RainStorm

limitations;
    calisthenics to get your heart rate up and your hands slightly
    shaky. It's a lot of work. But it's worth it when the time comes.
    When I had the lock open, I dropped the picks back in my
    pocket and opened the door. "Hello?" I called out.
    No answer.
    I pulled the flyer off the door opposite and entered Crawley's
    apartment, locking the door behind me.
    I walked inside. Quick visual. Beige walls, beige carpet. Linoleum
    floor in the kitchen to my right. Large picture window and partially
    lowered white Venetian blinds. Matching Ikea-style furniture: futon
    couch, lounge chairs, a glass coffee table with copies of Forbes and Foreign Affairs on it. Bookshelves jammed with serious-looking stuff
    on history and political science. A desk and a black leather chair.
    Large television set and speakers. A couple of potted plants.
    There was a set of folding doors to my left. I opened them and
    saw a washing machine and dryer.
    To my right was the kitchen. I walked in and looked around.
    The refrigerator held a quart-sized skim milk, some yogurt, a Tupperware
    container of pasta, a jar of spaghetti sauce. Everything was
    clean, neat, efficient. A functional place, used for making and ingesting
    simple meals and for nothing more than that. It seemed that
    Crawley lived alone. Single, or divorced with no children. Children,
    with visitation rights, would have meant a bigger place.
    The bedroom and bathroom offered more of the same. A
    queen-sized bed on a platform, but only one night table next to it,
    with a reading lamp and digital alarm clock. In the bathroom, men's
    toiletries laid out neatly around the sink. A white bath towel hung
    on the glass shower door, the edges lined up. I removed a glove for
    a moment and touched it. It was slightly damp, no doubt from this
    morning's shower.
    I imagined Crawley coming home this evening. How he might
    navigate the room would determine where I should wait. Where
    would he stop first? Let's see, come inside, drop the mail on the
    coffee table. It was cold out; probably he would have a coat. Next
    stop, coat closet?
    There was a large closet off the living room. I checked it. Boxes
    for stereo equipment. A vacuum cleaner. A set of weights under a
    thin coating of dust. And a thick -wooden dowel for hanging
    clothes, running the length of the space, with a handful of unused
    plastic hangers dangling along it. The dowel was supported at its
    center by an angle brace joined to the wall. I pressed down on it
    and was satisfied with its strength. Perfect.
    But no coats. This closet seemed to be used for longer-term
    storage needs. I went back to the bedroom. On the wall adjacent to
    the bathroom was a closet behind a pair of folding doors. I slid the
    doors open. Yes, this was the clothes closet. Four suits, with an
    empty hanger for a fifth. Five dress shirts, five more empty hangers.
    One shirt on his back, I assumed, four at the dry cleaners. A dozen
    ties. One overcoat, one waist-length leather jacket. One more empty
    hanger.
    I could see that he was a neat man, a man who liked things
    to be in their proper places. All right then, drop the mail off,
    then straight to the bedroom, hang the coat in the closet. Likewise
    for the suit, maybe use the bathroom, then back to the living room
    for the mail, turn on CNN or C-SPAN, maybe then the kitchen
    for something to eat. Fine.
    I went back to the storage closet and took out the stun gun. I
    had already tested it on the drive from D.C. and it had worked as
    advertised, sending out a satisfying blue arc of electricity between
    its electrodes at the push of a discreet side trigger. I laid out some
    of the plastic along the closet floor, removed the other items from
    the briefcase, took off the windbreaker, folded it, and placed it and
    the briefcase items on the plastic. I didn't want any carpet particles
    on my clothes. The galoshes, which I was already wearing over my
    shoes, would protect my feet. Then I sat on one of the leather
    chairs and waited.
    The room lit up briefly as the sun set outside the picture window, then gradually darkened as night came. I turned the closet light on.
    Night vision mode wouldn't be useful for this; Crawley would turn
    the lights on when he came in and I didn't want to have to adjust.
    Every half hour I stood up and moved around to stay limber.
    The coffee was making its presence known, and three times I had to
    urinate. I used the bathroom sink for this purpose, letting the water
    run as I did