Eyes of Prey

by John Sandford

  And now Bekker. A flicker, here. An interest. He watched the first tickle, couldn’t deny it. Bekker. He ran his hand through his hair, watching the interest bud and grow. On the legal pad he wrote:

  Elle

  Funeral

  How can you lose with a two-item list? Even when—what was it called? a unipolar depression?—even when a unipolar depression’s got you by the balls, you can handle two numbers . . . .

  Lucas picked up the phone and called a nunnery.

  Sister Mary Joseph was talking to a student when Lucas arrived. Her door was open a few inches, and from a chair in the outer office he could see the left side of her scarred face. Elle Kruger had been the prettiest girl in their grade school. Later, after Lucas had gone, transferred to the public schools, she’d been ravaged by acne. He recalled the shock of seeing her, for the first time in years, at a high school district hockey tournament. She had been sitting in the stands, watching him on the ice, eyes sad, seeing his shock. The beautiful blonde Elle of his prepubescent dreams, gone forever. She’d found a vocation with the Church, she had told him that night, but Lucas was never quite sure. A vocation? She’d said yes. But her face . . . Now she sat in her traditional habit, the beads swinging by her side. Still Elle, somewhere.

  The college girl laughed again and stood up, her sweater a fuzzy scarlet blur behind the clouded glass of Elle’s office door. Then Elle was on her feet and the girl was walking past him, looking at him with an unhidden curiosity. Lucas waited until she was gone, then went into Elle’s office and sat in the visitor’s chair and crossed his legs.

  Elle looked him over, judging, then said, “How are you?”

  “Not bad . . .” He shrugged, then grinned. “I was hoping you could give me a name at the university. A doctor, somebody who’d know a guy in the pathology department. Off the record. A guy who can keep his mouth shut.”

  “Webster Prentice,” Elle said promptly. “He’s in psychology, but he works at the hospital and hangs out with the docs. Want his phone number?”

  Lucas did. As she flipped through a Rolodex, Elle asked, “How are you really?”

  He shrugged. “About the same.”

  “Are you seeing your daughter?”

  “Every other Saturday, but it’s unpleasant. Jen doesn’t want me there and Sarah’s old enough to sense it. I may give it up for a while.”

  “Don’t cut yourself off, Lucas,” Elle said sharply. “You can’t sit there in the dark every night. It’ll kill you.”

  He nodded. “Yeah, yeah . . .”

  “Are you dating anybody?”

  “Not right now.”

  “You should start,” the nun said. “Reestablish contact. How about coming back to the game?”

  “I don’t know . . . what’re you doing?”

  “Stalingrad. We can always use another Nazi.”

  “Maybe,” Lucas said noncommittally.

  “And what’s this about talking to Webster Prentice? Are you working on something?”

  “A woman got killed. Beaten to death. I’m taking a look,” Lucas said.

  “I read about it,” Elle said, nodding. “I’m glad you’re working it. You need it.”

  Lucas shrugged again. “I’ll see,” he said.

  She scribbled a phone number on an index card and passed it to him.

  “Thanks . . .” He leaned forward, about to stand.

  “Sit down,” she said. “You’re not getting out of here that easy. Are you sleeping?”

  “Yeah, some.”

  “But you’ve got to exhaust yourself first.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Alcohol?”

  “Not much. A few times, scotch. When I’d get so tired I couldn’t move, but I couldn’t sleep. The booze would take me out . . . .”

  “Feel better in the morning?”

  “My body would.”

  “The Crows beat you up pretty bad,” Elle said. The Crows were Indians, either terrorists or patriots. Lucas had helped kill them. Television had tried to make a hero out of him, but the case had cost him his relationship with his woman friend and their daughter. “You finally found out that there’s a price for living the way you do. And you found out that you can die. And so can your kid.”

  “I always knew that,” Lucas said.

  “You didn’t feel it. And if you don’t feel it, you don’t believe it,” Elle rapped back.

  “I don’t worry about dying,” he said. “But I had something going with Jennifer and Sarah.”

