Silent Prey

him like this, hiding, they’d know.
    Another goddamned Davenport trap, pulling him in . . .
    Bekker lost it for a moment, his mind going away, dwindling, imploding . . . . He came back with a gasp, found himself pulling at the door, fighting the door handle.
    No. There must be something else. He let go of the door, turned back to the courtyard. He needed help, needed to think. He groped for his pillbox, found it, gulped a half-dozen crosses. The acrid taste on his tongue helped cool him, get him thinking again.
    If they caught him—and if they didn’t kill him—they’d put him back inside, they’d pull him off his chemicals. Bekker shuddered, a full-body spasm. Take him off: he couldn’t live through that again, he couldn’t even think about it.
    He thought of the funeral home again. Davenport’s face, inches from his, screaming, the words unintelligible, then the pistol coming up, the gunsight coming around like a nail on a club, the nail ripping through his face . . .
    Had to think. Had to think.
    Had to move. But where? Davenport was right there, watching. Had to get past him. Only half aware of what he was doing, he fetched the pill box and gulped the rest of the speed and a single tab of PCP. Think.
     
    “They gotta start pretty soon,” Carter said.
    “Give him another five minutes,” Davenport said. “Fuck around with the slide projector or something.”
    “The crowd’s gonna be pissed when Yonel makes the announcement.”
    “Maybe not,” said Kennett, who’d gotten tired of waiting in the auditorium. “Maybe they’ll get a kick out of it.”
    “Yonel says he’ll do a half-hour on Mengele and Bekker anyway, before he says anything,” Lucas said. He stood and stepped to the door: “I’m going to take a quick turn through the crowd. There’re not many people coming in.”
    “Fuck it, he’s not coming,” Carter said.
    “Maybe not, but he should have,” Lucas said.
     
    Bekker, desperately exploring the courtyard, followed a short flight of steps into an alcove and found another door. Behind the stage? Would there be cops back there? He took the handle in his hand, pulled . . . and the door moved. He eased it open until just a crack of light was visible and pressed his eye to the opening. Yes. Backstage. A man was there, wearing slacks and a sport coat, peering out at the audience from a dark corner on the opposite side of the stage. As Bekker watched, he lifted a rectangular object to his face. A radio? Must be. Cop.
    Just inside the door, in front of Bekker, was a scarred table, and on the table an empty peanut butter jar, a black telephone and what looked like a collapsible umbrella in a nylon case. Bekker let the door close, turned back toward the steps. A finger of despair touched him: no way out. No way. And they’d be checking the building before they left. He knew that. He had to get out. Or hide.
    Wait. A radio? The cop had a radio.
    Bekker turned, went back to the door, peeked inside again. The cop was still in the corner, peering out frombehind the curtain, checking the crowd. And on the table, not an umbrella, but a folding music stand, apparently left behind after a concert.
    He flashed on Ray Shaltie, and the blood splashing from his head . . . .
    The PCP was coming up now, warming him, bringing him confidence. He needed that radio. He let the door close, took a quick, silent turn around the alcove outside the door, thinking. A paper? He dug in his bag, found an envelope, folded it. Thought again for a moment, but there was no other way: he would not be beaten. Bekker took a breath, posed for a moment, then stepped to the door, pulled it open, and stepped inside.
    The cop saw him immediately and frowned, took a step toward him. Bekker held up the envelope, and in a whisper, called, “Officer. Officer.”
    The cop glanced out at the crowd, then started across the stage behind the curtain. Radio in his hand. Bekker took a step forward, touched the music stand. It would be flimsy when opened, but when closed, and wrapped in its plastic sheath, a perfect club.
    “You’re not . . .” the cop started. Deep voice.
    “The man out there . . .” Bekker whispered, and thrust the envelope at the cop, dropping it at the same time. The envelope fell to the cop’s feet. Without thinking, the cop bent to catch it.
    And Bekker hit him.
    Hit him behind the ear with the music stand, swinging it like a hatchet. The impact sounded like a hammer striking an