“On Washington,” Sloan said on the handset. A passing student, a slender, long-haired kid in an ankle-length coat with an ankh on a chain around his neck, looked at him curiously and said, “Can’t be Cyrano, with that nose.”
“Fuck off, kid,” Lucas said. He shaded his eyes as he looked down Washington Avenue toward the river.
“On the bridge,” Sloan called on the handset.
“Okay,” said Lucas, on his own set.
“Cop?” asked the kid.
“Go away,” Lucas said. “You could fuck up something important and I’d have to throw your ass in jail.”
“That’s a good argument,” the kid said, walking hastily away.
• • •
Bekker’s car was on the bridge, pacing the traffic. Lucas squatted on the far side of the footbridge, out of sight, until Bekker was less than a hundred feet away. He should get just a flash . . . . Now.
Lucas stood up and peered over the bridge. Bekker saw him, swerved. Lucas was gone, hurrying toward the chemistry building.
“He saw you, he’s on the side, he’s on the side,” Sloan called.
“Is he coming?”
“Naw, he’s still in his car . . . .”
Bekker sat at the side of the road, his head on the steering wheel. He was afraid to sleep, waiting to move. And now here was Druze, coming back . . . .
He made a U-turn and drove back across the Mississippi, left his car in a dormitory parking lot and walked to the library. A loose net stayed with him, watching. Inside, Bekker scanned an index for the StarTribune, looked up the appropriate issue and wrote down the details about the death of a tramp.
From a phone booth, he called the medical examiner.
“I’m trying to locate my father, who . . . had some mental problems,” he said. “We weren’t close, I was adopted by another family, but I’ve heard now from an old friend of his that he died and was buried by Hennepin County last year . . . . I was wondering if you could tell me which funeral homes you use, so I could find out where he’s buried.”
The county used four funeral homes, selected on an annual bid basis. Walker & Son, Halliburton’s, Martin’s and Hall Bros. He called them in order. Martin’s took his last quarter.
“Martin’s . . .” The voice low and already consoling.
“I’m calling about the funeral for a Carlo Druze . . . .”
“That’s Friday.”
“Will there be a viewing?”
“Uh, well, there usually is, but I’d have to check. Can you hold?”
“Yes . . .”
The woman was gone for three or four minutes. When she returned, she asked, “Are you a member of Mr. Druze’s family?”
“No . . . I’m from the theater . . . .”
“Well, Mr. Druze’s mother made some tentative arrangements which did not include a viewing, but now we understand that several theater people will be coming, so we’re planning a viewing from seven to nine o’clock tomorrow night in the Rose Chapel, with burial at Shakopee. We will have to contact his mother again for approval.”
“Tomorrow night, from seven to nine . . .” Bekker closed his eyes. The burial was sooner than he’d expected, or dared to hope. Druze had died two days before, and he would be buried in another two days. Bekker had been afraid that it would be a week, or even more, before the body was released. He could hold out for a week, he thought, with the right medication. Longer than that, and he’d have to let go, he’d have to go down and face Druze in the territory of dreams.
But now that would not happen. Tomorrow night and it would be over.
CHAPTER
31
Bekker saw Druze twice more, or thought he did: he couldn’t decide, finally, whether he was seeing Druze or an image within his own eye.
He saw him two blocks from his house, a dark thing drifting around a corner. Bekker stood, his mouth open, the newspaper in his hand, and the figure disappeared like a wisp of black fog. He saw him again at midafternoon, passing in a car half a block away. Bekker’s eye was caught first by the car, then by the obscured dark form behind the driver’s-side glass. He could feel the eyes peering out at him . . . .
He was eating Equanil like popcorn, with an occasional taste of amphetamine; he was afraid to sleep, was living out of his study, from which he’d removed all the glass. If he could spend the day staring at the carpet . . .
He had trouble thinking. He would be all right after Druze was done. He could clear himself out for a while, go off the medications . . . . What? He couldn’t remember. Harder to think. The units of thought, the concepts, seemed bound in threads of possibility, the threads tangled beyond his ability to follow them . . . .
He struggled with it: and time passed.
