Her apartment was laid out like a left-handed version of his own. He checked the bedroom first, flashing the light through the open door. The bed was neatly made and empty. He went down through the kitchen, saw the phone, paused, and thought: Why not? He checked the phone book, called the hospital, and asked for her.

"This is Sylvia." He hung up, clicking the hook rapidly, as though there had been line trouble. She was there, at the hospital.

He went through the kitchen, into the utility room, and cracked the door to the garage. Empty. Given the landscaping-the hedge across the back of the lot-he should be able to open the garage door a foot or more without being seen. He checked to make sure the garage wasn't locked, and lifted it, slowly, slowly. When it was up a foot, he slid out on his back.

It was a dark night, cloudy, and he lay for a moment in the door inset, invisible from the street, gathering his courage. When he had controlled himself, he eased the door most of the way down, leaving a gap of an inch or so. When he returned, it would be easier to lift.

Now for the bad part, he thought. On his hands and knees, he crossed to the base of the hedge and followed it out to the sidewalk. He looked both ways. The houses around him were all occupied by families. The two surveillance houses, which would cover the sides of his own apartment, were behind him now. His only problem would come if there were wing cars out on the street, out of sight of his apartment. That wouldn't make much sense, from the police point of view, stationing men where they couldn't see the target's apartment, but who knew what they might be doing?

Steeling himself, he made his move. Stepped out on the sidewalk and walked along, his head bobbing, straight away from the house. He tried not to be obvious about it, but he checked parked cars. Nobody. If there were surveillance cars, they should be out on the wings. It was unlikely that they would be parked back by the Interstate: there was no way out that way.

It was three blocks down to the car. He unlocked it, slipped inside, and took stock. He was loose, he was sure of it. It all felt right. He sat for a moment, feeling the environment around him, extending himself into the night. He was free. He turned on the light, cranked the engine, and headed out. He had thought about this, and hadn't made up his mind. Now he did. Davenport drove a Porsche, the papers said. Would it be parked at one of the surveillance houses? If they were surveillance houses? He took the street one back from his own, cruising by the house he suspected. Two cars, nondescript Ford sedans. Like cops might drive. How about the other house? He took a left, two blocks, his headlights raking an oncoming car. A Porsche, in fact. He caught a quick glimpse of Davenport 's face as he rounded the corner. The maddog slowed, did a U-turn, and went back. Davenport 's car had stopped outside the second surveillance house. He was getting out with a white rectangular box of some kind… A pizza.

A pizza.

It answered the next question for him. He had not decided how to get into Ruiz' apartment. He had thought of pulling the fire alarm. He would hit her when she stepped into the hallway. But when the janitor learned that it was a false alarm, he might check the building's occupants to see if anybody had a problem. And there was the possibility that somebody else would come into the hallway before Ruiz. He had thought of imitating Lucas' voice-but what if the door was on a chain and she peeked out and a stranger was there? She would know.

But a pizza…

He stopped and got a pizza, waiting impatiently as the slow-moving pizza-maker kneaded the dough, tossed it around, pounded it out, and pushed it into the oven. Cooking took another ten minutes. The maddog glanced at his watch. Eleven-thirty-five. He'd have to hurry. The janitor usually locked Ruiz' building at midnight.

It was another ten minutes to the squat old St. Paul warehouse; he could see it from the Interstate as he started into the exit ramp. He parked near the building's main door and got his equipment out of the trunk: the hose full of cat litter, the can of Mace, the roll of tape, the work gloves. Everything but the hose went in his pockets.

He went in the door and up the stairs; the janitor, who doubled as the elevator operator, usually hung out by the elevator door where he could listen to his boombox. The first two floors were silent. Somebody on the third floor was playing a radio, and a faint laugh trickled down the concrete hallways. The fourth floor was quiet, as was the fifth.

Down four doors. Light under her door. He breathed a sigh of relief. She was in. He had been prepared to abort, to do it over again if he had to. Now he wouldn't. The stroke would happen.

He pulled on the yellow cotton gloves, took a breath, let it out, rapped on the door, and called, "Pizza." She had never seen his face.

He heard her footsteps crossing the floor. "I didn't order a pizza," she said from the other side of the door.

"Well, I got a pizza for this studio for Lucas Davenport. I'm supposed to say the wine is on the way, if it isn't already here."

There was a moment of silence, then a soft, "Oh, no."

What? What was 'wrong? The maddog tensed, ready to flee, but the door was opening. There was a chain. Ruiz seemed to be alone. She peeked out, saw the box.

"Just a minute," she said with a note of resignation in her voice. There was something going on that he didn't understand. She pushed the door shut and he heard the chain come off. He had the pizza balanced on the hand that held the hose. The Mace was in the other. Ruiz opened the door, nobody behind her. The maddog thrust the pizza at her and stepped forward. She stepped back, looking up at him as the pizza came at her so unexpectedly hard, she saw the gloves, and then, in an instant, she knew, but the can was up and he hit her in the mouth and eyes with the spray and she dropped the pizza and tried to cover her face and choked and staggered backward. The maddog pressed into the apartment and swung the hose. She had one arm up and it glanced off. Gagging, she half-turned and stumbled toward a bookshelf with her hands outstretched, and the maddog stopped just for an instant and kicked the door shut and went after her. She was pawing the bookshelf, still blind, looking for something, looking, and the maddog was on her and she had one hand on a small chrome-steel pistol and he hit her with the hose and she went down and still had the weapon and with a vision as acute and clear and sharp as water crystal he saw that she had it by the butt only, that her fingers were not fitted through the trigger guard and he took just an extra fragment of a second to get the right backswing and he hit her again on the back of the head and then again, bouncing off her shoulder, and again, straight into her face… she stopped moving, curled into a fetal position…

The maddog, breathing hard, dropped the hose and fell on her like a tiger on a staked goat. Pulling her head back, he thrust the Kotex into her mouth, wrapped her head with tape. She was dazed and unresisting. He worried for a moment that he had killed her and thought, absurdly: This is not a Chosen, this is a raid, it makes no difference when she dies…

The pistol was lying on the floor and he pushed it away, stood up, grabbed her by the shirt collar, and dragged her into the bedroom and used the tape to bind her to the bed. She was wearing a man's flannel shirt and he ripped it open, a button popping off and clicking against the wall, the maddog's hearing now supernaturally keen, the sensory high coming with a rush. He snatched the side of her bra and wrenched the back strap, breaking it, and the shoulder straps. Unfastened her jeans, pulled them halfway down her legs. Ripped the crotch out of her underpants and pulled them up her belly.