Eyes of Prey

  Was George the right one? He looked like the man in the hall, but the man in the hall had been wearing only a towel, his thinning hair had been wet, his face contorted. Druze had seen him only for an instant. Had he been heavier than George? Now, at this distance, Druze just wasn’t sure. He’d looked at too many pictures of people who were almost right. Contaminated with information, he thought.

  Bekker . . . He was no longer sure of Bekker. They’d met after a show, in a theater café, Bekker there with Stephanie and some kind of doctors’ group from the university. Bekker had been out on the edge of the group, left alone. Druze had come in, also alone, looking for a drink. He’d seen the beautiful man immediately, couldn’t take his eyes away: Bekker had so much . . . .

  Bekker had been equally fascinated. He’d made the first approach: Hello there, I think I saw you on the stage a few minutes ago . . . .

  And later, much later, after they were . . . friends? was that right? . . . Bekker had said, “We’re the opposite sides of the same coin, my friend, trapped by our looks.”

  But it hadn’t been their appearances that held them together. It had been something else: the taste for violence? what?

  He stood next to the atrium rail in the mall, looking down to the lower floor. Shoppers strolled down the length of the mall, some still in careful winter dress, dark, somber, protective, gloves sticking out from coat pockets. Others, the younger ones, had shifted with the Gulf winds, going into summer, T-shirts under light nylon windbreakers, a few of them in shorts, surfers for the boys, tennis shorts for the girls.

  He started picking out women. Forties. Somebody attractive. Somebody who might catch the eye of a psycho. There were dozens of them, singles, twos and threes, tall, small, heavy, slender, scowling, laughing, intent, window-shopping, strolling, paying cash, checking receipts, holding up blouses . . . . Druze unconsciously flipped his car keys in the air with one hand, picked them out of the air with the other, tossed them back to the first, and did it again.

  And he chose: Eenie meenie minie moe . . .

  Nancy Dunen couldn’t believe the price of jeans. She never believed. Every time she came in, she thought the last time must have been an aberration, a nightmare. The twins always managed to wear out the back-to-school jeans, bought in September, at the same time in the spring. Two twelve-year-olds, four pairs of jeans, thirty-two dollars a pair . . . she stared blankly into the middle distance, her lips moving, as she calculated. A hundred twenty-eight dollars. My God, where would it come from? Maybe Visa would have a sense of humor about the whole thing.

  She held the pants up, checking for flaws in the fabric. Noticed the feminine cut. Twelve years old, and they were getting curves in their pants already. Must be hormones in the breakfast cereal.

  A man meandered past the open front of the store. Something wrong with his face, though it was hard to tell exactly what it was. He was wearing an old-fashioned brown felt hat, with the brim snapped down. She was looking past the pants when she saw him; she felt the light clink of eye contact, turned away as the man turned away, and she scraped at a knot in the denim with a fingernail. Good eye, Dunen, she thought. She put that pair of jeans back, got another.

  Nancy sometimes thought she might be pretty, and sometimes she was sure she wasn’t. She kept her dark hair cut short, skimped on the makeup, stayed in shape with a three-time-a-week jog around the neighborhood. She didn’t spend a lot of time worrying about whether she was pretty or not, although she claimed she had the best forty-three-year-old butt in the neighborhood. She was settled in her body, in her life. Her husband seemed to like her, and she liked him, and they both liked the kids . . . .

  She took the jeans to the cashier’s counter, groaned when she saw the Visa charge slip, folded it, dropped it in her purse.

  “If my husband finds it, he’ll wring my neck,” she said to the girl behind the counter.

  “Yeah, but . . .” The blonde salesgirl tossed her hair with a smile and made a piano-playing gesture with her hand as she put the jeans in a bag. Husbands can be handled, she was saying. “They’re nice pants.”

  Nancy left the store and, bag in hand, window-shopped at a women’s store, but she kept moving. The man with the hat was behind her on the escalator, heading toward the same exit. She noticed but didn’t think about it. Let’s see, I was out the exit by the cookie stand . . . .