  “Maybe that’ll come back. Jennifer’s never said it was over forever.”

  “Sounds like it.”

  “You need time, all of you,” Elle said. “I won’t do therapy on you. I can’t be objective. We’ve got too much history. But you should talk to somebody. I can give you some names, good people.”

  “You know what I think about shrinks,” Lucas said.

  “You don’t think that about me.”

  “Like you said—we have a history. But I don’t want a shrink, ’cause I can’t help what I think about them. Maybe a couple of pills or something . . .”

  “You can’t cure what you’ve got with pills, Lucas. Only two things will do that. Time or therapy.”

  “I’ll take the time,” he said.

  She threw up her hands in surrender, her teeth flashing white in a youthful smile. “If you really get your back against the wall, call me. I have a doctor friend who’ll prescribe some medication without threatening your manhood with therapy.”

  She went with him to the exit and watched as he walked out to his car, down the long greening lawn, the sun flicking through the bare trees. When he stepped from the shelter of the building, the wind hit him in the face, with just a finger of warmth. Spring wind. Summer coming. Behind him, on the other side of the door, Elle Kruger kissed her crucifix and began a rosary.

  CHAPTER

  4

  Bekker dressed as carefully as he had cleaned himself: a navy suit, a blue broadcloth shirt, a dark tie with small burgundy comma figures, black loafers with lifts. He slipped a pair of sunglasses into his breast pocket. He would use them to hide his grief, he thought. And his eyes, should there be anyone of unusual perception in the crowd.

  The funeral would be a waste of his time. He had to go, but it would be a waste of his time. He sighed, put on the sunglasses, and looked at himself in the mirror. Not bad. He flicked a piece of lint off the shoulder of the suit and smiled at himself.

  Not bad at all.

  When he was ready, he took one of the Contac capsules from the brass cigarette case, pulled it apart and dumped the powder on the glass top of the bedstand. The Contac people would pee down their pant legs if they’d known, he thought: pure medical cocaine. He snorted it, absorbed the rush, collected himself and walked out to the car.

  The drive to the funeral home was short. He liked this one funeral home. He was familiar with it. He giggled and just as quickly smothered the giggle. He must not do that. He must not. And then he thought: Compassionate leave, and almost giggled again. The University had given him compassionate leave . . . . God, funny as that was, he couldn’t let it show.

  Phenobarbital? About right for a funeral. It’d give him the right look. He took the brass cigarette case from his pocket, keeping one eye on the road, opened it, popped a phenobarbital tab. Thought about it, took a second. Naughty boy. And just a lick of PCP? Of course. The thing about PCP was, it stiffened you, gave you a wooden look. He’d seen it in himself. And that would be right, too, for a grieving husband. But not too much. He popped a PCP tab, bit it in half, spit half back into the cigarette case, swallowed the other half. Ready now.

  He parked a block from the funeral home, walked briskly, if a bit woodenly—the PCP already?—down the sidewalk. Minnesota had turned springlike with its usual fickle suddenness. It could revert to winter just as quickly, but for now it was wonderful. A warm slanting sun; red-bellied robins in the yards, bouncing around, looking for worms; fat buds on the trees, the smell
of wet grass . . . The warm feeling of the phenobarbital coming on.

  He stopped outside the funeral home and took a deep breath. God, it was fine to be alive. Without Stephanie.

  The funeral home was built of tan stone, in what some funereal architect must have supposed was a British style. Inside, it was simply cold. A hundred people came to the funeral, people from the decorating world, from the university. The women, he thought, all in their dark dresses, looked at him speculatively as he walked slowly up the aisle. Women were like that. Stephanie not yet cold in the grave . . .

  He sat down, blocked out the organ music that seeped from hidden speakers and began toting up the assets. Hard to do with the phenobarbital in his blood, but he persisted. The house was worth better than half a million. The furnishings another two hundred thousand—not even her asshole relatives realized that. Stephanie had bought with an insider’s eye, had traded up, had salvaged. Bekker didn’t care for the place, but some people considered it a treasure house. For himself, Bekker wanted an apartment, up high, white walls, pale birch woodwork, a few Mayan pieces. He’d get it, and still put a half-million in the mutual funds. He’d drag down seventy-five thousand a year, if he picked his funds carefully. On top of his salary . . .

