Silent Prey (20 page)

“All right,” she said.

They talked about ice-boating and para-skiing, and always came back to sailing. “I was planning to take a year off and single-hand around the world, maybe . . . unless I got stuck in the Islands,” Kennett said. “Maybe I would have got stuck, maybe not. I took Spanish lessons, took some French . . .”

“French?”

“Yeah . . . you run down the Atlantic, see, to the Islands, then across to the Canaries, maybe zip into the Med for a look at the Riviera—that’s French—then come back out and down along the African coast to Cape Town, then Australia, then Polynesia. Tahiti: they speak French. Then back up to the Galápagos, Colombia and Panama, and the Islands again . . .”

“Islands—I like the idea,” Lucas said.

“You like it?” asked Kennett, seriously.

“Yeah, I do,” Lucas said, looking out across the water. His cheekbones and lips were tingling from the sun, and he could feel the muscles relax in his neck and back. “I
had a bad time a year ago, a depression. The medical kind. I’m out now, but I never want to do that again. I’d rather . . . run. Like to the Islands. I don’t think you’d get depressed in the Islands.”

“Exactly what islands are we talking about?” Lily asked.

“I don’t know,” Kennett said vaguely. “The Windwards, or the Leewards, or some shit . . .”

“What difference would it make?” Lucas asked Lily.

She shrugged: “Don’t ask me, they’re your islands.”

After a moment of silence, Kennett said, “A unipolar depression. Did you hear your guns calling you?”

Lucas, startled, looked at him. “You’ve had one?”

“Right after the second heart attack,” Kennett said. “The second heart attack wasn’t so bad. The depression goddamned near killed me.”

They turned and started back downriver. Kennett fished in his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes.

“Dick. Throw those fuckin’ cigarettes . . .”

“Lily . . . I’m smoking one. Just one. That’s all for today.”

“God damn it, Dick . . .” Lily looked as though she were going to cry.

“Lily . . . aw, fuck it,” Kennett said, and he flipped the pack of Marlboros over the side, where they floated away on the river.

“That’s better,” Lily said, but tears ran down her cheeks.

“I tried to bum one from Fell the other day, but she wouldn’t give it to me,” Kennett said.

“Good for her,” said Lily, still teary-eyed.

“Look at the city,” Lucas said, embarrassed. Kennett and Lily both turned to look at the sunlight breaking over the towers in Midtown. The stone buildings glowed
like butter, the modern glass towers flickering like knives.

“What a place,” Kennett said. Lily wiped her cheeks with the heels of her hands and tried to smile.

“Can’t see the patches from here,” Lucas said. “That’s what New York is, you know. About a billion patches. Patches on patches. I was walking to Midtown South from the hotel, crossing Broadway there at Thirty-fifth, and there was a pothole, and in the bottom of the pothole was another pothole, but somebody had patched the bottom pothole. Not the big one, just the little one in the bottom.”

“Fuckin’ rube,” Kennett muttered.

They brought the boat back late in the afternoon, their faces flushed with the sun. And after Lucas dropped the mainsail, Lily ran it into the marina with a soft, skillful touch.

“This has been the best day of my month,” Kennett said. He looked at Lucas. “I’d like to do it again before you go.”

“So would I,” Lucas said. “We oughta go down to the Islands sometime . . . .”

Lucas hauled the cooler back to the truck and Lily brought along an armload of bedding that Kennett wanted to wash at home.

“Shame that he can’t drive the truck,” Lucas said as Lily popped up the back lid.

“He does,” she said in a confidential voice. “He tells me he doesn’t, but I know goddamn well that he sneaks out at night and drives. A couple of months ago I drove back to his place, and when we parked I noticed that the mileage was something like 1-2-3-4-4, and I was thinking that if I only drove one more mile, I’d have a straight line of numbers: 1-2-3-4-5. When I came over the next day, the mileage was like 1-2-4-1-0, or something like that. So
he’d been out driving. I check it now, and lots of times the mileage is up. He doesn’t know . . . . I haven’t mentioned it, because he gets so pissed. I’m afraid he’ll get so pissed he’ll have another attack. As long as it has power steering and brakes . . .”

“It’ll drive a guy nuts, being penned up,” Lucas said. “You oughta stay off his case.”

“I try,” she said. “But sometimes I just can’t help it. Men can be so fucking stupid, it gives me a headache.”

They went back to the boat and found Kennett below, digging around. “Hey, Lucas, a little help? I need to pull this marine battery, but it’s too heavy for Lily.”

“Dick, are you messing around with that wrench again . . . ?” Lily started, but Lucas put an index finger over his lips and she stopped.

“I’ll be down,” Lucas said.

Ten minutes later, while Kennett and Lily did the last of the buttoning-up, Lucas humped the battery back to the car. In the parking lot, he propped one end of it on the truck bumper while he sorted out the keys, then turned and looked back through the fence. Lily and Kennett were on the dock, Lily leaning into him, his arms around her waist. She was talking to him, then leaned forward and kissed him on the mouth. Lucas felt a pang, but only a small one.

Kennett was okay.

The New School auditorium was compact, with a narrow lobby between the interior auditorium doors and the doors to the street.

“Perfect,” Lucas told Fell. They’d taken the tour with a half-dozen other cops, and now, waiting, wandered outside to Twelfth Street. Fell lit a cigarette. “Once he comes around the corner, he’ll be inside the net. And the lobby’s small enough that we can check everyone coming through before they realize there are cops all over the place.”

“You still think he’ll show?” Fell asked skeptically.

“Hope so.”

“It’d be too easy,” she said.

