MIchael Prescott - The Shadow hunter

"I'm happy doing what I do."

After a moment Zack resumed attacking the dough.

He had no way to figure out Raymond Hickle. The guy said he was happy, but how could he be? He had no ambition, no personal life, nothing but eight hours a day spent on menial chores for indifferent customers.

Some of his time was passed behind the counter, making coffee and micro waving muffins and toasting bagels, and some of it was spent in the kitchen amid the stainless steel sinks and the large-capacity appliances and the vat in which sizeable blocks of lard were melted to form a thick soup of grease for deep frying dough. Hickle had learned to use the donut filler, a conical, hand-operated apparatus that injected jelly into fried donut shells, and he often was called on to clean the blades of the mixers that blended milk and confectioner's sugar into a glaze.

As jobs went, it was hardly anybody's dream. Yet Hickle never groused or slacked off, never got sloppy or looked bored.

It wasn't natural.

Zack liked Ray Hickle, he really did, and he wanted the younger man to feel good about life.

"You know, Ray," he said on impulse, "you're my employee of the month."

Hickle didn't even look up.

"I wasn't aware you had an employee of the month."

"Well, I don't, but let's say I do, okay?" He gave Hickle a manly clap on the shoulder, raising a billow of white flour dust.

"There's an extra fifty bucks in it for you."

"That's not necessary."

"With all the unpaid overtime you put in. Ray, you deserve it ten times over. I'm adding it to your paycheck on Friday. Don't give me any arguments."

"Okay. Thanks, Zack." There was no enthusiasm in his voice, only empty acceptance.

"So what do you think you'll spend it on?" Zack asked gamely, hoping to spur a more positive response.

Shrug.

"Can't say."

"Got a special someone you can buy a present for?"

"Yes, I do."

Zack hadn't realized how much he expected Hickle to say no until he heard the opposite reply. He concealed his surprise behind a smile.

"That's good. Ray.

Been seeing her long?"

"A few months." Hickle worked the dough with his long-fingered hands.

"She's a beautiful woman. We have a spiritual union. It's destiny."

The odd thing about this was that he said it so casually, as if such confessions were made every day.

"Well, that's good," Zack said with less certainty.

"What's her name?"

"Kris."

"How'd you meet her?"

"It wasn't a meeting, exactly. More of an encounter. I was in Beverly Hills one day, just walking around, and I saw her come out of a store.

She didn't see me.

Walked right past me, in fact. But I never took my eyes off her.

Because in that moment I knew-somehow I just knew-she was the only one for me. I knew we were meant to be together."

"So you went after her?"

"Yes. I went after her. And now I see her all the time."

"Good for you. It shows some moxie, chasing down a girl you like. Hey, next time Kris is in the neighborhood, have her come by for coffee and crullers on the house."

"I'll do that."

There was silence between them as they finished kneading. When the dough was no longer sticky or crumbly, Zack said, "I can take it from here. Why don't you get home to your Kris? She's waiting, I'll bet."

"Oh, yes. She visits me every night. Every weeknight, anyway." Hickle washed the flour dust from his hands in a sink, drying himself with a hand towel. He was pushing open the kitchen door when Zack called to him.

"Hey, Ray, don't tell Kris about the bonus. Buy her another little something and surprise her with it. The ladies love surprises."

"Funny you should say that. As a matter of fact, I've been planning a surprise for Kris." Hickle nodded to himself.

"A major surprise."

He disappeared into the front room. Zack stared after him. A strange one, Raymond Hickle. But if he'd found a woman who loved him, then he was luckier than most.

Hickle left the donut shop at 2:45. As always, he scanned the parking lot at the side of the shop for suspicious vehicles. It was possible he was being watched. Kris had security officers in her employ, and they might be monitoring his activities.

He saw nothing. Even so, he raised his middle finger defiantly in the air, turning in a full circle to exhibit his contempt for any hidden observers.

Then he got into his Volkswagen and pulled onto Pico, heading east.

After five blocks he changed lanes, then quickly changed lanes again, watching his rearview mirror to see if any vehicle behind him performed the same maneuver. None did. He was pretty sure he wasn't being followed.

At a gas station on Pico he stopped and used the pay phone, calling one of several numbers he had memorized.

A message machine answered, as usual. He wouldn't have minded the machine so much if Kris's voice had been recorded on the tape, but it was the voice of a man, presumably her husband.

After the beep Hickle said, "Hi, Kris, it's me. I know you're at work.

Just wanted you to know I'm thinking of you. And that yellow blouse you wore yesterday on the air-no offense, but frankly I didn't care for it.

Blue is your color. I enjoyed your repartee with Phil, the sports guy, especially that part about the Dodgers. I didn't realize you were a baseball fan. I hope you don't try eating one of those Dodger dogs.

Those things'll kill you. Your health is important to me. Bye."

He got back in the car. Two blocks later he stopped at a convenience store and used another pay phone.

He felt it was important to call from a variety of locations.

To stay on the line too long at any one place might have been dangerous.

He wasn't sure why. He just knew he had to stay on the move.

This time he called her work number, reaching her voice mail service.

"Hello, Kris. I guess you're busy getting ready for the six o'clock show. I wanted to ask if you got the flowers I sent last week. I hope you liked them. I picked the same arrangement you had on your desk in the LA Magazine photo shoot. It was hard to match the bouquet exactly.

You should cut off the tips of the stems every few days to keep the flowers fresh.

Oh, this is Raymond, in case you couldn't tell. Break a leg."

He drove for another mile, parked at a mini-mall, and used a pay phone outside a submarine sandwich shop. He called the KPTI switchboard.

"Kris Barwood, please." The operator said Ms. Barwood was unavailable.

This might have been true, but it was more likely that the woman simply recognized Hickle's voice. He did call the switchboard nearly every day, after all.

"May I take a message?" she asked.

"Yes, please tell her Raymond Hickle called. I have some urgent information for her, but I can't convey it through an intermediary.

It's important that I speak with Kris directly."

"I'll pass that on," the operator said, sounding bored. He noticed she did not ask him for a number where he could be reached.

He hung up, drove three more blocks, parked at a fast-food restaurant, and used the pay phone, calling Kris's home number again and shifting his weight restlessly until the answering machine beeped.

"Kris, hi, it's Raymond. Look, I wanted to tell you this directly, but it looks as if we keep playing telephone tag, so I'll have to leave a message. The thing is, I had a dream about you, and it might have been a prophetic dream. I saw you doing the news, and you were reporting on a murder, one of those drive-by shootings, and then a car came careening right through the wall and into the TV studio, and shots were fired, and you were hit, Kris. You were hit, and there was blood all over. You were a bloody mess. I don't think they caught who did it, either. I thought it was something you should know. Sometimes dreams foretell the future, or so people say. Gotta go now, bye."