  A burly high school kid with a letter jacket and a white-sidewall haircut held the door for her. He was wearing an earring and looked at her butt, and she smiled to herself. When she was growing up, in the fifties, there were older boys with sidewalls, but they’d have cut their own wrists before wearing an earring . . . .

  Nancy stepped over a curb and stopped at her car, and fished in her purse for her keys. The man with the hat went by. She almost nodded—they’d sort of looked at each other a few times in the mall—but she didn’t. Instead, she popped open the car door, dumped the jeans in the backseat, climbed in and started the engine. She should make it home by eight. What was on TV tonight?

  Druze had been ready, the knife-sharpening steel in his pocket, the same one he’d used on George. He had cleaned it meticulously, kept it in his kitchen drawer. And it was ready when he needed it. He followed the woman out of the mall, into the parking lot, ready to close on her, watching for other walkers, for cars turning down the rows, checking the lights. He was ready . . . .

  The woman stopped at the first car in the lot, a white Chevy Spectrum. Propped the bag between her hip and the car, began digging in her purse. They were absolutely exposed to the mall. If he moved on her, he would be seen. He glanced back: people on the sidewalk, at the doors, coming, going . . . Shit.

  He felt stupid. If he picked a woman inside, there was an excellent chance that she’d be parked somewhere in the open, where he couldn’t get to her. Or even that she’d be picked up at the curb by a husband or son. He’d have to wait outside. He went by Nancy Dunen, unconsciously flipped his keys in the air with one hand, picked them out with the other. The woman glanced vaguely at him, then went back to her purse. He never looked back, he heard the door slam and the engine start . . . .

  Druze went back to his car, moved it to the edge of the lot, tried a parking space, found he couldn’t see out of it, tried another. Good. He parked, turned off the lights and waited. He was parked at an acute angle to a side entry. People wouldn’t naturally look at this area, but he could watch them coming through.

  He waited five minutes. Nothing. Then a couple crossed the lot, walking toward the cluster where Druze was parked. A single woman followed them by twenty yards. The couple reached their car; the man walked around to the passenger side to open the door, then opened the trunk to put their packages inside. The single woman reached the cluster as the man closed the trunk and popped open the driver’s-side door. By that time, the single woman, unaware that she was being watched, and not more than thirty feet from Druze, was already getting into her car. She backed out at the same time as the couple, and they were gone.

  Damn. She would have been a good one, Druze thought. A little young, but that was okay. He slouched in the seat, the hat brim pulled down. People walked in and out of the lighted doors. Eenie meenie minie moe . . .

  Kelsey Romm was wearing a scarlet blouse and jeans, with white gym shoes, her hair long, her lipstick dark. She worked part-time at Maplewood and part-time at a convenience store in Roseville, and on weekends at a Target. Sometimes the workload made her sick to her stomach; sometimes her legs ached so bad that she couldn’t bend them to sit down. But full-time jobs were hard to find. Economics, her Maplewood boss told her. You could patch together a bunch of part-time employees and avoid all benefits, he said. And it made scheduling easier. It wasn’t his fault, he said: he didn’t own the store. He was only following orders.

  She got the same story at the other places. If she didn’t like it, there were plenty of high school kids looking for jobs. It wasn’t as if she needed a lot of skill. Scan a code, and a number came u
p on the cash register. Scan another, and the machine told you the change. Kelsey Romm needed the work. Two kids, both in junior high. Two mistakes, running wild, the girl already into alcohol and who knew what else. She didn’t even like them much, but they were hers, no doubt about that.

  Kelsey Romm walked with her head down. She always walked with her head down. You didn’t see things that way. She didn’t see Druze, either. She walked to the car, an ’83 Chevy Cavalier, brown, a beater, air didn’t work, radio didn’t work, tires were going bald, the brakes sounded like they had air in them, the front-seat latch was broken . . . .

  She stuck her key in the door lock. She saw the man at the last minute and started to turn her head. The steel caught her behind the ear, and the last thing Kelsey Romm saw in her life was the entrance to the Maplewood Mall, and a kid leaning on a trashcan.

