Certain Prey

fiction . . . lean-and-mean . . . replete with bursts of black prose that zap the reader like quick video cuts.”
    —Cedar Rapids Gazette
    And don’t miss John Sandford’s thrilling novels of stings and swindles. . . .
    THE EMPRESS FILE
    Kidd and LuEllen are a pair of lovers and liars plotting the ultimate scam . . . until everything goes wrong. . . .
    “Alfred Hitchcock would have been delighted.”
    —The Philadelphia Inquirer
    “The imaginative con scheme is clever . . . but the biggest thrills occur when events don’t go as planned.”
    —Library Journal
    THE FOOL’S RUN
    Kidd and LuEllen return for a killer con in the hightech world of industrial espionage. . . .
    “A gripping, ultramodern novel . . . fast-paced and suspenseful.”
    —Chicago Tribune
    “Fast-paced action, high-intellect puzzle-solving, dandy characters . . . if you start guessing outcomes, you are fooled.”
    —Minneapolis Star Tribune
    “Sandford is one of the most skilled thriller writers at work in this country or any other.”
    —Richmond Times-Dispatch

Berkley Books by John Sandford
    RULES OF PREY
    SHADOW PREY
    EYES OF PREY
    SILENT PREY
    WINTER PREY
    NIGHT PREY
    MIND PREY
    SUDDEN PREY
    THE NIGHT CREW
    THE EMPRESS FILE
    THE FOOL’S RUN
    SECRET PREY
    CERTAIN PREY

FOR TOM AND ROZANNE ANDERSON

CERTAIN
PREY

ONE

    Clara Rinker .
    Of the three unluckiest days in Barbara Allen’s life, the first was the day Clara Rinker was raped behind a St. Louis nudie bar called Zanadu, which was located west of the city in a dusty checkerboard of truck terminals, warehouses and light assembly plants. Zanadu, as its chrome-yellow I-70 billboard proclaimed, was E-Z On, E-Z Off. The same was not true of Clara Rinker, despite what Zanadu’s customers thought.
    Rinker was sixteen when she was raped, a small athletic girl, a dancer, an Ozarks runaway. She had bottle-blond hair that showed darker roots, and a body that looked wonderful in V-necked, red-polka-dotted, thin cotton dresses from Kmart. A body that drew the attention of cowboys, truckers and other men who dreamt of Nashville.
    Rinker had taken up nude dancing because she could. It was that, fuck for money or go hungry. The rape took place at two o’clock in the morning on an otherwise delightful April night, the kind of night when midwestern kids are allowed to stay out late and play war, when cicadas hum down from their elm-bark hideaways. Rinker had closed the bar that night; she was the last dancer up.
    Four men were still drinking when she finished. Three were hound-faced long-distance truckers who had nowhere to go but the short beds in their various Kenworths, Freight-liners and Peterbilts; and one was a Norwegian exoticanimal dealer drowning the sorrows of a recent mishap involving a box of boa constrictors and thirty-six thousand dollars’worth of illegal tropical birds.
    A fifth man, a slope-shouldered gorilla named Dale-Something, had walked out of the bar halfway through Rinker’s last grind. He left behind twelve dollars in crumpled ones and two small sweat rings where his forearms had been propped on the bar. Rinker had worked down the bar-top, stopping for ten seconds in front of each man for what the girls called a crack shot. Dale-Something had gotten the first shot, and he had stood up and walked out as soon as she moved to the next guy. When she was done, Rinker hopped off the end of the bar and headed for the back to get into her street clothes.
    A few minutes later, the bartender, a University of Missouri wrestler named Rick, knocked on the dressing-room door and said, “Clara? Will you close up the back?”
    “I’ll get it,” she said, pulling a fuzzy pink tube top over her head, shaking her ass to get it down. Rick respected the dancers’ privacy, which they appreciated; it was purely a psychological thing, since he worked behind the bar, and spent half his night looking up their . . .
    Anyway, he respected their privacy.
    When she was dressed, Rinker killed the lights in the dressing room, walked down to the ladies’ room, checked to make sure it was empty, which it always was, and then did the same for the men’s room, which was also empty, except for the ineradicable odor of beer-flavored urine. At the back door, she snapped out the hall lights, released the bolt on the lock and stepped outside into the soft evening air. She pulled the door shut, heard the bolt snap, rattled the door handle to make sure that it was locked and headed for her car.
    A