for jobs. It wasn't as if she needed a lot of skill. Scan a code, and a number came up 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.
