Rules of Prey

into a restaurant parking lot. Outside the entrance, he got a copy of USA Today and carried it inside.
    While the maddog ate and read his newspaper, the surveillance cops took turns stocking up on burgers and Cokes at a McDonald’s a half-mile away. Two teams always stayed on the maddog.
    When he left the restaurant, the maddog decided to driveinto St. Paul on Robert Street. It was a crowded, tricky street, but there were two movie theaters not far ahead. A movie would go down well.
    He saw the shattered turn light halfway up Robert Street. It was three cars back. At first he wasn’t certain, but then he saw it again, more clearly. And again.
    They were on him.
    He knew it.
    He sat halfway through a green light, staring blindly at the street ahead, until the cars behind him started to honk. Should he run for it?
    No. If he was being watched, it would tip them off that he knew. He needed time to think. Besides, maybe he was wrong. He wasn’t certain about the light. It could be a coincidence.
    But it didn’t feel like a coincidence.
    He passed a shopping center, took a right turn, and drove down to the high-speed Highway 3, which went north to intersect with Interstate 94. Coming off the exit ramp, he watched the mirror. A car followed him down the ramp, but far enough away that he couldn’t see the turn light.
    He thought about pulling over, feigning car trouble; but that could precipitate something, force their hands. He was not sure that he wanted to do that. He did a mental catalog. There was nothing at the apartment. Nothing. Nothing in the car. There was nothing to hang him with. If they were really watching, they must be waiting for an attack.
    Approaching the I-94 interchange across the LaFayette Bridge, the maddog let his speed drop sharply. The cars behind began to close up, and he picked up the surveillance car in an adjacent lane. He still couldn’t see it clearly, but there was something definitely wrong with its turn signal.
    Two cops in a trailing surveillance car had moved up and finally passed the maddog as they all drove north on Highway 3. As they approached I-94, the two women cops in the new lead car made the logical decision that the maddog was heading back to Minneapolis on the Interstate. They committed to the ramp. Behind them, the maddog drove through theinterchange and into the dark warren of streets in St. Paul’s Lowertown. The net spread out around him on parallel streets, staying in touch. Again, with the lead car out of it, the close-surveillance car moved in a bit tighter. Tight enough that when they turned a corner and found the maddog at a dead stop, backing into a parking place, they had to drive by.
    And the maddog, who was watching for them, clearly caught the broken lens on the turn signal.
    He was being watched. Coincidence was one thing. To believe all these sightings were coincidences was to believe in fairy tales.
    The maddog locked his car and walked briskly into a downtown shopping mall and went up two floors. The net was thinner, but still in place. The drivers of the trailing units had been alerted by the close-surveillance car that the maddog was parking. The passenger-cops were on the street before the maddog had fully gotten into his parking place.
    They followed him into the theater. The theater was a place to think. How had they gotten onto him? Perhaps, as part of their surveillance of McGowan’s house, they had routinely noted the license plates of all cars in the neighborhood. Perhaps somebody had heard the shots, seen him drive away, and noted the tag number. Maybe they had nothing at all but a number that didn’t quite fit in the neighborhood. Perhaps he should start preparing an alibi for being there. He couldn’t think of any offhand, but something might occur to him if he considered the problem.
    If they were following him, there was little he could do about it. He didn’t dare try to dodge the surveillance. That would confirm that he was guilty. He had disposed of all evidence that would put him at the crime scene. As far as he knew, there was no conclusive evidence against him anywhere.
    When the movie ended, the maddog walked down to his car, resisting the almost overwhelming temptation to look around, to search the doorways for watchers. He wouldn’t see them, of course. They would be too good for that. He stayed on city streets out to I-94, then turned east toward hisown exit. He didn’t see the broken turn signal on the way out to the