Silent Prey (28 page)

“Look, half the goddamn department will be here in five minutes,” Lucas said. “If we’re fucked up, we can always apologize to each other later. For now, just freeze the place.”

“What about you guys . . . ?” the uniform asked.

“We’re going upstairs. You stay here, don’t let anybody or anything in or out. Just freeze the scene and be careful. Bekker might be down below, for all we know, and he’s armed.”

“This is Bekker?”

“This is Bekker,” Lucas confirmed. To Fell, he said, “Come on. Let’s get him.”

Lily called the patrol lieutenant at the Fifth Precinct and ordered backup squads to Lacey’s building: “It’s Bekker,” she said. “Get them there
now.
”

She dropped the phone back on its cradle and sat down, heavily, in O’Dell’s visitor’s chair, sorting it out.

They were in the car
 . . .

O’Dell peered at her across his expansive desk. “What was that all about?” he asked. “The call from Davenport? I believe I was mentioned.” His voice was ugly, peremptory. Cold.

Lily shook her head.

“I want to know what he said, Lieutenant,” O’Dell barked.

“Shut up, I’m thinking,” she said.

O’Dell’s eyes narrowed and he sat back. He’d been a politician for five decades, and he instinctively reacted to the warning tone in her voice. Balances had changed somewhere, and he didn’t know exactly where. He tried a probe.

“I won’t be maneuvered, Lieutenant,” he said,
emphasizing the rank. “Perhaps a precinct-level job would be more your style after all.”

Lily had been peering at the wall above his head, her lips moving slightly. Now she dropped her eyes to his face: “You should have wiped out the ticket requisition for Red Reed before you sent him to South Carolina, John. I’ve got the ticket vouchers with your signature, I’ve got the reports on his alleged statements, I’ve even got the Columbia University transcripts showing that he took classes you lectured at. I also know you fixed at least one drug arrest for him. So don’t give me any shit about precinct-level jobs, okay?”

O’Dell nodded and settled in his chair. This could be handled. Everything can be handled by he who waits. He sat silently as she stared at the wall above his head. Finally, a tear trickled down her cheek and she said, “I need your help with the computer.”

“What about the Red Reed stuff?” O’Dell asked.

“I’m not going to
use
it, for Christ’s sakes. I mean, I can’t conceive of any circumstances that I’d use it. It was just something . . . I found out.”

O’Dell grinned in spite of himself. This could be handled, all right. The question now was, who would do the handling? “Davenport,” he said. “You
told
me not to underestimate him. But he looks like a fuckin’ brawler with that scar on his face, and what he did to Bekker . . .”

“Two Robin Hoods just showed up at Bekker’s hideout. Lucas is going to take them.”

“What?” Now O’Dell was confused.

“The computer?”

“Tell me what’s going on . . . .”

“I want you to run Copland against Kennett.”

O’Dell stared, his thick lips going in and out as he did the calculations, a nursing motion, wet and unpleasant.
“Oh, no,” he said. He turned, pulled himself across to the computer terminal, flicked a switch, waited until the computer booted up, entered a user name and password, and began the process.

The matching run took ten minutes. A double column of dates and times marched down the screen.

“All so many years ago,” O’Dell said tonelessly, reading down the list. “They must’ve been like father and son. Copland broke him in on the beat. Copland was a tough old bird. He busted more than a few heads in his day.”

“Kennett planted him on you. How long ago?”

O’Dell shrugged. “Five years now. He’s been driving me for five years. He must have a microphone arrangement in the car, or a bug—or maybe he just pulled out some sound insulation, so he could hear us talk. Every damn thing we said.” He looked at Lily. “How?”

“Lucas looked at everything, figured that Robin Hood was either you or Kennett . . . . He trusted my judgment that it wasn’t Kennett. At least, he said he trusted my judgment. And he likes Kennett.”

“I’m mildly flattered that he thought I could do it,” O’Dell said. “So you and Davenport set me up?”

“He suggested that I cover your phones, then plant some information with you and see what happened. Watch where it went. We hadn’t agreed on exactly what to do, we were going to talk about it tonight. Then this came up. When he called us with the Bekker thing, he wasn’t at Citibank. He was already watching Bekker’s place. He expected you to call somebody and maybe send somebody down, some Robin Hoods. And some showed up. But I’ve been with you . . . .”

O’Dell said, “Now what?”

The tears had started down her face again, but she seemed unaware of them. “What do you mean?”

