Rules of Prey

Gourmet?”
    He lay back again, his head propped up on a pillow, took a sip of beer, held the can on his chest, and read through the lists again.
    Rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief, doctor, lawyer, Indian chief. Cop.
    He glanced at his watch. Nine-forty-five. He got off the bed, the beer still in his hand, walked back to the workroom,and picked up the telephone. After a moment’s hesitation he punched in the number for Channel Eight.
    “Tell her it’s Red Horse,” he said. McGowan was on the line fifteen seconds later.
    “Red Horse?”
    “Yeah. Listen, Annie, this is exclusive. There was a witness on the street near the Brown killing. He actually saw the maddog. Says he looked like a farmer. He was wearing one of those hats with the bills on them, like seed hats? So it’s possible that he’s driving in from the countryside.”
    “A commuter killer?”
    “Yeah, you could say that.”
    “Like he commutes to the Twin Cities to murder these women, then goes back home, where he’s just another farmer picking potatoes or whatever?”
    “Well, uh, we think maybe he’s a pig farmer. This guy, the witness, brushed past him, wondered what this farmer-looking dude was doing with a chick like Brown. Anyway, he said there was a kind of odor hanging about him, you know?”
    “You mean . . . pig shit?”
    “Uh, pig manure, yes. That kind of confirms what we thought before.”
    “That’s good, Red Horse. Is there any chance we can get this guy on camera?”
    “No. No chance. If something happens to change that, we’ll let you know, but we’re keeping his identity a secret for now. If the maddog found out who he is, he might go after him.”
    “Okay. Let me know if that changes. Anything else?”
    “No. That’s it.”
    “Thanks, Red Horse. I mean, I really, really appreciate this.”
    There was a moment of silence, of pressure. Lucas fought it.
    “Uh, yeah,” he said. “See you.”

CHAPTER
16
    A pig farmer?
    The maddog raged through his apartment. They said he was a pig farmer. They said he smelled like pig shit.
    He had trouble focusing.
    The real issue. He had to remember the real issue: somebody had seen him and remembered the way he dressed. Had they seen his face? Was an artist working on circulars? Would they be plastered around the courthouse in the morning? He gnawed on a thumbnail, pacing. Pain flashed through his hand. He looked down and found he had ripped a chunk of nail out, peeling it away from the lobster-pink underskin. Blood surged into the tear. Cursing, he stumbled to the bathroom, found a clipper, tried to trim the nail, his hand shaking. When it was done, his thumb still throbbing, he wrapped it with a plastic bandage and went back to the television.
    Sports. He ran the videotape back and watched Annie McGowan deliver her scoop. Pig farmer, she said. Commuter killer. Smells of pig manure, may explain his inability to attract women. He punched the sound and watched only the picture, her black hair with the bangs curled over her forehead, her deep, dark eyes.
    Now she stirred him. She looked like . . . who? Somebody a long time ago. He stopped the tape, rewound it, ran it again, with the sound muted. She was Chosen.
     
    McGowan.
    Research would be needed, but he had time. She was agood choice for several reasons. She would be satisfying; and she would teach a lesson. He was not One to laugh at. He was not One to be called a pig farmer. The Cities would be horrified; nobody would laugh. They would know the power. Everybody: they would know it. He paced rapidly, circling the living room, watching McGowan’s face, running the tape back, watching again. A fantasy. A lesson.
     
    A lesson for later. There was another Chosen. She moved through his sleep and his waking vision. She moved ; she did not walk. She lived less than two long blocks from the maddog. He had seen her several times, rolling down the sidewalk in her wheelchair. An auto accident, he learned. She was an undergraduate at the university when it happened. She had been streaking through the night with a fraternity boy in his overpowered sports car. His neck snapped with the impact when they hit the overpass abutment, her back was shattered by a seat frame. Took an hour to get her out of the car. Both newspapers reported the accident.
    But she came back, and both newspapers did feature stories about her return.
    Graduated from the school of business, started law. A woman in law; they were all over the place now. She