Mortal Prey

close.”
    “Two months, they say. I dunno. I’ll believe it when I see it.”
    “Call Mallard.”
    In the basement, Jack Vrbecek was peering up at the ceiling and making notes on a clipboard. “Hey, Lucas. Seven guys today.”
    “Yeah, that’s good. That’s good. Looks like things are moving. What’re you doing?”
    “Checking the schematics on the wiring. You’re gonna want to know where every bit of it is, in case you need to get at it.”
    Lucas bent his head back to peer at the ceiling. “Maybe we ought to put in a Plexiglas ceiling, finish it off—but then we’d be able to see everything.”
    “Except that the workshop would sound like the inside of the brass-band factory every time you turned on a saw,” Vrbecek said. “This will be fine. We’ll get you a complete layout, and with the acoustic drop ceiling, your access will be okay and you’ll be able to hear yourself think.”
    Lucas nodded. “Listen, we’ve got to get somebody to do the cable and telephone stuff, and I heard someplace today, down at City Hall, I think, that the guy from Epp’s broke his foot. If we don’t get that in, with the inspector coming Tuesday…”
    “Yeah, yeah. We’re moving on it.” He made a note on his clipboard.
    “And one of the guys up on the roof is drinking what might be Perrier water, but might not be, and if he falls off and breaks his neck, I’m not the one who gets sued.”
    “Goddamnit. They’re supposed to be in a twelve-step program, and if that’s a goddamn bottle of beer…” They started for the basement stairs. At any other time, Lucas might have felt guilty about ratting out the roofers. But this was the house.
     
    TWO MONTHS EARLIER , Lucas had stood on the edge of a hole where his old house had once been, looking into it with a combination of fear and regret. Both he and Weather wanted to remain in the neighborhood, and they were old enough to know exactly what they wanted in a house, and to know they wouldn’t get it by buying an older place. Building was the answer: taking down the old house, putting up the new.
    Only when he looked into the hole did he realize how committed he’d become, after a long life of essential noncommitment. The old house was gone and Weather Karkinnen was, as she’d announced, With Child. They’d get married when they had time to work out the details, and they’d all live happily ever after in the Big New House.
    As he’d stood on the edge of the hole, the low-spreading foundation junipers clutching at his ankles as though pleading for mercy—they’d get damn little, given the practicalities of building a new house—he’d expected to live with the regret for a long time.
    He’d bought the place when he was relatively young, a detective sergeant with a reputation for busting cases. He was working all the time, roaming the city at night, building a web of contacts—and working until five in the morning writing role-playing games, hunched over a drawing board and an IBM Selectric.
    A couple of the games hit, producing modest gushers of money. After wasting some of it on a retirement plan and throwing even more down the rathole of sober, long-term investments, he’d finally come to his senses and spent the remaining money on a Porsche and a lake cabin in the North Woods. The last few thousand made a nice down payment on the house.
    Standing at the edge of the old basement, he’d thought he’d miss the old place.
    So far, he hadn’t.
     
    THE HOLE HAD been enlarged, the new foundation had gone in, and in short order, the frame for the replacement house had gone up and been enclosed. He found the process fascinating. He’d enjoyed the design stage, working with the architect. Had enjoyed even more the construction process, the careful fitting-together of the plans, and the inevitable arguments about changes and materials. He even enjoyed the arguments. Sort of like writing a strategy game, he thought.
    The old house, though comfortable, had problems. Even living in it alone, he’d felt cramped at times. And if he and Weather had kids, the kids would have been living on top of them, in the next bedroom down the hall. The Big New House would have a grand master bedroom suite with a Versailles-sized bathroom and a bathtub large enough for Lucas to float in—Weather, a small woman, should be able to swim laps. The kid—kids?—would be at the other end of the hall, with a bathroom of his own, and there’d be a library and workrooms for