“He’s a nut case,” Lucas said. “If he’s seen the announcement, he’ll be here.”

A car dropped Kennett at the curb. “Opening night,” he said as he climbed out. He looked up and down the fashionable residential street, bikes chained to wrought-iron fences, well-kept brick townhouses climbing up from the street. “It feels like something’s gonna happen.”

They followed him inside, and Carter came by with radios. They each took one, fitting the earpieces, checking them out. “Stay off unless it’s critical,” Carter said. “There are twelve guys here, and if all twelve start yelling at the same time . . .”

“Where do you want me?” Lucas asked.

“Where do you think?” Carter asked. “Ticket booth?”

“Mmm, I’d be looking at too many people’s backs,” Lucas said. He glanced around. A short hall led from the auditorium lobby to the main entrance lobby of the New School. “How about if I stood back there in the hall?”

“All right,” Carter said. To Fell, he said, “We’ve got you handing out programs. You’ll be right there in the lobby.”

“Terrific . . .”

“What’s the setup?” Kennett asked.

“Well, we’re supposed to start in twenty minutes. We’ve got you just inside the auditorium entrance, where you can see everyone, or get back out to the lobby in a hurry,” Carter said. “It’s right down here . . . .”

Bekker tottered down Twelfth Street ten minutes before the lecture was scheduled to begin, past a guy working on a car in the failing daylight. Bekker was nervous as a cat, excited, checking the scattering of people walking along the street with him, and toward him, converging on the auditorium. This was dangerous. He could feel it. They’d be talking about him. There might be cops in the crowd. But still: worth it. Worth some risk.

Most of the people were going through a series of theater-style doors farther up the street. That would be the auditorium. There was another door, closer. On impulse he entered there, turned toward the auditorium.

Almost stumbled.

Davenport.

Trap.

The fear almost choked him, and he caught at his throat. Davenport and another man, their backs to Bekker, were in the hallway between the separate entries. Not ten feet away. Watching the crowd come through the other door.

Davenport was to the left, half turned toward the second man, his back directly to Bekker. The second man, half turned toward Davenport, glanced toward Bekker as simple momentum took Bekker inside. Couldn’t stop. He went straight through the school lobby, past the entrance to the auditorium. An empty guard desk was to the right, with a phone behind it. Ahead of him, another hallway that seemed to lead back outside.

Bekker unconsciously touched his face, felt the hard scars under the special makeup. That night in the funeral home, Davenport hacking at him . . .

Bekker wrenched himself back, forced himself to walk down the stairs, through the next door, outside. He was sweating, almost gasping for breath.

He found himself in a sculpture garden, facing another door like the one he’d come through. On the other side of the door was a hallway, and beyond that, maybe a hundred feet away, another set of doors and the next street. Nobody ahead. He strode quickly across the courtyard, caught the door, pulled.

Locked. Stricken, he gave it a tug. It didn’t budge. The glass was too thick to break, even if he had something to break it with. He turned and looked back, toward the way he’d come. If he tried to get out that way, he’d be face to face with Davenport for several seconds, just as he’d been with the cop Davenport had been talking to.

He stood, frozen, unable to sort the possibilities. He had to get out of sight. He went to his left, found a short
hallway with a door marked with a B and the word “Stair.” He jerked at the door, hoping . . .

Locked. Damn. He huddled in the doorway, temporarily out of sight. But he couldn’t stay: if anybody saw 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 from
behind 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 overripe cantaloupe, and the cop went down, the radio hitting the floor beside him. There’d been little noise, and that was muffled by the curtains, Bekker thought, but he hooked the man by the collar and dragged him into the corner by the door. And waited.
Waited for the call, for the shout, that would end it. Nothing.

The cop couldn’t be allowed to talk about how he was ambushed. Bekker stood over him for a moment, waiting, waiting, then pushed open the exterior door, dragged the body through it. The courtyard was still empty. Bekker lifted the music stand and hit the unconscious cop again and again, until the head resembled a bloody bag of rice.

Stop . . . no time. But the eyes . . .

Hurrying now, he used his penknife to cut the eyes, then patted down the body and found an identification card: Francis Sowith. The radio. Shit. The radio was still inside. He went to the door, peeked through, saw the radio, stepped quickly inside and retrieved it.

Back out on the porch again, stepping over the dead man. He noticed he had blood on his hands, and wiped them on the cop’s coat. Still sticky: he lifted them to his face and sniffed. The smell of the blood was familiar, comforting.

He looked at the radio. Basic thumb switch. Calmed himself, checked his clothing, straightened it, and walked up the steps to the door back inside.

He took a breath, tensing, opened the door, and walked straight ahead. A staff member, he thought. That’s what he was: a teacher who worked here. He heard a voice, a man, from around the corner. He slipped up to the guard desk, where he’d seen the telephone, and stepped around behind the desk, the phone to his ear. He could see the shoulder and sleeve of Davenport’s jacket now, if that was in fact Davenport, in the same place. He leaned over the desk, head down, put the radio to his mouth, and thumbed the switch.

“This is Frank,” he blurted. “He’s here, backstage, backstage . . . .”

He dropped the radio hand, and pressed the phone receiver to his ear, his shoulder turned away: the body language said
making a date.
At the same time, there was a shout, then another. Davenport’s shoulder disappeared from the doorway, but another man came through it, running, right past the desk and down into the courtyard.

Moving quickly, Bekker walked from behind the desk, looking straight ahead, out through the school doors into the street. A woman screamed from the auditorium. Bekker kept walking. The man who’d been working on the car hurried past him, heading toward the doors, a pistol in his hand.

And then the night closed around him. Bekker was gone.