MIchael Prescott - The Shadow hunter

If someone had been watching her, he had retreated from the laundry room. Perhaps he had gone upstairs-or perhaps he was hiding in the boiler room next door.

But who? Was it Hickle? Or her assailant from last night? Or merely the product of an over sensitized imagination?

She decided to find out.

Cautiously she approached the doorway. On the threshold she placed her hand inside her purse, wrapping her index finger around the Smith's trigger.

The stairway to the lobby was on her right. The boiler room lay to her left. The door was open, the overhead light off. Three large water heaters hissed inside.

She groped for a light switch inside the doorway.

Couldn't find one. She entered in darkness. There was a flashlight'in her purse but she couldn't take it out without releasing her grip on the gun, and right now the gun was more important to her.

The boiler room was large and musty. Concrete floor, brick walls, cobwebs in the corners. A man could crouch in one of those corners and not be seen.

"Hello?" she said again.

"Anyone here?"

Nothing.

She advanced into the middle of the room. The water heaters were straight ahead. Big industrial heaters, gas-fired, probably holding eighty gallons each. She groped in front of her and touched the smooth surface of the nearest water tank.

She had thought that someone might hide behind the heaters, but as her eyesight adjusted to the gloom she saw that they were nearly flush with the rear wall, actually bolted to the concrete to prevent the gas supply lines from being ruptured in an earthquake.

There were hiding places on either side of the heaters, though. She took another step forward and something brushed her hair, and for a moment she was in the spa again, a stranger's hand pushing her down-No.

Not a hand, not an attack. Only the length of chain hanging from the ceiling. The pull cord for the overhead light. That was why she hadn't found a wall switch.

She tugged the chain, and the bare bulb directly above her snapped on, brightening the room.

She glanced around her, half expecting an assault, but nothing happened.

There was no one in the boiler room. There never had been.

"God, Abby," she muttered, "get a grip."

She must have imagined the whole thing. Maybe it was some kind of posttraumatic reaction to her near death experience in the hot tub last night. Or maybe she was just going crazy.

Abby left the boiler room. The washing machine had completed its cycle.

Her clothes were soaking wet, but she decided she could dry them in the sink or bathtub of her apartment. She'd spent enough time in the basement.

Besides, she had to get ready for her big night on the town.

Hickle hated to miss the six o'clock news.

In the past year he had seen every one of Kris Barwood's broadcasts.

Sitting in front of the TV each weeknight at six and ten was part of the daily rhythm of his life. When she'd taken a vacation last September, he had been seriously distressed. Yet tonight he was missing the show.

He reminded himself that he was taping it and could view the tape later, and he was sure to be home in time for the ten o'clock newscast.

"Traffic's not too bad."

He glanced at Abby, seated on the passenger side of his VW.

"Yeah, it's pretty light this evening," he answered, "considering it's rush hour."

"It's always rush hour in this city."

He could think of no worthwhile reply.

"Yeah."

His face was hot, his palms were damp, and he wished he were safe in his apartment watching Kris on the news-the show would have just started-watching her and enjoying her presence in his home, even if it was only a magical illusion.

Instead here he was on Santa Monica Boulevard driving into the twilight with Abby Gallagher. She had changed into cotton slacks, a button-down blouse, and a nylon windbreaker. A nice outfit, better than the jeans and sweatshirt he'd thrown on.

He risked conversation.

"I guess it's a lot different here from Riverside."

She raised her voice over the drone of the motor and the rattle of the dashboard. "la's so big. I can't even find my way around. I'm lost."

"You'll get used to it." He forced himself not to retreat into silence.

"I did."

"You're not from LA originally?"

"} moved down from the central part of the state a long time ago." He was no good at small talk. He decided to dare a more direct approach.

"Mind if I ask you a question?"

"Go ahead." "You said you were running from your problems…"

He was sure she would tell him it was none of his business.

"Boyfriend problems," Abby answered, as unperturbed as if she'd asked his opinion of the weather.

"Well, more than boyfriend. Fiance. We were supposed to be married in May. Then I found him cheating on me. When I say found, I mean literally found. I walked in on him when he was banging her. In our bed. At one o'clock in the afternoon."

Hickle didn't know what to say, but for once he felt no awkwardness because surely no one would know what to say in this situation.

"So I screamed and threw things, the usual mature reaction of the woman wronged. Next day I drove out of town. Had to get away." A shrug.

"That's my sad story."

The word sad cued him to the appropriate response.

"I'm sorry."

"That's life."

"But it's awful, what he did to you."

"I guess you can't expect long-term commitment anymore. Even so, I really thought we were meant to be together. You know how that is?"

Hickle kept his voice steady.

"I know."

"To find somebody who's everything you want, everything you're looking for-and then they go and do something like that…" Abby let her statement slide away unfinished.

"I know," Hickle said again, more firmly.

"I know exactly what that's like."

"So it's happened to you?"

Because the car was stopped at a red light at Beverly Drive, Hickle could turn in his seat and look directly into Abby's eyes.

"It's happened to me," he said.

"Just recently, in fact-just within the past year-I found the perfect woman. Perfect. And she…" Abby watched him, no judgment in her expression.

"She tore my heart out. She killed my soul. She murdered the best part of me." There. It was said. Probably he should have stayed silent. The words had come out in a rush, desperate and angry. He was afraid Abby would think he was some kind of nut.

"I'm sorry, Raymond," she whispered.

Raymond. She had called him by name.

A horn blatted behind him. The stoplight had cycled to green. He was holding up traffic.

He motored through the intersection, continuing west, afraid to speak again and risk damaging whatever fragile intimacy he'd established.

Raymond. His first name. Spoken with such gentle understanding.

Raymond.

The parking lots that served the Venice promenade were filled to capacity this evening. Hickle navigated the maze of narrow side streets and alleys until he found an open slot at a curb two blocks from the beach. By the time he maneuvered the Rabbit into the space, the last of the twilight glow was gone, and darkness lay thick and smooth on all sides.

After his blurted confession in Beverly Hills, he had said little, and Abby hadn't prodded him. Although the present excursion was perhaps not technically a date, it came close enough to raise his anxiety level dangerously high. Once they were in the restaurant, he would loosen up, and she would learn what she had to know.

On every case Abby started out with a mental checklist, questions about the person whose threat potential she was assessing. The questions were simple and specific, and the more of them she answered, the nearer she came to a final evaluation. Already she had checked off several of the most serious questions about Hickle, each time with an answer in the affirmative.