He made a questioning gesture with his hands, palms up. At the same time, an oddly satisfied expression had settled on his face. “You seem to be running things for the time being. So what do we do?”

She looked at him for a moment, then said, “Call Carter, with Kennett’s group.”

“Yeah?”

“Tell him what’s happening with Bekker, but tell him to cut Kennett out of the loop.”

“What about you?”

“Don’t ask,” she said. She stood and wobbled toward the door of her own office. “Don’t fuckin’ ask, ’cause I don’t know.”

Bekker crouched over Bridget Land, his scalpel in hand, frozen, humming . . . .

When the front door came down, he snapped back, looked down at himself, as though to make sure he was still there, and then at the woman on the table, the scalpel, the monitoring equipment. He heard the footsteps, then the shouts.

Too soon, they’d come too soon, when he was so close.

A tear ran down his cheek. His life had been like this, misunderstood, tormented, unappreciated. Bridget Land, still alive, but hurt, strained away from him, silently . . . .

To do one more would only take minutes, he thought. If he could hold himself together, if they didn’t come down too soon.

But Davenport was coming. The gun. He turned, the scalpel in front of his face. The gun was in the other room.

Two impulses fought for control. One propelled him toward the gun, for Davenport; the other told him to
finish with Land. Maybe Land would be the transcendent one . . . .

“Don’t shoot me in the ass,” Lucas said.

He edged up the stairs, Fell two steps behind. Her face was pale, determined, her pistol at Lucas’ waist and to the left.

“Just don’t roll left,” she said.

“Uh-uh . . .”

The smell of marijuana was steeping from the walls, and something else. Lucas sniffed, frowned. Cat urine? And the marijuana odor was years old, not Bekker. In any case, Bekker wasn’t much interested in the weed.

At the corner, the first landing, Lucas could see the second-floor door standing partly open, hear Fell breathing below and beside him, smell her faint scent under the odors of the grass and cat piss . . . .

He moved up slowly, across a landing, back against the wall. With the tip of his .45, he pushed the door open. A hall led away, past a closet door, into a living room; he could see the left edge of a television screen. There was no movement, no sound. And the room lacked the peculiar spatial tension of a person in hiding. It
felt
clear.

“Going in,” he whispered.

He stepped past the open doorway to another flight of stairs, the second flight stacked with cardboard cartons, the cartons grimy with years of dust and flaking paint.

“Move,” he whispered to Fell. She nodded and eased past him, leveled her gun through the door.

“Go,” she whispered back. Lucas crouched, took a breath, then scuttled through the open door on his hands and knees, one hand pushing, his gun extended toward the living room arch, searching for movement, for an anomaly . . . . Nothing.

He stood, held up a hand cautioning her, did a quick head-juke to scan the living room again, then went in. When he was sure it was clear, he waved her in. They checked a sitting room and a dining room; found a pair of glasses lying beside the couch, thick lenses, bifocals. Old-lady glasses. Checked the closets, groped through them. Nothing.

The kitchen was small, smelled of boiled beets, boiled cabbage, boiled carrots, porridge. A pool of water shimmered below the refrigerator. Fell squatted next to it, then looked up at the refrigerator. The main door wasn’t quite closed, and water dripped from the bottom of it. She pointed, then put her finger to her lips.

Lucas, standing beside her, reached out, took the door handle. Nodded. Jerked it open.

“Aw, shit,” Fell said, lurching away from the refrigerator.

Mrs. Lacey hadn’t fit that well, but Bekker had managed to crush her into the limited space. Her head lay at right angles across her shoulders, and the light behind her head glowed like a perverse advertisement. Her eyes were bloody holes. A dozen cans of Coke were carefully stacked around her body, one jammed between her twisted arms and her chest. Two dead cats were stuffed in a plastic meat compartment, their tails trailing out.

“Jesus. Jesus.” Lucas backed away. “Let’s go up the next one, but make it quick.”

“You think he’s up there?” Fell asked doubtfully. She was staring at the refrigerator, her throat working.

“No. If he’s in the building, he’s down—I don’t feel anything up here.”

“Air’s too quiet,” Fell said. “C’mon, you cover me . . . .”

She went ahead for the next flight, climbing past the
cartons, through the dust. At the top, they found three bedrooms and an old-fashioned bath. They checked the closets, the shower, under the beds. Nobody home.

“Down,” Lucas said.

“How about the roof?”

“We’ll send a couple of guys up—but Bekker would look for a hole, not a perch.”

