Night Prey

of a nice boat,” he said as they pumped up the tire. “Always wanted a Lund. Had it long?”
    “Two years,” the driver said. “Saved for that sucker for ten years; got it set up perfect.” When the tire was up, they watched it for a moment, then the driver said, “Seems to hold.”
    “Could be a real slow leak,” Koop said. “Check it this morning before you went out?”
    “Can’t say as I did,” the driver said, scratching his head. “Listen, thank you much, and I think I’ll get our butts into town before it goes flat again.”
     
     
     
    SO HE HAD receipts and he’d been seen fishing on the ramp; and he took the boat registration number. He’d have to think about that: maybe he shouldn’t be able to remember all of it, just that it was a red Lund and the last two registration letters were LS . . . Or maybe that the first number on it was 7. He’d have to think about it.
    On his way through town, he stopped at the store that issued the register receipt he’d found in the trash can, bought a Slim Jim and a can of beer, and stuffed the receipt and the sack under the seat. Maybe they’d remember his face in the store, maybe not—but he’d been there, he could describe the place, and he could even describe the young woman who’d waited on him. Too heavy. Wore dark-green fashion overalls.
    A little before five, he started back to the Cities. He wanted to be within radio range, to pick up the news. To see if they were looking for him. . . .
     
     
     
    THEY WERE NOT, as far as he could tell. One of the evening talk shows was devoted to the attack, and the attack the week before, but it was all a bunch of crazies calling in.
    Huh.
    They were looking for the wrong guy. . . .
    He went back to the park, got the knife and keys. Felt better for it.
    At one o’clock in the morning, Koop wasn’t quite drunk, but he was close. Driving around, driving around, up and down the Cities, Jensen was more and more on his mind. At one, he drove past her apartment. A light shone behind her window. A man was walking down the street, walking a small silvery dog. At one-fifteen, Koop cruised it again. Still the light. She was up late; couldn’t sleep, after the fight—Koop thought about it as a fight. Blondy’d asked for it, fucking Koop’s woman; what was a guy supposed to do?
    Koop’s mind was like a brick, not working right. He knew it wasn’t working right. He could not pull it away from Jensen. He had other things to think about—he’d been cruising his next target, he was ready to make an entry. He couldn’t think about it.
    At one-thirty, the light was still on in Jensen’s apartment, and Koop decided to go up to his spy roost. He knew he shouldn’t risk it; but he would. He could feel himself being pulled in, like a nail to a magnet.
    At one thirty-five, he went into the apartment across the street from Jensen’s and climbed the stairs. Physically, he was fine, moving as smoothly and quietly as ever. It was his mind that was troubling. . . .
    He checked the hall. Empty. Had to be quiet: everybody would be spooked. He went to the roof entry, climbed the last flight, pushed through the door, and quickly closed it behind himself. He stood there for a moment, the doorknob still in his hand, listening. Nothing. He stepped to the edge of the door hutch and looked up at Jensen’s window. The light was on, but at the angle, he couldn’t see anything.
    He crossed to the air-conditioner housing, grabbed the edge, and pulled himself up. He crawled to the vent and looked around the corner. Nobody in sight. He leaned back behind the vent, put his back to it. Looked up at the stars.
    He thought about what he’d become, caught by this passion. He would have to stop. He knew he would have to stop, or he was doomed. He could think of only one way to stop it—and that way touched him. But he would like to have her first, if he could.
    Before he killed her.
    Koop looked around the corner past the vent, and, shocked, almost snatched his head back. Almost, but not quite. He had the reflexes and training of a cat burglar, and had taught himself not to move too quickly. Across the street, in Jensen’s window, a man was looking out. He was six feet back from the glass, as though he were taking care not to be seen from the street. He wore dark slacks and a white dress shirt, without a jacket.
    He wore a shoulder holster.
    A cop. They knew. They were waiting for him.

24
    WEATHER CURLED UP on the couch. The