MIchael Prescott - The Shadow hunter

Maybe he'd been wrong, after all. Maybe Abby wasn't mixed up in anything as reckless and crazy as he'd feared. He hoped so.

He was circling the far end of the lot when he glimpsed a flash of motion in his rearview mirror. Another vehicle had entered the parking area-a white subcompact.

Wyatt parked in the nearest available space, safely hidden in a carport's shadow. Low in his seat, he watched the car cruise past. It was a Dodge Colt, and it had a dent in its side panel, and the woman at the wheel was Abby, of course.

She guided the Colt into a carport in a corner of the lot, then walked briskly to the rear door of the Gainford Arms, checking her wristwatch.

In a hurry, it seemed.

The rear door was locked. Abby had a key. She must be a resident. No surprise.

The door swung shut behind her, and Wyatt slowly sat up in his seat. A slow anger was growing inside him. He was tempted to barge into the landlord's office, show his badge, find out which apartment she was in.

Bang on her door until she opened up, then demand to know what kind of game she was playing… He told himself to cool off. He wasn't going to do that. Abby was obviously involved in something clandestine and dangerous. If he blew her cover, he would put her at risk.

After a few moments he composed himself. Calm again, he headed over to Hollywood Station, though he was off duty for another forty-five minutes. At an empty desk he called the phone company. It didn't take him long to determine that only one apartment at the Gainford Arms had established phone service within the past week. Number 418, rented to Abby Gallagher.

Hickle lived in apartment 420. Abby was his nextdoor neighbor.

Wyatt was suddenly worn out. He sank back in his chair, rubbing his face. One of the day-watch patrol guys, a training officer named Mendoza, sauntered past.

"Rough day. Sergeant?" Mendoza asked.

"You could say that," Wyatt said.

"I bet it's a woman."

Wyatt had to smile.

"How'd you know?"

"Only a woman can make a man feel that goddamn bad."

At five-fifteen Abby found Hickle in the laundry room of the Gainford Arms, unloading his clothes from the dryer.

"Hi, neighbor," she said.

"Fancy meeting you here."

Hickle flushed.

"It's a small world," he managed.

She rewarded his effort at humor with a smile. Actually their meeting was no coincidence. After returning from TPS, she had rewound her surveillance videotape of Hickle's apartment and scanned it in fast motion.

The tape was time-stamped, allowing her to determine that at exactly 4:27 he had left the apartment carrying a basket of laundry. Hastily she had stuffed some of her clothes into a plastic bag and headed down to the basement. She thought it would seem more natural to run into him there than to arrange another chance encounter in the hallway.

"How much do these machines cost?" she asked as she dumped the contents of her sack into one of the big washers.

"Seventy-five cents each."

"I'd better stock up on quarters. My wardrobe's pretty limited, and I have to keep washing the same items if I want anything clean to wear."

He didn't answer. He was collecting the rest of his clothes from the dryer, in an obvious hurry to depart.

She knew he was nervous around her-around women in general. Still, she wasn't going to let him get away that easily. They had a date to go on, whether he knew it or not.

"I didn't spend a lot of time packing," she continued, as if his silence was the most natural thing in the world.

"Lit out of town in a rush. Left most of my things behind."

This ought to tweak his curiosity, and it did. He looked up from the dryer.

"Sounds like the move was kind of sudden."

"Extremely sudden. I threw some bare necessities into four suitcases, tossed'em in the back of my car, and amscrayed."

"You're not on the run from the law, are you?"

He said it quite seriously, but she was sure he meant it as a joke, so she merely laughed.

"On the run from my problems, I guess."

"You have… problems?"

"Doesn't everybody?"

"Sometimes I think I'm the only one."

"You're not. It only feels that way. Not a good feeling, is it?"

He looked away and mumbled, "No, it's not." He seemed embarrassed, as if he had revealed too much.

He picked up the laundry basket and took a step toward the door.

"Well… see you."

"Hey, you happen to know anyplace where a person can get a decent meal around here?"

Nonplussed by the change of topic, Hickle only blinked.

"I survived last night on crackers and cheese. Since you work in a restaurant, you must know the local dining scene. What I'm looking for is a tasty low-fat meal, something that won't drive up my cholesterol count to the stratosphere."

She waited, hoping he wouldn't panic so badly that his mind would go blank. She needed him to make a dining suggestion. Finally he came up with something.

"How about The Sand Which Is There?" he said.

Abby asked him to repeat the name. He obeyed, speaking slowly to emphasize the pun.

"It's in Venice, on the boardwalk."

"Great. Maybe we could go together, say, around quarter to six. I mean, who wants to eat alone?"

This possibility took him so completely by surprise that for several seconds he couldn't answer at all. She knew he was trying to find an escape hatch, a socially acceptable way to turn her down, because the prospect of spending the evening with a woman, any woman, would be terrifying to him.

Yet he did want someone to talk to. She could sense it. He had opened up a little already. She was giving him the chance to go further, if only he would take it.

She waited.

"Well," he said at last, "okay. I mean, why not?"

She relaxed.

"Great. I'll knock on your door around ten to six."

"Sure. Ten to six. No problem…"

He was already retreating, the laundry basket in his arms. He escaped out the door, and she heard his footsteps on the stairs to the lobby.

So far, so good. Abby smiled.

Having started the wash cycle, she might as well finish the job. She hadn't lied when she told Hickle she had only a few clothes with her.

She had brought a total of four suitcases, and the two largest ones had been crammed with electronic gear and other tools of her trade.

The washing machine rattled and hummed, sloshing its contents against the porthole in the door. She watched her clothes as they were tossed around in a bath of suds. The shifting patterns reminded her of the colored glass fragments in a kaleidoscope. She'd had a kaleidoscope when she was a little girl; her father had given it to her. She remembered playing with it for hours, fascinated by the ever-changing patterns. Now she was an adult, but she still studied patterns-patterns of behavior, of body language, of verbal expression.

Some patterns were obvious, like the selection of books in Hickle's bedroom, and some were more subtle, like the way he had asked if she was an actress when they met. Jill Dahlbeck had been an actress… Wait.

She froze, suddenly aware of another presence in her environment.

Turning, she scanned the rows of washers and dryers, the windowless brick walls, the bare ceiling bulbs suspended from the low ceiling. She saw nobody.

Even so, she was almost sure she was not alone.

She unclasped her purse and reached inside for her snub-nosed Smith, but hesitated. It wouldn't be a good idea to let one of the other residents spot her with a concealed firearm.

She left the gun in her open purse, within close reach of her right hand.

"Hello?" she called out.

Her voice rose over the rumble of the washer. No one answered.

Slowly she stood, then turned in a circle, studying every corner of the room. The place was empty.