  If you’d told her this was the way it would end, she would have nodded. She would have said, “I believe it.”

  Druze saw her hurry through the entrance and knew instinctively that she’d be coming all the way out. He cracked the car door, so it would open silently. She had her head down and came straight across the lot, heading for the row behind Druze’s car. That was fine. That was good. He got out and sauntered down the row, flipped his keys in the air with one hand, picked them out with the other, did it again. There were still a few people on the sidewalks outside the mall, a kid standing by the entrance, looking the other way. This could work . . . .

  She came on, paying no attention to him, turned in at an old Chevy. He’d seen where she was going, and made his own move, cutting between the cars. If she had her keys in her hand, he thought, he might be too late. He put his own keys into his pocket, got a grip on the sharpening steel and stepped a little more quickly. She started digging in her purse as she turned in at her car, her head still down. Like a mole, Druze thought. Digging. He was close now, could see the shiny fabric of her shirt, glanced around, nobody . . .

  And he was there, swinging, the steel whipping around, the woman cocking her head at the last minute.

  The steel hit and bit and she went down, bouncing off the car as the professor had; but the woman made a noise, loud, like the caw of a crow, air from her lungs squeezing out. Druze looked around: he was okay, he thought. The kid by the garbage can might be looking at them . . . but he wasn’t moving.

  Druze stooped, pulled open the woman’s purse, found her keys, unlocked the door, picked her up and shoved her into the Chevy. The car had bucket seats with an automatic-transmission console between them, and she lay humped over the seats, in an awkward, broken position. Druze stood straight, checked the lot again, then got in with her, touched her neck. She wasn’t breathing. She was gone.

  He used a screwdriver on her eyes.

  Bekker was Beauty tonight, a little sting of amphetamine, just a taste of acid. His mind was moving, a facile, glittering thing, a mink of an intellect, and it worked through the problems in what seemed like no time at all . . . although time must have passed . . . it was light outside when he came home, and now, it was dark . . . How long . . . ? He went away again.

  Cheryl Clark had called him at his office.

  She wanted to come back, he thought. Knew his wife was gone now. Was trying to ingratiate herself. Had news: A cop had been coming around to see her. They wanted to know about his love life, his personal habits. She thought he should know, she said.

  Maybe he would see her again. She’d grown tiresome after a while, but there’d been a few nights . . . .

  His mind was like liquid fire, the taste of the MDMA in his mouth, under his tongue. What? More? He really should be more temperate . . . .

  When he came back—came back long enough to know that he would be okay—he’d found the solution to the surveillance. So simple; it had been there the whole time. He had a friend with the authorities, did he not?

  The surveillance net picked up Bekker as he left the alley, headed down to Hennepin Avenue and took Hennepin to the interstate. He went to the library, parked and went inside. The net was with him. Looked at a book in the reference section. Headed back to the car. One of the cops in the net looked at the book, a cross-reference directory for St. Paul. He noted the pages: if he’d had time to scan the names, he’d have found Lucas Davenport listed about halfway down the second column . . . .

  Across the Mississippi and then south. Nice neighborhood . . . Damn St. Paul addresses, the numbers had nothing to do with the streets. Started at 1 and went however high they needed to go . . .

  Davenport’s house was not particularly impressive, he thought when he found it, except for the location. One-story rambler, stone and white siding, big front yard. Nice house, but not terrific. Stephanie wouldn’t have given it a second look. Lights in the windows.

  He rang the doorbell, and a moment later Davenport was there.

  “Officer Davenport,” Bekker said, nodding, pleased to see Lucas. He had his hands in the pockets of his hip-length leather coat. “You said you would see that I’m not harassed. Why am I followed everywhere?”

  Davenport, perplexed, stepped out on the porch. His face was like a chunk of wood, and Bekker stepped back. “What?”

  “Why am I being followed? I know they’re out there,” Bekker said, flipping a hand at the street. “This is not paranoia. I’ve seen your officers watching me. Young men in college clothes and police shoes . . .”

