MIchael Prescott - The Shadow hunter

"Who knows, maybe we have more in common than we know."

Amanda pushed open the door.

"Stranger things have happened."

"Is it a deal?"

"Sure. Deal. Now I've gotta run." She vanished through the doorway.

Kris headed down the hall to her office, smiling. Her marriage was falling apart, but her executive producer had found.a boyfriend. Maybe there was a cosmic balance to the universe, as her New Age friends said.

Her office was a large sun-streaked room cluttered with award certificates and statuettes, mementos from other stations where she'd worked, and framed snapshots of herself and Howard in happier times.

Ellen, her personal assistant, was typing at her desktop computer.

She glanced up when Kris entered.

"Hey, boss lady"

"Hey. Stopped by to pick up my outfit."

"Linda dropped it off an hour ago." Ellen nodded toward the door to Kris's dressing room, adjacent to the office.

"It's a new one, very snazzy."

Kris found her outfit hanging in the closet. It was a periwinkle blue suit with a cream-colored blouse, a good choice. That particular shade of blue always looked good on camera. Having been in the business for years, Kris knew what worked and what didn't.

Solid colors were good; patterns, especially small, complicated patterns, were bad. Off-white tones were good; solid whites were bad.

She changed into the suit, checked herself out in the full-length mirror, and decided she looked quite elegant except for her flat-soled sneakers. Since she was always behind a desk while on the air, no viewer would ever see her footwear.

To complement her outfit, she selected a pair of earrings and a pearl necklace-costume baubles, large and ridiculously ostentatious. Small items of jewelry were distracting on camera; outsized items photographed better. With the jewelry stowed in a plastic bag for later use, she headed out of the office, then paused in the doorway.

"How many calls?" she asked.

"Got a stack of message slips, but nothing urgent-"

"No, I mean voice mails… from him."

"Oh. Actually, none."

"No calls?"

"Not today." Ellen shrugged.

"Maybe he's losing interest."

"I should live so long."

Kris proceeded to the makeup room down the hall.

It was strange that Hickle hadn't called. Ordinarily by this time of day he would have left a couple of messages on her voice mail and one or two others with the switchboard. She should have been relieved by his silence.

Instead she found it unsettling.

Julia, her makeup artist, and Edward, her hair stylist, were waiting by the barber's chair with impatient expressions. Edward went first. On Mondays he gave her a complete styling. For the rest of the week, a touch-up was all that was required. He did the job quickly, trimming and fluffing and spraying.

"Done," he pronounced.

"Though, you know, with a shorter'do-"

"I'm not cutting my hair short."

"All I'm pointing out, Kris dear, is that after a certain age, long hair becomes unfashionable."

"I haven't reached that age." She picked up his scissors and clicked them menacingly.

"Tell me that I have, and I'll cut you shorter-and I don't mean your hair."

Edward quailed.

"I entirely see your point." He departed in haste.

Then it was makeup time. Kris sat patiently, reviewing script changes, as Julia applied a thick coat of Shiseido foundation to every exposed inch of her skin, even the insides of her ears. The blush followed. It seemed that the reworking of her face became more elaborate every month.

Soon she would do the news from behind an inch-thick mask of cosmetics, looking as stylized as a geisha. No one would recognize her.

She could change her name, move to another city, continue doing the news-and Hickle would never find her.

She tried to smile at this fantasy, but there was nothing funny about Hickle. He hadn't called her at work.

Strange… "Julia."

"Mmm hmmm."

"Bring the phone over here, would you? I need to make a call."

Julia obeyed, sulking; like any artist, she resented interruptions.

Kris called her home number. When the machine answered, she asked one of the TPS agents to pick up.

"This is Pfeiffer," one of them said.

"Hi, it's me. I wanted to know what the tally is. You know, his phone calls to the house."

"It's zero, ma'am."

"Zero?"

"He hasn't made a peep."

"He hasn't called my work number either. Does that strike you as peculiar?"

"You can never tell with these guys. Tomorrow he could call twenty times."

"I suppose you're right. Okay, thank you." She switched off. Julia asked what that was all about.

"My stalker seems to have varied his routine," Kris said.

"Is that bad?"

"I'm not sure."

Julia applied the last cosmetic touches.

"You know, I used to think it would be cool to be famous," she said.

"Now I have to wonder."

"It has its ups and downs."

Even after her makeup was complete and Julia was gone, Kris remained seated in the chair, thinking about Hickle and his unnatural silence.

"Kris." The floor manager was at the door.

"Ten minutes."

"Thanks." She hadn't realized airtime was so near.

She almost left the room, then changed her mind.

She picked up the phone and called Travis.

Her fear might be groundless, but it didn't feel that way.

Abby passed an hour watching the bungalow in silence.

After six o'clock the sky began to darken.

By six-thirty a sunset flamed over the rooftops. She thought about leaving. She should get back to Hollywood and see if Hickle was home, but as long as Kris was at KPTI, there was no immediate danger. She decided to wait a little longer.

To use her time more productively she fished her micro recorder out of her purse and dictated notes. She reported her visit to Travis's house, tactfully leaving out the steamy stuff but including everything else, then her unlawful entry to the bungalow and what she'd learned.

If she died, she would at least leave an up-to-date record of her activities.

In the hot tub she'd come close to cashing it in, and if things had gone a little differently when she was escaping from Hickle's apartment last night, he might have unloaded his shotgun on her at pointblank range.

She had cheated her own mortality twice already.

Third time's the charm? she wondered ruefully, and then headlights flared in her rearview mirror.

She sank lower in her seat and watched a black Lexus roll by. As it eased past her car, she glimpsed the driver's profile, lit by the glow of the dashboard. It was Howard. No surprise.

The Lexus pulled into the bungalow's driveway, and Howard got out to lift the garage door, then parked in the garage. He entered the house via the front door. Lights came on a moment later, but the curtains remained shut.

Abby had seen all she needed to see, but she lingered, curious about Amanda Gilbert, who was sure to show up before long.

At seven-fifteen a white BMW parked at the curb a few doors down. The woman who hurried to the house was slim, almost bony, and quite young.

She started to unlock the bungalow's front door with her own key, and then the door opened from inside and Howard ushered her in.

Abby got out of her car and took a stroll, partly to stretch her legs and restore the circulation to her tush, but mainly to check out the BMW. She noted the license plate number and, resting on the dashboard, a parking permit for KPTI stamped with the words March and Employee.

Amanda Gilbert worked at Channel Eight. She was one of Kris's colleagues, and if her car was any indication, she didn't occupy an entrylevel position.

Driving out of the neighborhood, heading toward Hollywood, Abby activated her cell phone. She obtained the number of KPTI's switchboard from Information, then called the station.