MIchael Prescott: The Shadow hunter

"Situation." Kris Barwood leaned forward in her chair, balancing her hands lightly on her knees, a pose she must have learned while doing on-camera interviews.

"That's one way of putting it."

"I know it feels like a crisis," Abby said, "but it's nothing we can't handle."

Howard snorted.

"Tell that to Devin Corbal."

For a startled moment Abby wondered how they had found out about her involvement in that case.

Then she realized Howard had been looking at Travis when he said it.

She and Travis were rescued from any response when Kris cut in smoothly,

"When you arrived, Paul was just about to explain what it is you're going to do for me."

"I have kind of an unusual job, Mrs. Barwood."

"Call me Kris." The anchorwoman flashed a smile that ought to have looked artificial but didn't.

"Okay, Kris. I'm Abby" Howard Barwood spoke up again.

"How old are you, Abby, if you don't mind my asking?"

"Twenty-eight."

His eyelids lifted in skeptical appraisal.

"Isn't that a little young to be a licensed psychologist?"

"I'm not a licensed psychologist."

"Travis here"-Barwood cocked a thumb in the direction of the desk-"called you a psychological consultant."

"That's one way of describing the work I do. I call myself a dynamic interpersonal risk evaluator. But there's a simpler way of putting it.

I'm a pilot fish."

Kris and her husband exchanged a bemused glance.

"A pilot fish," Abby repeated. She tossed her purse on a chair but remained standing.

"You know those little fish that swim in the wake of a shark? They gather scraps. So do I. Only, the sharks I swim with are people like Raymond Hickle, and the scraps I gather are scraps of information."

She crossed behind Travis's desk to stand before the wide windows, the panoramic backdrop.

"See, when it comes to assessing the threat, personal protection services have to rely on background information and profiling.

It would be better to get to know the real man. It can't be done from a distance. It has to be up close and personal." "How close?" Kris asked.

"How personal?"

"If all goes well, I'm going to be Hickle's best friend."

There was a beat of silence, and Kris said, "This man may not have any friends."

"But he wants one. Everybody does. Do you know what people look for in a friend? Someone to talk to.

Someone who'll listen." Abby smiled.

"I'm a good listener."

"You mean you're going to analyze him without his even knowing it?"

"Not analyze him in a psychological sense. Instead, I need to assess him from a security standpoint. Gauge his intentions, his timetable.

And keep an eye on him so if he does decide to act, I'll be there to head him off at the pass."

"And you think you can do all that?"

"I've done it before, many times." And only failed once, she added silently with another twinge of guilt.

Howard straightened in his chair.

"Let me get this straight. You're talking about some kind of undercover thing?"

"You can call it that."

"So you meet him, give a phony name, get to be friends. Then it's you and him alone together?"

"Right."

"But you've got armed men stationed outside, radio communication with them in case he turns crazy or sniffs you out?"

"No, it's just me. I carry a cell phone and a gun."

"Just you? Why, for God's sake?"

Travis fielded the question.

"Because you're suggesting we attempt virtually round-the-clock surveillance of Raymond Hickle, and that sort of operation almost never works."

"When the police carry out an undercover operation," Kris said, "they have a backup team listening on a radio." "Yes," Travis said, "for a twenty-minute drug buy.

We're talking about installing Abby in Hickle's life for days or weeks.

It's not the same. Surveillance requires more than one or two officers sitting in a car outside somebody's home. In a residential neighborhood, that car and its occupants will draw attention within hours.

Someone will call the police, there'll be a commotion, and our subject will see it or hear about it."

"Usually men like Hickle are paranoid to begin with," Abby added.

"It doesn't take much to push them over the edge."

Howard shook his head.

"So don't have them sit in a car. Have them watch Hickle from the building across the street." "The risk of detection is still too high,"

Travis said.

"A successful stakeout is extremely difficult to pull off over any extended period of time. Somebody will see the binoculars in the window or intercept a radio transmission or wonder about the food deliveries to a vacant apartment or hear something through the wall.

Neighbors talk, word gets around, and before you know it, the surveillance team's cover has been blown."

"And if their cover is blown," Abby said, "so is mine."

"There's another factor," Travis said.

"You're assuming Hickle stays put. Suppose he and Abby go out together.

We'd have to follow. That's not a job that can be done with a single vehicle or even two or three. To keep Hickle in sight at all times without being spotted ourselves, we need a minimum of a half dozen cars rotating in and out of the pursuit, sometimes hanging back in traffic, sometimes moving ahead to intercept him at points where we expect him to go."

"And if he takes me to someplace crowded, like Third Street Promenade on a Saturday night," Abby said, "then TPS would need twenty agents to cover every exit and byway. Hickle could lose the pursuit without even trying, and I wouldn't even know I was unprotected. Besides, in most cases, if things get ugly, it all happens so fast that a backup detail across the street wouldn't reach me in time anyway."

"So things do sometimes… get ugly?" Kris asked, sounding more curious than concerned.

Abby flashed on a gunshot in an alley, a voice saying, We lost him.

"Now and then," she said evenly, hoping her expression betrayed no emotion.

"It comes with the territory."

Howard shook his head.

"How exactly do you expect to protect yourself against a psychopath like Hickle?"

"I'm trained in self-defense. If a subject turns violent I know how to respond."

"Abby can take care of herself," Travis said.

"She's one of the most competent people I've ever worked with."

This surprised her. She glanced at Travis with a small, secret nod of appreciation.

"Well," Howard said, "she'd better be." He fixed Abby with a stare.

"How many cases have you handled?"

"More than twenty over the past two years."

"I would think you'd want to quit while you're ahead."

"You mean while I'm alive?" She smiled.

Kris was studying her.

"How about the Devin Corbal case? Were you in on that one?"

Abby had anticipated this question and was ready with a response.

"No, I was in San Francisco at the time, protecting a radio shock jock who'd made too many enemies."

She hated to lie to a client, but if she told the truth, she would be off the Barwood case, and most likely Travis would lose Kris as a client. And she knew that this was a loss he could not afford.

Anyway, no one would be able to prove she'd lied.

She had escaped from the vicinity of Lizard Maiden before the police could secure the scene. The TPS bodyguards had said nothing about her.

Sheila Rogers, now in custody awaiting trial, had received a concussion during the tumble down the alley stairs and remembered nothing of Abby's assault. The bartender recalled that Sheila had been sitting with a nameless woman friend, but he had not reported his encounter with her, no doubt because he didn't want to admit that he had tipped off Sheila to Devin's whereabouts.

In short, there was nothing to link Abby to the case.