  He almost smiled, thinking about it, caught the impulse and glanced around.

  There were a number of people he didn’t recognize, but most of them were sitting with people he did, in obvious groups and pairings. People from Stephanie’s world of antiques and restoration. Stephanie’s family, her father, her brothers and sisters, her cop cousin. He nodded at her father, who had fixed him with a glare, and looked farther back into the crowd.

  One man, sitting alone near the back, caught his attention. He was muscular, dark-complected, in a gray European-cut suit. Good-looking, like a boxer might be. And he seemed interested in Bekker. He’d followed his progress up the aisle, into the chair that half faced the coffin, half faced the mourners. Safe behind the sunglasses, Bekker returned the man’s gaze. For one goofy minute, Bekker thought he might be Stephanie’s lover. But that was crazy. A guy like this wouldn’t go for Stephanie, would he? Chunky Stephanie? Stephanie No-Eyes?

  Then Swanson, the cop who had interviewed him when he got back from San Francisco, walked into the church, looked around and sat next to the stranger. They leaned their heads closer and spoke a few words, the stranger still watching Bekker. The tough guy was a cop.

  All right. Bekker dismissed him, and looked again through the gathering crowd. Philip George came in with his wife, Annette, and sat behind the cop. Bekker’s eyes traveled across him without hesitating.

  The lover. Who was the lover?

  The funeral was mercilessly long. Twelve people spoke. Stephanie was good, Stephanie was kind. Stephanie worked for the community.

  Stephanie was a pain in the ass.

  Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me . . . .

  Bekker went away . . . .

  When he came back, the mourners were on their feet, looking at him. It was over, what? Yes, he should walk out, one hand on the side rail of the coffin . . . .

  Afterward, at the cemetery, Bekker walked alone to his car, aware of the eyes on him. The women, looking. He composed his face: I need a mask, a grave mask, he thought. He giggled at the pun. He couldn’t help himself.

  He turned, struggling to keep his face straight. The crowd was watching, all right. And on the hillside, in the grass, the man in the European suit, watching.

  He needed something to enhance his mood. His hand strayed to the cigarette case. He had two more of the special Contacs, a half-dozen methamphetamines. They’d be fine after the barbs.

  And a little ecstasy for dessert?

  But of course . . .

  The funeral was crowded, the coffin closed. Lucas sat next to Swanson, the lead investigator. Del sat with Stephanie Bekker’s family.

  “The sonofabitch looks stoned,” Swanson mumbled, poking Lucas with an elbow. Lucas turned and watched Bekker go by. Astonishingly good-looking: almost too much, Lucas thought. Like a mythological beast, assembled from the best parts of several animals, Bekker’s face seemed to have been assembled from the best features of several movie stars.

  “Is he hurt?” Lucas whispered. Bekker was walking awkwardly, his legs like lumber.

  “Not that I know of,” Swanson whispered back.

  Bekker walked down the aisle; one hand on the coffin, unbending, his eyes invisible behind dark sunglasses. Occasionally his lips moved, as though he were mumbling to himself, or praying. It did not seem an act: the woodenness appeared to be real.

  He followed the coffin to the hearse, waited until it was loaded, then walked down the block to his car. At the car he turned and looked directly at Lucas. Lucas felt the eyes and stood still, watching, letting their gazes touch. And then Bekker was gone.

  Lucas went to the cemetery, curious. What was it with Bekker? Grief? Despair? An act? What?

  He watched from a hillside as Stephanie Bekker’s coffin was lowered into the ground. Bekker never changed: his beautiful face was as immobile as a lump of clay.

  “What do you think?” Swanson asked, when Bekker had gone.

  “I think the guy’s a fruitcake,” Lucas said. “But I don’t know what kind.”