• • •
The funeral home was a gloomier place than it had to be, dark red-brown brick and natural stone, with a snaky growth of still leafless ivy clinging to the stone.
Bekker, shaky, anxious but anticipating, black beauties nestled in his pocket, drove past once, twice. There were few cars on the street but several in the funeral home driveway. As he was making his second pass, the front door opened and a half-dozen people came out and stood clustered on the steps, talking.
Older, most of them, they were dressed in long winter coats and dark hats, like wealthy Russians. Bekker slowed, eased the car to the curb, watched the people on the steps. Their talk was animated: an argument? He couldn’t tell. After five minutes, the cluster began to break up. In ones and twos, they drifted out to their cars and, finally, were gone.
Bekker tried to wait but couldn’t. The pressure to move . . . and there was nobody in sight. He didn’t much credit the funeral home receptionist’s comment that theater people were expected, but you never knew with theater people. He climbed out of the car, looked around, walked slowly up the driveway to the funeral home. A car cruised past and he turned his head. A man watching him? Druze again? He wasn’t sure. He didn’t care. In five minutes, he’d be done . . . .
The net was with him:
“He’s out of the car, looking at the door,” the close man said, driving on by. He didn’t look at Bekker, who was walking slowly up the driveway.
There was no place to hide in the Rose Chapel, but the other rooms were worse. Lucas finally decided he could drive a nail through the top panel of one of the double doors, then pull the nail and have a hole large enough to peep through. The manager wouldn’t let him use a nail, but did loan him a power drill with a sixteenth-inch bit. When Lucas, standing in the dark behind the doors, pressed his eye to the hole, he could see the entire coffin area.
“Go up there, bend over him,” he told Sloan. Del was leaning against the wall, faintly amused. Sloan stood over the coffin and looked back at the doors. The hole was invisible.
“Put your hand on his head, or over it, or something,” Lucas called from behind the doors. Sloan put his hand over Druze’s head. A moment later, the doors opened.
“Can’t see your hand,” Lucas said. He looked around the room. “But I think any other arrangement would look wrong.”
“Yeah, with the alcove like that,” Sloan said, nodding toward the coffin.
Del grinned. “We could, like, put, you know, a spring with a clown under his eyelids, and when Bekker pulls it open, see, it pops up . . . .”
“I like it,” Sloan said. “Motherfucker’d have a heart attack . . . .”
“Jesus,” Lucas said, glancing toward the body. “I think we’ll settle for the hole in the door.”
“He’s moving,” said the voice on the handset.
Sloan looked at Lucas. “You cool?”
“I’m cool,” Lucas said.
“So’m I,” Del said. He unconsciously dropped his hand back to his hip, where he kept a small piece clipped to his belt. “I’m cool, too.”
The receptionist came from Intelligence and spent his nights working undercover. “No problem,” he said. “I could win a fuckin’ Oscar, the work I do.” There were two sq
uads immediately available, and the surveillance team coming in with Bekker.
“He’s here,” the radio burped ten minutes later. “He’s going past.”
Bekker rambled through the neighborhood, looking it over, and made another pass at the front of the funeral home before he stopped.
“He’s out of the car, looking at the door,” the radio said.
“Everybody . . .” Lucas said.
A finger of joy touched his soul. In five minutes . . .
Bekker wore a trench coat and a crushable hat, with leather driving gloves. The scalpel, a plastic tube protecting the point, was clipped in his shirt pocket. The funeral home door, he thought, looked like the door on a bad ski chalet . . . .
The funeral home was overly warm. An antique mirror, like those collected by Stephanie, surprised him just inside the door. He flinched, jerked his eyes away, but found them drawn back . . . .
Druze was gone. Beauty looked back at him. Beauty looked fine, he thought, but tired. Unusual lines crossed his wide brow, gathered at the corners of his eyes. A different look, he thought, but not unattractive. French, perhaps, a world-weariness . . . like the actor with the home-rolled cigarette. What was his name? He couldn’t concentrate, his own image floating in front of him like a dream. And then a gathering darkness behind his image, and . . .
