: Infrared. Ultraviolet. Breakthrough.
    He knew this bar . . . .
    Later. He saw the woman slouch out of the back of the bar, lean against the brick exterior, and light a cigarette with what looked like an old-fashioned Zippo. Not many men around, lots of women coming and going, many of them alone. Easy targets.
    The woman was leaning against the outside wall, wearing jeans and a sleeveless T-shirt, with a wide leather belt. She had short black hair, with gold hoop earrings.
    Bekker came up, stepping carefully around the Volkswagen as though he didn’t own it. Not too aggressive. Stun gun in his hand, tank under his arm, hand on mask.
    “Terrific night,” he said to the woman.
    She smiled. “You’re looking pretty good,” she said.
    Bekker smiled back and stopped next to the nose of the Volkswagen.
    Come to the gingerbread house, little girl  . . .

CHAPTER
13
    “What’s wrong?” Lily asked.
    Kennett rolled toward her and put an arm under her head. “I feel like an invalid when we do that. I mean, nothing