  Lucas spent the rest of the afternoon and early evening putting the word out on his network, a web of hookers, bookstore owners, barbers, mailmen, burglars, gamblers, cops, a couple of genteel marijuana dealers: Anything on a hit? Any nutso walking around with big cash?

  A few minutes after six, he took a call on his handset and drove back downtown to police headquarters in the scabrous wart of Minneapolis City Hall. Sloan met him in the hall outside the chief’s office.

  “You hear?” Sloan asked.

  “What?”

  “We got a letter from a guy who says he was there when Stephanie got killed. Loverboy.”

  “No ID?”

  “No. But there’s a lot of stuff in the letter . . . .”

  Lucas followed Sloan past the vacant secretary’s desk to the inner office. Daniel sat behind his desk, rolling a cigar between his fingers, listening to a Homicide detective who sat in a green leather chair in front of the desk. Daniel looked up when Sloan rapped on the open door.

  “C’mon in, Sloan. Davenport, how are you? Swanson’s filling me in.”

  Lucas and Sloan pulled up chairs on either side of the Homicide detective and Lucas asked him, “What’s this letter?”

  Swanson passed him a Xerox copy. “We were just talking about possibilities. Could be a doper, scared off by Loverboy. Unless Loverboy did it.”

  “You think it’s Loverboy?”

  The detective shook his head. “No. Read the letter. It more or less hangs together with the scene. And you saw Bekker.”

  “Nobody has a good word for the guy,” Sloan said.

  “Except professionally. The docs at the university say his work is top-notch,” Swanson said. “I talked to some people in his department. ‘Ground-breaking,’ is what they say . . . .”

  “You know what bothers me?” Lucas said. “In this letter, Loverboy says she was on her back in a pool of blood, dead. I saw the pictures, and she was facedown next to the wall. He doesn’t mention a handprint. I think he left her there alive . . . .”

  “He did,” Swanson said, nodding. “She died just about the time the paramedics got there—they even gave her some kind of heart shot, trying to get it going again. Nothing happened, but she hadn’t been dead very long, and the blood under her head was fresh. The blood on the floor, though, the blood by the sink, had already started to coagulate. They figure she was alive for fifteen or twenty minutes after the attack. Her brain was all fucked up—who knows what she could have told us? But if Loverboy had called nine-one-one, she might still be around.”

  “Fucker,” Sloan said. “Does that make him an accomplice?”

>   Swanson shrugged. “You’d have to ask a lawyer about that.”

  “How about this doctor, the guy she talked with at parties . . .” Lucas asked.

  “That’s under way,” Daniel said.

  “You doing it?” Lucas asked Sloan.

  “No. Andy Shearson.”

  “Shit, Shearson? He couldn’t find his own asshole with both hands and a pair of searchlights,” Lucas said in disbelief.

  “He’s what we’ve got and he’s not that bad,” Daniel said. He stuck the end of the cigar in his mouth, nipped it off, took the butt end from his mouth, examined it and then tossed it into a wastebasket. “We’re getting a little more TV on this one—random-killer bullshit. I’d hate to see it get any bigger.”

  “The story’ll be gone in a week. Sooner, if we get a decent dope killing,” Sloan said.

  “Maybe, maybe not,” Daniel said. “Stephanie Bekker was white and upper middle class. Reporters identify with that kind of woman. They could keep it going for a while.”

  “We’ll push,” Swanson said. “Talk to Bekker some more. We’re doing the neighborhood. Checking parking tickets in the area, talking to Stephanie Bekker’s friends. The main thing is, find the boyfriend. Either he did it or he saw it.”

  “He says the killer looks like a goblin,” Lucas said, reading through the letter. “What the hell does that mean?”

  “Fuck if I know,” said Swanson.

  “Ugly,” said Daniel. “Barrel-chested . . .”

  “Do we know for sure that the goblin’s not Bekker? That Bekker was actually in San Francisco?” Lucas asked.

  “Yeah, we do,” Swanson said. “We wired a photo out, had the San Francisco cops show it to the desk people at Bekker’s hotel. He was there, no mistake.”