He pulled his eyes away. Druze was there, still waiting.
“Buchanan?”
“What?” Bekker jumped. He’d been so engrossed in the mirror that he hadn’t heard the funeral home receptionist until the man was virtually on top of him.
“Are you here for Mr. Buchanan?” The receptionist seemed ordinary, a thin man in a conservative coat and flannel slacks, a man with no particular relationship to death, although he worked in the middle of it. No imagination . . .
“No . . .” Bekker said, “ah, Mr. Druze?”
“Oh, yes. That would be the Rose Chapel. Down to your right . . .” The receptionist pointed like a real estate man giving directions to the third bedroom, the one that was a little too small.
“Thank you.”
The funeral home was quiet, all sounds smothered by plush drapes and heavy carpets. To quiet the weeping, Bekker guessed. As he stepped into the Rose Chapel, he glanced back at the receptionist. The man had turned away and seemed about to go down to the next room, when a phone rang in the entry. The receptionist stopped, picked up the receiver and launched into a conversation. Good. Bekker stepped into the chapel.
Lucas stood out of sight, heard the Intelligence guy ask the question, heard Bekker say, “No . . . ah, Mr. Druze?” A moment later the phone rang. Worried that Bekker might arrive and yet develop cold feet, they’d worked out the diversion of the telephone, with Sloan calling from a back room. If Bekker could hear the receptionist talking, he’d be encouraged to act.
The Rose Chapel was small, with fifteen dark wooden chairs facing the coffin. The plaster walls were a pale shade of rose; the woodwork an antique cream. A closed pair of double doors was straight ahead of Bekker, apparently leading to the depths of the funeral home; they were sized to take a coffin on a gurney.
The coffin itself was to Bekker’s right, on a dais within a plaster alcove. Roses were molded into the plaster, and individually hand-painted. The dais was covered with a rose-colored drape, a deeper shade than the walls. Bekker could see the side of Druze’s head and his heavy shoulders under a dark suit.
Beauty was pushing through now, anxious for the celebration, moving him. He could hear the receptionist talking, faintly, far away, and he moved to the front. His hand went to his pocket, found the scalpel. He pulled the tube off the end and moved next to the coffin.
Druze’s head was large, he thought. Not just a pumpkin, but a big pumpkin. His face had been liberally worked with makeup, so the patchwork of skin grafts was barely visible. The nose, of course . . . not much you could do about that. He frowned. Too bad. Druze actually had been something of a friend. A man you could talk to. But he had to go; Bekker had known that from the beginning. Murder was something you didn’t share, except with the dead.
Lucas pressed his eye to the hole in the double doors. He couldn’t see Bekker as he came in, couldn’t see his beautiful face as he went by. Bekker paused, just for a moment, in front of the coffin, looking down. Lucas could hear the receptionist muttering in the hall, and then, suddenly, Bekker was on Druze, bending over, the hand out of sight, but working over him . . . .
Bekker glanced back over his shoulder, then reached across Druze’s face with his left hand and lifted his eyelid. The eye beneath was intact, but dull, dry, a piece of leather, staring sightlessly and unflinchingly at the ceiling. His heart pounding, the pressure in his veins, the murmur of the receptionist’s conversation providing him with the necessary security, Bekker plunged the point of the scalpel into Druze’s eyeball, and then turned the handle, like a corkscrew. He felt some of the weight leave him, a pressure gone from his shoulders.
Quickly, quickly, his mouth open, panting, he did the second eye, looking over his shoulder, twisting the knife . . . .
And he was free. He felt it, almost as if he were being lifted from the floor. He did a little step, Beauty coming on, and looked back at Druze.
The eyelids were open, wrinkled and pulled up, like fragments of dead leaves. His heart beating hard and with joy, Beauty reached out to smooth them down, round them carefully, the scalpel still in his hand. He stepped back.
“Cut his eyes, Mike?”
The voice broke on him like a bucket of ice water, crashing down, snatching his breath away, each word hurting, a sharp stone: CUT HIS EYES, MIKE?
Bekker whirled, the scalpel still in his right hand.
