MIchael Prescott - The Shadow hunter

She was out cold. Breathing, though. Still alive. Well, not for long.

She'd been right about firing the shotgun in a crowded apartment building. Had he been thinking more clearly, he would have recognized the danger himself. But there were other ways to kill her. Cut her throat with a kitchen knife. Yes, that would do it. He was halfway out of the bedroom before he remembered that all her eating utensils were plastic.

Break her neck, then. He knelt and gripped her by the throat, tensing for a lethal twist of his wrists, but something in him recoiled from the hands-on intimacy of the act. There had to be another way.

Suffocation. He could smother her.

He turned toward the bed, reaching for a pillow, then stopped.

Beyond the bed was the closet, the door standing open, a cache of electronic gear inside. In the frenzy of his attack and its aftermath, he hadn't even noticed the stuff.

It seemed odd to have audiovisual equipment set up in a closet, and what was odder still was that the image on the TV screen was his own living room.

How could his living room be on TV?

Then he understood that he was looking at a closed circuit broadcast.

The TV must be receiving a signal from a camera Abby had planted.

But that meant she had been inside his apartment.

She had broken in, bugged the place. Then she had sat and watched him when he thought he was alone.

"Watched me," he breathed. It seemed horrible, obscene.

Stiffly he approached the closet. Beneath the TV was a VCR, recording the live video feed. Next to it, an audio console, tape reels turning.

When he'd talked to himself as. he often did, she must have recorded his voice. She knew his every thought. She hadn't simply invaded his life in the obvious ways. She had intruded on his most private moments, his solitude. She had watched and listened and recorded it all.

A new thought struck him. An awful thought. When exactly had she been in his apartment? Before or after he'd sneaked into the laundry room?

Because if it was after… Then she would have seen the thing he stole out of the washing machine. The white high-cut panties that had once been worn on her body. Her panties.

She would have seen them, would have known he'd taken them, would have guessed what he wanted them for.

Or maybe… maybe she didn't need to guess.

Maybe she had set up a camera in his bedroom as well.

Maybe it had an infrared lens, so she could watch him in the dark.

Had she watched him late last night, when he had taken those panties into his bed, when he had used them the way other men used pornographic pictures?

Had she seen that? Had she gotten it on tape?

Rage seized him.

He pawed at the VCR's Eject button, cracked open the cassette, pulled ribbons of tape off the spool in tangled handfuls.

Maybe she had recorded the sound effects too-the creaking of his mattress springs, the low shudders of his breath.

He wrenched loose the audiotape reels, unwinding them, spewing tape everywhere until the reels dropped from his shaking hands.

Useless. He'd accomplished nothing. Somebody could wind the tape back onto the spools and view the video, hear the sound.

Objectively he knew it didn't matter what anybody saw or heard. There was a good chance he would die in his assault on Kris. Even if he lived, he would be arrested, his guilt undeniable.

Still, he couldn't stand the thought of strangers having a window into his most personal moments.

Watching him like an exhibit at a sideshow. Laughing at his perversity.

Or worse, feeling sorry for him, feeling pity for the sick, lonely freak.

No. He would make sure that nobody ever saw or heard the tapes. He would get rid of the goddamned things, erase them or something.

But first he would remove the bugs she'd planted.

He couldn't let anybody see what she had done.

He confirmed that Abby was still unconscious, then returned to his apartment via the fire escape. He searched his living room first. The TV camera's vantage point had clearly shown that it was stationed above the couch. He pried loose the smoke detector and found a lens and transmitter, but no microphone.

He stomped the camera under his heel and scanned the room for a microphone's likely hiding place. The telephone? He turned the phone upside down, saw what might be a bug of some kind, and battered the phone to pieces against the kitchen counter.

There could be other bugs in the room. He peered behind the couch, behind the TV, in his kitchen cabinets, in the refrigerator. He didn't even know what he was looking for. An eavesdropping device might be in front of his face and he wouldn't recognize it. The tricky little bitch might have planted a dozen microphones or a hundred. He had no way to know.

He stumbled into the bedroom. Had she planted a mike in here too, or had she listened through the shared wall with a stethoscope? And what about that second camera? There could be a hidden lens peering at him through a pinhole in one of his pictures of Kris.

He tore down the pictures. No camera. No microphone.

There had to be something. She wouldn't have bugged one room and not the other. He must have overlooked it. He searched under the bed, behind the nightstand. He unscrewed the base of his table lamp.

Nothing.

"Where is it? Where did you hide it, you whore?"

His voice was an octave higher than normal.

Given a day or two, he could find everything she'd planted. But he didn't have a day or even an hour. He had to strike against Kris tonight. Delay would wreck his chances. When Abby failed to report, her colleagues would know something was wrong. They would come after him. Even if he evaded arrest, Kris would be protected behind additional layers of security, and he would never be able to reach her.

It was nearly ten-thirty. Kris would leave the KPTI studios in an hour or so. She would arrive home after midnight. He had to be there when her car pulled into the driveway of the beach house. To stay on schedule, he must leave soon. But he hadn't debugged his apartment.

He hadn't erased the tapes.

"There's no time." Hickle spun in circles. He couldn't undo all that Abby had done. But neither could he leave it for the police to find.

Destroy it, then. Destroy it all-everything in both apartments-every trace of it.

"All right," he whispered, regaining some measure of self-control as a plan took shape in his mind.

"All right, yes, it'll work, it'll be fine."

Before leaving his apartment, he gathered all the items he would need for that night's work, both there and in Malibu. He removed his duffel bag from the closet and stuffed his rifle inside. With its scope and laser sighting system, the HK 770 had been a costly investment, and he intended to have it with him as a backup should the shotgun fail.

What else was required? Extra ammo for both firearms. A flashlight. A jacket-the night was cool. He shrugged on his navy blue windbreaker.

The dark color would provide camouflage.

And the padlock and chain that had secured the closet. He took those with him, along with the duffel.

He left his apartment, climbing through the window, never looking back.

The TV monitor in Abby's bedroom was now a sheet of static. Abby remained unconscious. Hickle nudged her with his foot. She didn't stir.

He knelt by her for a minute or two, then turned his attention to the bedroom windows. The screen had been ruined by his forced entry, but the glass pane was intact. He closed and locked the window, then sealed the living room window as well.

The apartment was now airtight. Crouching, he checked the furnace's pilot light and saw its blue flame.

Now for the hard part. Muscles straining, he wrestled the oven away from the kitchen wall until he heard a metallic pop and a hiss of gas.