Eyes of Prey by John Sandford

you’re working it. You need it.”
    Lucas shrugged again. “I’ll see,” he said.
    She scribbled a phone number on an index card and passed it to him.
    “Thanks . . .” He leaned forward, about to stand.
    “Sit down,” she said. “You’re not getting out of here that easy. Are you sleeping?”
    “Yeah, some.”
    “But you’ve got to exhaust yourself first.”
    “Yeah.”
    “Alcohol?”
    “Not much. A few times, scotch. When I’d get so tired I couldn’t move, but I couldn’t sleep. The booze would take me out . . . .”
    “Feel better in the morning?”
    “My body would.”
    “The Crows beat you up pretty bad,” Elle said. The Crows were Indians, either terrorists or patriots. Lucas had helped kill them. Television had tried to make a hero out of him, but the case had cost him his relationship with his woman friend and their daughter. “You finally found out that there’s a price for living the way you do. And you found out that you can die. And so can your kid.”
    “I always knew that,” Lucas said.
    “You didn’t feel it. And if you don’t feel it, you don’t believe it,” Elle rapped back.
    “I don’t worry about dying,” he said. “But I had something going with Jennifer and Sarah.”
    “Maybe that’ll come back. Jennifer’s never said it was over forever.”
    “Sounds like it.”
    “You need time, all of you,” Elle said. “I won’t do therapy on you. I can’t be objective. We’ve got too much history. But you should talk to somebody. I can give you some names, good people.”
    “You know what I think about shrinks,” Lucas said.
    “You don’t think that about me.”
    “Like you said—we have a history. But I don’t want a shrink, ’cause I can’t help what I think about them. Maybe a couple of pills or something . . .”
    “You can’t cure what you’ve got with pills, Lucas. Only two things will do that. Time or therapy.”
    “I’ll take the time,” he said.
    She threw up her hands in surrender, her teeth flashing white in a youthful smile. “If you really get your back against the wall, call me. I have a doctor friend who’ll prescribe some medication without threatening your manhood with therapy.”
    She went with him to the exit and watched as he walked out to his car, down the long greening lawn, the sun flicking through the bare trees. When he stepped from the shelter of the building, the wind hit him in the face, with just a finger of warmth. Spring wind. Summer coming. Behind him, on the other side of the door, Elle Kruger kissed her crucifix and began a rosary.

CHAPTER
4
    Bekker dressed as carefully as he had cleaned himself: a navy suit, a blue broadcloth shirt, a dark tie with small burgundy comma figures, black loafers with lifts. He slipped a pair of sunglasses into his breast pocket. He would use them to hide his grief, he thought. And his eyes, should there be anyone of unusual perception in the crowd.
    The funeral would be a waste of his time. He had to go, but it would be a waste of his time. He sighed, put on the sunglasses, and looked at himself in the mirror. Not bad. He flicked a piece of lint off the shoulder of the suit and smiled at himself.
    Not bad at all.
    When he was ready, he took one of the Contac capsules from the brass cigarette case, pulled it apart and dumped the powder on the glass top of the bedstand. The Contac people would pee down their pant legs if they’d known, he thought: pure medical cocaine. He snorted it, absorbed the rush, collected himself and walked out to the car.
    The drive to the funeral home was short. He liked this one funeral home. He was familiar with it. He giggled and just as quickly smothered the giggle. He must not do that. He mustnot. And then he thought: Compassionate leave, and almost giggled again. The University had given him compassionate leave . . . . God, funny as that was, he couldn’t let it show.
    Phenobarbital? About right for a funeral. It’d give him the right look.