Davenport was there, leaning in the double doors, wearing a dark leather jacket, a pistol in his hands, pointed not at Bekker but to one side. He looked wired, his eyes wide, his hair dirty, his face unshaven. A thug. Another man came in from the left, and then a third, Stephanie’s dope-addict cousin, Del. The receptionist was behind them.
“ . . . ’Cause if you cut his eyes, Mike, we got you for the kids, too. We just dug them up today and the medical examiner says they were done with a knife just like that one, a scalpel. Is that a scalpel, Mike?”
Bekker stood speechless, the words bouncing through his brain, GOT YOU FOR THE KIDS, TOO, and Davenport moved in on him. One of the other cops, a thin man, said, “Be cool,” but Bekker had no idea what that meant.
Lucas moved in on him, the pistol in his hand. Bekker was startlingly beautiful in the soft light coming off the rose plaster, a violent contrast to the leathery patchwork face of the man behind him.
Lucas’ mind was pure ice: he could do anything when his mind was like this, he thought. Some of it was the speed. He’d been up three days now, but felt awake and in control, sharp, as sharp as he ever had. He reached Bekker, brushed past him, ignoring the scalpel, stretched past him, lifted Druze’s eyelids with his left hand, just as Bekker had. Bekker turned away.
Lucas, ice, stepped away from the coffin and glanced at Sloan.
“Cut them right through. Want to take a look?”
Lucas was crowding Bekker with his hip, and Bekker tried to move back, letting the scalpel slip from his fingers as he moved. It bounced off the deep carpet, the blade pointing at him like a steel finger.
“Got them both—really did a job,” Sloan said, bending over Druze’s body.
“What I want to know,” Lucas said to Bekker in a conversational tone, “is why you killed Cassie Lasch. Why’d you have to do that? Couldn’t you just have done Druze? Just gone in there, stuck the gun in his ear and pulled the trigger? You could have stashed the photos anyway and we’d have gotten the point . . . .”
Bekker’s mouth was open, but no sound came out.
“I need an answer,” Lucas said.
“Cool,” said Sloan, catching his coat sleeve.
“Fuck cool,” said Del, moving up on the other side of Bekker. He put his face four inches from the ot
her man and said, “I knew Stephanie longer than you did, Mike. Loved that girl. So you know what?”
Bekker, caught between Lucas and Del, shrinking back against the wall, still didn’t answer.
“You know what?” Del screamed, his eyes wide.
“Hey, now,” said the Intelligence cop. He had Del by the coat.
“What?” Bekker croaked, half under his breath.
“I’m going to beat the snot out of you, m’boy,” Del said. His right hand came around in an arc and hit Bekker in the nose. Bekker slammed against the wall, his nose broken, blood gushing down his chin. He put his arms up, crossed his face.
“Wait,” Sloan yelled. He tried to step around Lucas, but Lucas pushed him; and before Sloan could recover, Del hit Bekker twice more, once with each hand, evading Bekker’s feeble block. Bekker’s head snapped back twice more, the back of it knocking the wall like a judge’s gavel, and another cut opened on his eyebrow. The Intelligence cop was on Del’s back, and Sloan wrapped him from the front and pushed him away. Bekker was moaning, one hand cupping his nose, a high, dying sound: “Eeeee . . .”
“That’s enough, that’s enough!” Sloan screamed. They hauled Del back, and Bekker dropped one of his covering hands.
“No, it’s not,” Lucas said quietly. He was less than an arm’s length from Bekker. Sloan and the Intelligence cop were struggling with Del but looking toward Lucas.
The pistol came around like a whip, the front sight leading the arc.
“ ’Member Cassie, motherfucker?” Lucas said, the words as much a groan as a scream. Saliva sprayed into Bekker’s face, and Lucas had him by the throat with his left hand. Bekker had time only to flinch before the sight sliced across his cheek and the side of his nose. A ragged furrow opened in its wake. Bekker grunted from the impact, a pain like fire ripping through his face.
Lucas, precise, quick, moving with the easy coordination of a speed-bag man, hit Bekker with the gun a dozen times, leading with the sight.