Six cops were spread through the first floor, all looking up apprehensively when Lucas and Fell hurried down the stairs.

“He killed an old woman and stuffed her body in the refrigerator,” Lucas told the patrol sergeant, flicking a thumb at the stairs. The two Robin Hoods watched silently from the radiator, their hands still looped through the cuffs. “We went through both floors, nobody home. Send a couple of good people up, see if they can find the roof access. We didn’t check that. Tell them to be careful. He’s got a gun.”

“I’ll go myself . . . .”

“No. You stay here. You’ve got enough rank to keep these assholes cuffed up,” Lucas said, nodding at Clemson and Jeese. “There’ll be more people coming soon, just hang on. We’re gonna do the basement . . . .”

“Take it easy, then,” the sergeant said, still uneasy, looking at the two sullen cops chained to the radiator.

The stairs were clean; they looked used. Lucas edged down, taking it easy, leading with the .45, while Fell crouched at the top, focused on the corner at the bottom. If Bekker came around, she would see him before Lucas. But as Lucas reached the corner, her firing line was cut off and he held up a hand to caution her.

Crouching on the bottom step, he did a head-juke around the corner, a one-eyed peek at waist level. A short
concrete-floored hallway ended at a green wooden door. A bare bulb hung in the hall above the door. He groped around the corner for the switch, found it, flicked it on.

He stood and crooked two fingers at Fell and she padded down the stairs. “Get that sledgehammer and bring back somebody who knows how to throw it.”

Fell nodded. “Be right back,” she whispered.

Lucas waited by the door, the gun pointed at the knob. If Bekker was in the basement, and alive, he’d know the cops had arrived. But if he was waiting with a gun, it was critical that he not know the instant that the door would come down . . . .

Fell came back down the stairs with the sergeant and the sledge.

“We got an entry team coming,” the sergeant whispered urgently. “They got the armor . . . .”

Lucas shook his head. “Fuck it. I’m taking him . . . .”

“Listen, these guys can take him, no problem . . . .”

“I’m going,” Lucas said. He looked at Fell. “What about you?”

“I’ll cover, or go in, whatever . . . .”

“God damn it, you’re gonna get our asses shot,” the sergeant whispered.

“Give me the sledge,” Lucas said.

“Listen to me.”

“Give me the fuckin’ sledge . . . .”

“Ahhh, shit . . .” The sergeant shook his head and hefted the hammer. “I’ll swing it, you assholes back me up. I’m going to hit that fucker once, and then I’m on the floor.”

“Let’s do it,” said Fell.

Bekker wandered through the murky basement, trying to remember why he was going to the couch. A song went through his head:

Jesus loves me this I know, for the Bible tells me so.
 . . .

Sung at a funeral, sometime, way back, he could remember a bronze coffin that sat higher than his head and the choir singing. It was all very sharp, as though he’d just stepped into the picture . . . .

A spider brushed his cheek, tickling, and Bekker snapped out of the funeral picture. Something thumped overhead. That was it. The noise. He had to go to the couch because of the noise overhead.

The couch had been pushed out from the wall, and he stepped behind it and sat down on the rug. The gun was waiting, cheap chrome steel. Loaded. Two shots. He picked it up. Said, Hello, put it in his mouth, sat, like a man with his pipe, then took it out and looked down the barrel.

Hello
 . . .

His finger tightened, he felt the pressure of the trigger, took up the slack . . . and his mind cleared. Clear as a lake. He saw himself, huddled in the corner of the basement. Saw Davenport come in. Saw himself, hands crossed over his chest, shoulders pulled in, head down.

Saw Davenport coming closer, screaming at him; saw himself rocking back and forth on his heels. Felt the pistol in the bottom hand on his chest, concealed. Saw Davenport reaching out to him, ordering him to turn; Davenport unaware, unknowing, unthinking. Saw himself reach out with the derringer, press it to Davenport’s heart, and the explosion and Davenport’s face . . .

The sergeant looked at Lucas, raised an eyebrow. Ready? Lucas nodded. The sergeant took a breath, raised the hammer overhead, paused, then brought it crashing down. The door flew inward, and the sergeant hit the ground. There was no immediate fire from the dark
room, and he scrambled back past Fell to the stairs, groping for his gun.

“Too fuckin’ old for this shit,” he said.

Lucas, focused on the room, said, “Flashlights.”

“What?”

“Get some flashlights . . . .”

