“Two hours? All right. Two hours. See you at nine. Usual place.”

Bekker left the Volkswagen in a staff parking ramp off First Avenue; the ramp was open to the public from six until midnight. He nodded to the guard in the booth and rolled all the way up to the top floor. He’d watched Whitechurch before. He believed in taking care and knew that drug dealers routinely sold friends and customers to the cops. He’d learned a lot in jail; another side of life.

Whitechurch insisted on punctuality. “That way, I only have the stuff on me, on the street, for a minute. Safer that way, you know?”

Usually, Whitechurch would be walking out of the hospital, or down the sidewalk toward a bus bench, when Bekker came by. Once Bekker, arriving early, had watched him from the ramp. Whitechurch had come out, walked down the sidewalk toward the bus bench, had waited for two or three minutes, then had gone back inside, using the same door he’d used on the way out. Bekker had called to apologize, and made the pickup a few minutes later.

Bekker walked down to the first floor, past the pay booth, and down the street to an alleylike passage to the emergency room. Night was settling in, the streetlights coming on. He was early, slowed down. Several people around. Not good. He turned down the alley to the emergency room, walked up to the door that Whitechurch usually came through. Pulled on the handle. Locked. Glanced at his watch. Still two minutes early. Whitechurch should be coming, just any moment . . . .

He’d done an angel before he came, part of his emergency stash. Strong stuff; it freed his power . . . .

The derringer was in his hand.

The door opened and Whitechurch stepped out, and jumped, startled, when he saw Bekker.

“What . . .”

“We’ve got to talk,” Bekker whispered. “There’s more to this than I thought . . . .”

He looked past Whitechurch to an empty tile-walled corridor. “Back inside, just a few minutes. I feel obligated to tell you about this.”

Whitechurch nodded and turned, leading the way. “Did you bring the cash?”

“Yes.” He held out the cash envelope and Whitechurch took it. “Have you got the product?”

“Yeah.” Whitechurch turned as the metal fire door closed behind them. The corridor lights weren’t strong, but they were unforgiving blue fluorescents.

Whitechurch had a plastic baggie in his hand and half stepped toward Bekker when he said, “You’re . . .” He stopped, catching his tongue, and began to back away.

“The fruitcake killer,” Bekker said, smiling. “Just like on I’ve Got a Secret. You remember that show? Garry Moore, I think.”

Whitechurch’s head snapped around, looking for room, then turned back to Bekker, but already his body was moving, trying to run.

“Listen,” he said, half over his shoulder.

“No.” Bekker leveled the gun at Whitechurch’s broad back and Whitechurch shouted, “No way,” and Bekker shot him in the spine between the shoulder blades. The muzzle blast was deafening, and Whitechurch pitched forward, tried to catch himself on the slick tile walls, bounced and turned. Bekker pointed the pistol at him, from two feet.

“No way . . .”

Bekker pulled the trigger again, firing into Whitechurch’s forehead. Then he pushed the gun into his pocket, hurrying, took out a scalpel, stooped, and ruined Whitechurch’s dead eyes. Good.

Down the hall, a door banged open. “Hey.” Somebody yelling.

Bekker looked down the corridor: empty. He grabbed the baggie full of pills, stood, remembered the money, saw it half trapped under Whitechurch. Down the hall, the door banged open again and Bekker jerked at the money envelope. The envelope ripped, but he got most of it, just a bill or two still trapped under the body.

“Hey . . .” He looked back as he went through the door, but there was nothing in the corridor but the voice. Outside, he gathered himself and hurried, but didn’t run, down the alley, turning left on the sidewalk to the parking ramp. He went inside to the stairs, heard footsteps behind, and half turned.

A young woman was hurrying after him. He started up the steps and she caught up with him, a few steps behind. “Wait up . . .” Breathless. “I hate to go up here alone. If there were somebody . . . You know.”

“Yes.” The woman was worried about being attacked. There was only one open entrance to the ramp, but anyone could get in over the low walls. Judging from the graffiti spray-painted on the concrete walls, several people had.

“God, what a day,” the woman said. “I hate to work when it’s so nice outside, I never see anything but computer terminals.”

Bekker nodded again, not trusting his voice. If he’d had the time, he could have taken her. She’d have been perfect: young, apparently intelligent. A natural observer. Might possibly understand the privilege she was being given. He could take her, he thought. Right now. Hit her in the head . . .

Behind her, he balled his hand into a fist, and he thought, Or the gun. I could use the gun. He felt the weight of the gun in his pocket. Empty now, but a threat . . .

But if he hurt her, struck her, had to fight, if she was less than a perfect specimen . . . his results would be impeachable. People were watching him, people who hated him, who would do anything to impeach his results. He fell back a step, his heart beating like a drum.

“See you,” she said, one half-level below his car. She looked out on the open floor before she went through the door. “Nobody here . . . makes you feel a little stupid, doesn’t it?”

He could, but . . . wait. No improvisation. Remember the last time . . . Easy, easy, there are plenty of them.

Bekker lifted a hand and risked it: “Good-bye,” he said, in his careful voice.

He had to get one. Had to. He didn’t realize, until he saw the woman get in the car and lock the doors, how strong the need was now.

He rolled out of the ramp, straight down the street; there was some commotion in the emergency entrance alley, but he didn’t stop to look. Instead, he went straight back to his apartment, almost frantic now, and got out his collector’s bag: the stun gun and the anesthetic tank and mask. He flicked the stun gun once, checked the discharge level. Fine. And dug through the bag he’d taken from Whitechurch: just a taste. He snapped one of the angels between his teeth, thinking to take a half, but a half wouldn’t do, and he took a whole, waiting for the power to come.

Cruising, thinking: Infrared. Ultraviolet. Breakthrough.

He knew this bar . . . .

Later. He saw the woman slouch out of the back of the bar, lean against the brick exterior, and light a cigarette with what looked like an old-fashioned Zippo. Not many men around, lots of women coming and going, many of them alone. Easy targets.

The woman was leaning against the outside wall, wearing jeans and a sleeveless T-shirt, with a wide leather belt. She had short black hair, with gold hoop earrings.

Bekker came up, stepping carefully around the Volkswagen as though he didn’t own it. Not too aggressive. Stun gun in his hand, tank under his arm, hand on mask.

“Terrific night,” he said to the woman.

She smiled. “You’re looking pretty good,” she said.

Bekker smiled back and stopped next to the nose of the Volkswagen.

Come to the gingerbread house, little girl . . .

CHAPTER

13

“What’s wrong?” Lily asked.

Kennett rolled toward her and put an arm under her head. “I feel like an invalid when we do that. I mean, nothing but that.”

The forward double berth was wedge-shaped, shoved into the bow of the boat. Kennett was lying on his side. He reached toward her face in the near-darkness, touched her at the hairline with the pad of his index finger, drew it down her nose, gently over her lips, between her breasts, then up to gently tap each nipple, then down around her navel, over her hipbone and down the inside of her thigh to her knee. She was still warm, sweating.