Rules of Prey

worried.
    The current charge came after Gant was caught in his ex-wife’s garage. The woman was in her house alone, at night. A neighbor saw Gant sneak in through an open door. The neighbor called the woman, the woman called 911, and the cops arrived in less than a minute. Gant was found hiding behind a car.
    Once he would have been charged with lurking. That charge no longer existed. He couldn’t be charged with assault because he hadn’t assaulted anyone. He couldn’t be charged with breaking and entering, because he hadn’t broken into the garage. He was finally charged with trespassing.
    Actually, the prosecutors didn’t much care what he was charged with. A conviction on any charge would send Gant back to Stillwater State Prison for the remaining fifteen months of his original forty-five-month term.
    But the maddog, studying the state trespassing law, found a tidy little loophole. The law had been designed to deal with hunters who were trespassing on farms without permission, not with criminal harassment. Nobody wanted to arrest thousands of hunters every fall. Most of them were voters. So the trespass laws had some special provisions.
    Most important, the trespasser had to be warned and given a chance to leave—and refuse, or substantially delay—before the act of trespass was complete. The maddog looked over the police reports. Nobody had said anything to the man before the cops arrived. He was never given a chance to leave.
    The maddog smiled and started writing the brief. This would never go to trial: Gant had not completed the basic elements of the crime under Minnesota law. So he had been caught hiding in a private garage just before midnight? So what? Nobody told him to go away . . . .
    The maddog left the brief on his secretary’s desk before he left the office Sunday afternoon. On Monday morning he happened to get on an elevator with the chief trial attorney and his assistant. They nodded to the maddog and turned their backs on him, watching the numbers change.
    Halfway up the assistant cleared his throat. “Got something for you on that Gant case,” he said.
    “Oh yeah?” Olson was a sharp dresser. Gray suits, paisley ties, big white teeth in an easy grin. “I thought I already put a stamp on that turkey and mailed him back to Stillwater.”
    “Not quite, O wise one,” the assistant said. “I got to thinking about the state trespass law and came in over the weekend to look it up. Sure enough. There’s a provision in there . . .”
    The assistant then related, paragraph by paragraph, the maddog’s research. Olson was laughing by the time they got to the skyway level and he slapped the assistant on the back and crowed, “God damn, Billy, I knew there was a reason I hired you.”
    The maddog stood thunderstruck at the back of the car. Neither of the others noticed. In a half-hour, he was in a rage. He couldn’t go to Olson and claim the work as his own. That would seem petty. The assistant would claim he simply had similar ideas.
    It had always been like this. He had always been ignored. The rage fed the need for the girl. It built like a thunderhead, and he went home, the need crawling in his blood.
     
    Heather Brown was back on the block. She wore a short leather skirt and a turquoise blouse open to her belt. Glass beads dangled over her thin freckled chest; a headband pinned back her hair.
    The maddog walked down the sidewalk toward her, hiseyes running over her body. He was most carefully dressed; more carefully dressed than for any of the other killings, because this pickup would be in public and might well be witnessed.
    The maddog wore jeans and boots, a red nylon athletic jacket, and a billed John Deere hat. He was slightly out of place on Hennepin. Not enough to be outrageous, but enough that his clothes might stick in somebody’s mind. He was a farmer, clear and simple. In a crowd of farmers, he would fit without the slightest wrinkle, he thought, as long as he kept his mouth shut.
    He had cut a hole through the back seam of the jacket pocket and a long wicked blade from Chicago Cutlery nestled in the lining.
    “Heather,” he said as he approached. He glanced around. The nearest person was a black man sitting on a bus bench across the street. He turned away from the man. Heather had been looking past him and her eyes snapped back.
    “How are you, honey?”
    “I talked to you the other night . . .”
    “I don’t remember you.”
    “I offered fifty for a