With quick peeks around the corner, they established that the interior of the basement wasn’t quite dark. A light was on somewhere, but seemed to be partially blocked, as though the thin illumination were seeping through a crack in the door, or coming from a child’s night-light. Lucas and Fell, looking over the sights of their weapons, could see the blocky shapes of furniture, a rectangle that might be a bookcase.

“Got ’em,” the sergeant said.

“Poke them around the corner, hit the interior, about head high. Keep your hand back if you can. Tell me when you’re going, I’ll shoot at a muzzle flash,” Lucas said. He looked at Fell, saw that she was sweating, and grinned at her. “Life in the big city.”

The cop nodded. “Ready?”

“Anytime.”

“Now.”

The cop thrust the light around the corner, and Lucas, four feet below, followed with the muzzle of his gun, and his arm, and one eye. No movement. The sergeant leaned a bit into the hallway, played the light around the interior.

“I’m going,” said Lucas.

“Go,” said Fell.

Lucas scrambled across the floor to the apartment door, then, flat on the floor, eased his head and shoulders through the door, reached up, flicked a light switch. A single bulb came on. Nothing moving. He crouched, and Fell eased down the hall.

“What’s that?” she whispered.

Lucas listened.

Jesus loves me
 . . .

Not a child’s voice. But not an adult’s, either—nothing human, he thought. Something from a movie, a special effect, weird, chilling.

For the Bible tells me so.
 . . .

“Bekker,” Lucas whispered. “Over there, I think . . .”

He was inside the apartment, duckwalking, the .45 in a double-handed grip, following his eye-track around the apartment. Fell, behind him, said, “Covered to the right.”

“I got the right, you watch that dark door . . . .” The sergeant’s voice. Lucas glanced back, quickly, saw the older man easing inside with his piece-of-shit .38.

“Got it,” Fell agreed.

“He’s in the corner,” Lucas said. He half stood, looking at a velour couch. The couch was pushed away from the wall, and the unearthly voice was coming from behind it.

“Bekker,” he called.

Jesus loves me
 . . .

“Stand up, Bekker . . . .”

This I know
 . . .

Lucas focused on the couch, crept up on it, the gun fully extended. Up close, he could see the top of Bekker’s head, shaven, smooth, bobbing up and down with the simple rhythms of the song.

“Up, motherfucker,” he yelled. And to Fell and the cop: “He’s here, got him . . .”

“Watch a gun, watch a gun . . .”

Lucas, pointing his weapon at the top of Bekker’s head, slid around the side of the couch and looked down at him. Bekker looked up, then stood, hands across his chest, rocking, humming . . . .

“Turn around,” Lucas shouted.

Fell moved up beside him . . . .

“Nuttier ’n shit,” she whispered.

“Watch him, watch him . . .”

She stepped around to get a better angle, then batted at her face and batted again, then waved her hand overhead.

Lucas, glancing sideways: “What?”

“I’m tangled . . .”

Bekker’s head turned, like a ball bearing rotating in a socket. “Spiders . . .” he said.

The sergeant, near the kitchen door, coming up slowly, punched a light switch, and Fell groaned, weakly, thrashing at the objects that hung around her head.

“Get away,” she choked. “Get away from me . . . .”

They hung on individual black threads from a bundle of crossed wire coat hangers, floating in their separate orbits around Fell’s head, wrinkled now, drying, the varicolored lashes as sleek as the day the eyelids were cut from their owners . . . .

Fell staggered away from them, appalled, her mouth open.

“Get him,” Lucas said, his pistol three feet from Bekker’s vacant eyes. The sergeant took a step forward. Behind Fell, a thin shaft of light cut through a crack in a door. The light was hard, sharp, blue, professional. As the sergeant stepped forward, Fell pushed the door open.

Bekker took a step toward Lucas, his hands crossed on his chest. “Spi . . .”

An old woman lay there, bound and wired silent, her eyes permanently open now, staring, white eyeballs, the skin removed from her chest . . . .

Alive . . .

“Aw, fuck,” Fell screamed. She pivoted, the gun coming up, her mouth open, working, her hands clutching.

Lucas had time to say, “No.”

Bekker said, “ . . . ders.” And one hand dropped and the other swung up, a glint of steel. He thrust the derringer at Lucas’ chest . . .

 . . . and Fell fired a single .357 round through the bridge of Michael Bekker’s nose and blew out the back of Michael Bekker’s sleek, shaven head.