The idea came from nowhere, but with a force that stopped him at the head of the stairs. Could the illumination of the dying man be related to a shifted spectrum? A light phenomenon that occurred in infrared or ultraviolet, that occasionally strayed into visible light? Was that why some people glowed and others didn't? Was that how an old camera caught it, with the poor, wide-spectrum film of the nineteenth century? He'd seen both ultraviolet and infrared photography as a medical student. Ultraviolet could actually increase the resolution of a microscope, and highlight aspects of a specimen not visible in ordinary light. And infrared could pick up temperature variations, even from dark objects.
But that was all he knew. Could he use his ordinary cameras? How to check?
Excited, excited, the science pounded in his brain. He hurried down the stairs, remembering Bridget Land only at the last minute. He slowed, looked ahead apprehensively, but she was gone.
He hurried out the back, got in the Volkswagen, drove it to the fence, hopped out, unlocked the fence, drove through, checked for intruders, climbed back out, locked the gate behind him. He was flapping, frantic, eager to get on his way, to sustain the insights of the evening.
North across Prince, east across Broadway, keeping to the side streets, the buildings pressing against him, working his way north and east. There. First Avenue. And Bellevue, an aging pile of brick.
Bekker looked at his watch. He was a minute or so early; no problem. He took it slowly, slowly… And there he was, walking toward the bus stop. Bekker leaned across the car and rolled the passenger-side window halfway down, pulled to the curb.
Whitechurch saw him, looked once around, stepped to the window. 'Three of the white, thirty crosses, all commercial. Two of the angels, good stuff…'
'Only two?' Bekker felt the control slipping, fought to retain it. 'Okay. But I'll be calling you in a couple of days.'
'I'll have more by then. How many could you handle?'
'Thirty? Could you get me thirty? And thirty more of the crosses?'
'Yeah, I think so,' Whitechurch said. 'My guy's bringing out a new line. Call me… and I'll need twenty-one hundred for tonight.'
Bekker nodded, peeled twenty-one one-hundred-dollar bills from the roll in his pocket and handed them to Whitechurch. Whitechurch knew Bekker carried a pistol; in fact, he had sold it to him. Bekker wasn't worried about a rip-off. Whitechurch stuffed the bills in his pocket and dropped a bag onto the front seat.
'Come again,' he said, and turned toward the hospital.
Bekker rolled the window up and started back, the sack shoved under the seat; but he knew he wouldn't make it without a sample. He deserved a sample. He'd had a revolutionary idea this night, the recording of the human aura…
He stopped at a traffic light, checked the streets, turned on the dome light and opened the bag. Three fat twists of coke and two small Zip-Loc bags. Thirty small commercial tabs in one, two larger tabs in the other. His hands shook as he kept watch and unrolled one of the twists. Just enough to get home.
The coke jumped him and his head rolled backward with the force of it roaring through his brain like a freight train. After a moment, he started out again, slowly, everything preternaturally clear. If he could hold this… His hand groped for the PCP bag, found it; only two. But the coke had him, and he popped them both: the angels would hold the coke in place, build on it… He could see for miles now, through the dark. No problem. His mouth worked, fathering a wad of saliva, and he popped a hit of speed, crunched it in his teeth. Only one, just a sample, a treat…
A red light. The light made him angry, and he cursed, drove through it. Another. Even more angry, but he held it this time, rolled to a stop. One more pinch of the white: sure. He deserved one more. One more hit…
He hadn't taken an experimental subject in more than a week. Instead, he'd huddled in the basement, typing his papers. He had a backlog now, data that had to be collated, rationalized. But tonight, with the angels in his blood… And Davenport in town, looking for him.
In taking the other subjects, he worked out a system: hit them with the stun gun, use the anesthetic. And more important, he'd begun looking for safe hunting grounds. Bellevue was one. There were women around Bellevue all the time, day and night, small enough to handle, healthy, good subjects. And the parking ramp there was virtually open… But Bellevue wasn't for tonight, not after he'd just come from there.
In fact, he shouldn't even think of taking one tonight. He hadn't planned it, hadn't done the reconnaissance that provided his margin of safety. But with the angels in his blood, anything was possible.
A picture popped into his head. Another parking ramp, not Bellevue. A ramp attached to a city government building of some kind.
Parking ramps were good, because they were easy to hide in, people came and went at all hours, many of them were alone. Transportation was easily at hand…
And this one was particularly good: each level of the parking ramp had an entrance into the government building, the doors guarded by combination lockpad. A person entering the ramp in a car would not necessarily walk out past the attendants in the ticket booth. So Bekker could go in, and wait…
The ramp itself had a single elevator that would take patrons to the street. In his mind's eye, he could see himself in the elevator with the selected subject, getting off at the same floor, hitting her with the stun gun as they came out of the elevator, using the gas, hiding her body between a couple of cars, then simply driving around to make the pickup… Simple.
And the ramp was close by, on the edge of Chinatown…
The rational Bekker, trapped in the back of his mind, warned him: no no no no…
But Gumball-Bekker cranked the wheel around and headed south, the PCP angels burning in his blood.
Chinatown.
There were people in the street, more than Bekker would have thought likely. He ignored them, the PCP- cocaine cocktail gripping his mind, focusing it: he drove straight into the parking garage, hunched over the wheel, got his ticket, and started around the sequence of up-slanting ramps. Each floor was lit, but he saw no cameras. The sequence had him now, his heart beating like a hammer, his face hot…
He went all the way to the top, parked, opened the cocaine twist, cupped some in his hand, snorted it, licked up the remnant.
And went away…
When he came back, he climbed out of the car, taking his collection bag from the backseat. A stairwell wrapped around the elevator shaft and he took the stairs down, quietly, the stairs darker than the main ramp area. Bekker was on his toes, his collecting bag around his shoulder, hand on the stun gun…
At the second floor, he stopped, checked the anesthetic tank and mask. Okay. He rehearsed the sequence in his mind: get behind her, hit her with the stun gun, cover her mouth against screams, ride her down, get the gas. He stepped out of the stairwell, glanced into the tiny elevator lobby. Excellent.
Back to the stairwell.
He waited.
And waited.
Twenty minutes, tension rising. Fished in his pocket, did another cross, chewing it, relishing the bite. He heard a steel door close somewhere overhead, echoing through the ramp, and a few minutes later, a car went down. Then silence again. Five more minutes, ten.
A car came in, stopped on the second floor, high heels on concrete… Bekker tensed, his hand going quickly to the tank, flicking the switch once on the stun gun.
Then… nothing. The sound of high heels receding. The woman, whoever it was, was walking down the ramp to get out, rather than entering the stairwell or going to the elevator.
Damn. It wasn't working. He glanced at his watch: another ten minutes. No more… His mind flashed back to the Twin Cities, to an actress. He'd fooled her by dressing as a gas company employee looking for leaks, had killed her with a hammer. He remembered the impact and the flush… Bekker went away.
And came back, sometime later, with the telltale sigh. At the sound of feet below, and a woman's voice.
The elevator doors opening, one floor below…
He picked up his bag, hurried around, went into the lobby, pushed the up button: the Bekker at the back of his mind saying no no no no, the foreground Bekker hot with anticipation…
The elevator came up, lurched to a stop, and the doors opened. Inside was a dark-haired woman with an