  Davenport’s face suddenly tightened, seized by some sort of rictus, Bekker thought. He stepped close and gripped Bekker’s coat at the lapels. He lifted and Bekker went up on his toes.

  “Put me down . . .” Bekker said. He was strong, but Davenport held him awkwardly close and his arms were bent. He tried to push Davenport away, but the cop held him, shaking, apparently gripped by rage.

  “You never come to my house,” Davenport rasped, his eyes wide and crazy. “You hear that, motherfucker? The last guy that came to my house, I killed. You come to my house, I’ll kill your ass just like I did him.”

  “I’m, I’m sorry,” Bekker stuttered. Davenport was not the cool, rational cop who had walked through Stephanie’s bedroom. His eyes were straining open, his head cocked forward on a tense neck, his hands hard as stones.

  Davenport shoved Bekker back, releasing him. “Go. Get the fuck out of here.”

  Bekker staggered. Down the sidewalk, ten feet from the porch, he said, “I just wanted the surveillance pulled, I don’t want to be hectored . . . .”

  “Call the chief,” Lucas said. His voice was cold, brutal. “Just stay the fuck away from my house.”

  Davenport stepped back inside and shut the door. Bekker stood on the walk for a moment, looking at the door, not quite believing. Davenport had been friendly, he’d understood some things . . . .

  Bekker was in his car when his own anger caught him.

  Treated like a Russian peasant. Kicked down the stairs. Thrown off. He pounded his palms on the steering wheel. Saw himself striking out, the edge of his hand smashing under Davenport’s nose, blood rolling down his dark, bleak face; saw himself kicking, going for the balls . . .

  “Fuckin’ treat me like that, fuckin’ treat me like a . . . a . . . Fuckin’ treat me, you can’t, you better think about it . . . Fuckin’ treat me . . .”

  As Bekker drove away from Davenport’s house, the net still in place, a teenage boy strolled up to Kelsey Romm’s car and peeked inside. Was she fuckin’ somebody? What was she . . .

  He’d been leaning on a trashcan outside the mall entrance, waiting for something to happen, somebody to show up, when he saw something happen. He didn’t know what. There was this guy . . . . He had gotten a videocassette for his birthday, a movie, Darkman, his favorite flick. And this guy looked like Darkman, no bandages, but the hat was right . . . . And something happened.

  He saw the guy duck inside the car. He was in it for a moment or two; then he got out, went to another car and drove away. It never occurred to the kid to look at the license plate. And he was not the kind
of kid who knew his cars. He was just a kid who hung out and watched Darkman in the afternoons, after school . . . .

  The car with the woman didn’t move. When the other car, the Darkman car, was out of sight, the kid considered for a moment, then ambled across the sidewalk, down the long rows of cars. What was she? Was she, like, a hooker, giving blow jobs in the backseat? That’d be something.

  He got close, he peeked . . . .

  “Aw, Jesus . . . Aw, Jesus . . .” The kid ran toward the mall, his arms milling. Halfway there, he began screaming, “Help . . .”

  Lucas, still hot from Bekker’s visit, was working on Druid’s Pursuit when the watch commander called.

  CHAPTER

  23

  A thunderstorm was rolling across Minneapolis when Lucas left his house, lightning crackling through the clouds, storm-front winds lashing the elm branches overhead. He went north, up Highway 280, the lights of downtown Minneapolis to the west, barely visible through the advancing rain. The storm caught him just before he turned east, a few drops splatting off the windshield, and then a torrent, a waterfall, hailstones pecking on the roof, small white beads of ice bouncing off the road in his headlights. He turned east on I-694 and the rain slackened, then quit altogether as he outran the storm front.

  From the highway, the mall was screened by an intervening block of buildings, but he could see red emergency lights flashing off window glass. The White Bear Avenue exit was jammed. He put the Porsche on the shoulder and worked his way to the front. A Minnesota highway patrolman ran toward him, and Lucas hung his badge case out the window.

  “Davenport,” the patrolman said, leaning in the window. “Stay behind me and I’ll make a hole in this line.”