Silent Prey

street.
    “Perfect,” Lucas told Fell. They’d taken the tour with a half-dozen other cops, and now, waiting, wandered outside to Twelfth Street. Fell lit a cigarette. “Once he comes around the corner, he’ll be inside the net. And the lobby’s small enough that we can check everyone coming through before they realize there are cops all over the place.”
    “You still think he’ll show?” Fell asked skeptically.
    “Hope so.”
    “It’d be too easy,” she said.
    “He’s a nut case,” Lucas said. “If he’s seen the announcement, he’ll be here.”
    A car dropped Kennett at the curb. “Opening night,” he said as he climbed out. He looked up and down the fashionable residential street, bikes chained to wrought-iron fences, well-kept brick townhouses climbing up from the street. “It feels like something’s gonna happen.”
    They followed him inside, and Carter came by with radios. They each took one, fitting the earpieces, checking them out. “Stay off unless it’s critical,” Carter said. “There are twelve guys here, and if all twelve start yelling at the same time . . .”
    “Where do you want me?” Lucas asked.
    “Where do you think?” Carter asked. “Ticket booth?”
    “Mmm, I’d be looking at too many people’s backs,” Lucas said. He glanced around. A short hall led from the auditorium lobby to the main entrance lobby of the New School. “How about if I stood back there in the hall?”
    “All right,” Carter said. To Fell, he said, “We’ve got you handing out programs. You’ll be right there in the lobby.”
    “Terrific . . .”
    “What’s the setup?” Kennett asked.
    “Well, we’re supposed to start in twenty minutes. We’ve got you just inside the auditorium entrance, where you can see everyone, or get back out to the lobby in a hurry,” Carter said. “It’s right down here . . . .”
     
    Bekker tottered down Twelfth Street ten minutes before the lecture was scheduled to begin, past a guy working on a car in the failing daylight. Bekker was nervous as a cat, excited, checking the scattering of people walking along the street with him, and toward him, converging on the auditorium. This was dangerous. He could feel it. They’d be talking about him. There might be cops in the crowd. But still: worth it. Worth some risk.
    Most of the people were going through a series of theater-style doors farther up the street. That would be the auditorium. There was another door, closer. On impulse he entered there, turned toward the auditorium.
    Almost stumbled.
    Davenport.
    Trap.
    The fear almost choked him, and he caught at his throat. Davenport and another man, their backs to Bekker, were in the hallway between the separate entries. Not ten feet away. Watching the crowd come through the other door.
    Davenport was to the left, half turned toward the second man, his back directly to Bekker. The second man, half turned toward Davenport, glanced toward Bekker as simple momentum took Bekker inside. Couldn’t stop. He went straight through the school lobby, past the entrance to the auditorium. An empty guard desk was to the right, with a phone behind it. Ahead of him, another hallway that seemed to lead back outside.
    Bekker unconsciously touched his face, felt the hard scars under the special makeup. That night in the funeral home, Davenport hacking at him . . .
    Bekker wrenched himself back, forced himself to walk down the stairs, through the next door, outside. He was sweating, almost gasping for breath.
    He found himself in a sculpture garden, facing another door like the one he’d come through. On the other side of the door was a hallway, and beyond that, maybe a hundred feet away, another set of doors and the next street. Nobody ahead. He strode quickly across the courtyard, caught the door, pulled.
    Locked. Stricken, he gave it a tug. It didn’t budge. The glass was too thick to break, even if he had something to break it with. He turned and looked back, toward the way he’d come. If he tried to get out that way, he’d be face to face with Davenport for several seconds, just as he’d been with the cop Davenport had been talking to.
    He stood, frozen, unable to sort the possibilities. He had to get out of sight. He went to his left, found a shorthallway with a door marked with a B and the word “Stair.” He jerked at the door, hoping . . .
    Locked. Damn. He huddled in the doorway, temporarily out of sight. But he couldn’t stay: if anybody saw