Rules of Prey

friends. He made no phone calls, except on business, and got none at home. His mail consisted of bills and advertisements.
    What was the lure for?
    Sitting in the dark, his eyes closed, he turned the problem in his mind, manipulated it like a Rubik’s Cube, and always came up with mismatched sides.
    No point in sitting here, he thought. He looked at his watch. Nine o’clock. He got up, put on a jacket, and went out to the car. The nights were getting very cold now, and the wind on his face triggered a memory of skiing. Time to get his downhill skis tuned and the cross-country skis scraped and hot-waxed. He was always tired of winter by the time it ended, but he kind of liked the beginning.
    The maddog’s apartment was five miles from Lucas’ house. Lucas stopped at a newsstand to buy copies of Powder and Skiing.
    “Nothing,” the surveillance cop said when he came up the stairs. “He’s watching television.”
    Lucas peered out the window at the maddog’s apartment. He could see nothing but the blue glow of a television through the living-room curtains. “Move, you motherfucker,” he said.

CHAPTER
32
    The maddog forced himself to eat dinner, to clean up. Everything as usual. At seven o’clock he turned on the television. All drapes pulled. He glanced around. Now or never.
    The maddog had never had a use for many tools, but this would not be a sophisticated job. He got a long-handled screwdriver, a clawhammer, a pair of pliers, and an electric lantern from the workroom and carried them upstairs. In his bedroom he put on two pairs of athletic socks to muffle his footsteps. When he was ready, he pulled down the attic stairs.
    The attic was little better than a crawl space under the eaves of the apartment house, partitioned among the four apartments with quarter-inch plywood. Since the apartment’s insulation was laid in the attic floor and the attic itself was unheated, it was cold, and suitable only for the storage of items that wouldn’t be damaged by Minnesota’s winter cold. The maddog had been in it only twice before: once when he rented the apartment, and again on the day when he conceived the stroke, to examine the plywood partitions.
    Padding silently across the attic floor, the maddog crossed to the partition for the apartment that was beside his, facing the street. The plywood paneling between his part of the attic and the opposite side had been nailed in place from his side. The work was sloppy and he was able to slip the end of the screwdriver under the edge of the panel and carefully pry it up. It took twenty minutes to loosen the panel enough that he could draw the nails out with the clawhammer and the pliers. Again, the work had been sloppy: no more than a dozen nails held the plywood panel in place.
    When the panel was loose, he pulled it back enough that he could slip into the opposite side of the attic. The other side was almost as empty as his, with only a few jigsaw puzzles stacked near the folded stairs. Silence was now critical, and he took his time with the next job. He had plenty of time, he thought. He wouldn’t move until the police spies thought he was in bed. Working quietly and doggedly in the light of the electric lantern, he loosened the plywood panels between his neighbor’s attic and the attic of the woman who lived in the apartment diagonally opposite his.
    That was his goal. The owner was a surgical nurse, recently divorced, who, ever since moving into the apartment, had worked the overnight shift in the trauma-care unit of St. Paul Ramsey Medical Center. He had called the hospital from his office, asked for her, and been told that she would be on at eleven o’clock.
    It took a cold half-hour to get into her side of the attic. When the access was clear, he quietly propped the panels back in place so a casual inspection wouldn’t reveal the missing nails. He stole back down the stairs to his bedroom, leaving the flashlight, tools, and nails at the top of the steps. When he got back, he would push the nails as best he could into their holes. Tomorrow morning, when the people opposite had gone to work, and before the maddog’s last victim was found, he would go back and hammer them in place.
    Downstairs again, he considered a quick trip to a neighborhood convenience store. A walking trip. It might be an undue provocation, but he thought not. He turned off the television, put on his jacket, checked his wallet, and went out the front door. He tried to goof along, two