MIchael Prescott - The Shadow hunter

It was nothing major, and Wyatt had passed the time pondering what to do about Abby. He had decided on a confrontation tomorrow. Call her, arrange a lunch meeting, then demand to know what she'd gotten involved in. And once she told him? He didn't know. His planning hadn't made it that far.

At 11:40 he had been relieved of responsibility for the crime scene by the arrival of a bored detective, accompanied by an equally bored forensic photographer.

Now he was driving down Melrose, listening to the dispatcher report a CHP stop gone awry on the Santa Monica Freeway, miles away, twenty minutes ago. He wondered why the BOL was going out over a Hollywood Division frequency. As he turned onto Wilcox, he got his answer.

"… registered to a Hollywood resident…"

That explained it. There was a fair chance the suspect would be stupid enough to return home. Patrol units in Hollywood were advised to watch for a VW Rabbit with the reported plate number, and to keep an eye on the suspect's residence.

"… address, 1554 Gainford…"

Wyatt stiffened. The Gainford Arms.

"… name, Hickle, Raymond, that's Henry Ida Charles…"

It was Hickle who had been speeding on the freeway, Hickle who had fled a traffic stop. Wyatt had no idea what this might mean, except that Hickle was out of control and dangerous and crazed.

"Abby," he breathed, a cold feeling in his gut.

The time was 11:48 when Hickle abandoned his car in a small beach parking lot off Pacific Coast Highway.

He'd made it. He was in Malibu, on Kris's territory.

The police had not intercepted him.

The access path to the public beach was never closed. He lugged his duffel down the dirt path, then headed into the woods that bordered Malibu Reserve, his flashlight probing the foliage.

Midnight was close, the time frame tight, but he no longer feared failure. He was destined to succeed. He could feel it. Kris had messed with him, and she would pay, as Abby had paid.

Thinking of Abby made him wonder if she was dead yet. Fifty minutes had passed since he'd released the gas. By now she must have been asphyxiated or blown to bits.

Now it was Kris's turn to die.

Not far from the Reserve's perimeter fence, he located the mouth of the drainage pipe. The pipe was two feet in diameter, jutting out of a mound of earth under a eucalyptus tree. There was a small brackish pond nearby, and evidently the pipe had been laid down as a flood control device, its purpose to channel overflow from the pond away from the path and into the ravine that ran through the fenced compound.

On hands and knees Hickle bellied inside, dragging the duffel after him.

The bag got stuck in the opening, and briefly he was afraid it wouldn't fit-he'd never brought weapons on his previous outings, only the Polaroid camera-but when he turned the bag sideways it slipped through.

He crawled over leaves, twigs, candy wrappers, and other detritus washed in by storms. Beetles skittered out of his path. Some backtracked and flitted over him, tickling like light fingers.

He didn't mind. He had come this way before, and there were always bugs.

He'd never made the passage at night, though. His flashlight traced pale loops and whorls on the pipe's soiled interior. Past the light there was only darkness, not the reassuring glow of sunshine that had drawn him forward on past occasions. He guessed he had come halfway, which meant he was under the fence.

Inside the Reserve.

Kris had surrounded herself with a fence and a gatehouse, a bodyguard at the wheel of her car and other bodyguards stationed in her guest cottage, yet all these precautions had proven useless against him. He was unstoppable. He was a force of nature, a man of destiny.

He crawled faster.

Wyatt parked by a fire hydrant outside the Gainford Arms and mounted the front steps two at a time. The lobby door was locked, and he didn't have a master key. He buzzed Abby's apartment, got no answer.

He went around to the rear door, locked also. He scanned the parking lot and saw her white Dodge Colt in its assigned space.

She was home. She wasn't answering the buzzer.

And Hickle, the man she'd been spying on, was running from the police.

With his side-handle baton he smashed the glass panel adjacent to the rear door, then reached in and released the latch. Inside, he stabbed the elevator call button, but when the elevator didn't instantly arrive he gave up on it and ran up the stairs. At the fourth floor he exited, slowing to a walk. There was a remote chance Hickle had already come back and was waiting to ambush the first cop who arrived. Might have been a good idea to check the parking lot for Hickle's Volkswagen or call for backup. A little late for either plan now.

He drew his service pistol, approaching Hickle's apartment. He tested the door. Locked. He heard no movement inside. Even so, he ducked low, dropping below the peephole, as he passed by.

Abby's apartment was next. Number 418. He rapped his fist on the door, then frowned. He smelled something.

"Oh, shit," he whispered.

He tried the knob. It turned freely. He stepped into a den of fumes, moving fast, unafraid of an ambush now. Hickle wasn't here, wasn't coming back. He'd made Abby's apartment into a giant bomb and fled before it could explode.

The stench was overpowering. The gas must be nearly at critical mass.

Any spark could set off a detonation.

Wyatt advanced into the room, grateful that the lights had been left on; he wouldn't dare flip a light switch now.

He saw the dislodged oven immediately, the ruptured inflow line spewing gas. He cranked the shutoff valve, sealing the pipe, then got the living room window open. Leaning on the sill, he took a deep breath of fresh air to dispel any dizziness. He was shaking. It seemed okay to shake. He was standing inside an apartment that had been converted into a large-scale explosive device. It could still go off at any moment.

In the bedroom he found Abby. She lay unmoving in a twisted pose before the window, which was unlatched and a few inches ajar.

Hickle hadn't left it open, that was for sure. Abby must have raised it. The effort had exhausted her, but by bringing in a small quantity of clean air and diluting the lethal concentration of vapors, it had also saved her life.

If she was still alive. Wyatt didn't check until he had raised the window fully. Then he knelt, feeling her carotid artery. His fingertips detected the flutter of a pulse.

He hauled Abby through the window onto the fire escape and set her down.

She was barely breathing. He tilted her head back to open her airway, pinched her nostrils, sealed her mouth with his and blew air into her lungs. He did it a second time, then paused, studying her chest, waiting for an exhalation. None came.

He repeated the procedure, expelling air down her throat, forcing her chest to rise. Still she wasn't breathing.

He did it again. He would not give up. He would not let her die.

Hickle struggled out of the drainage pipe, toting the duffel bag, and scrambled through a shallow ravine, emerging near Gateway Road. Gateway was two lanes of pitted macadam lined with eucalyptus trees, the only way for vehicular traffic to get in or out of Malibu Reserve. The guardhouse with its lowered gate lay at the end of the road, the coast highway beyond.

He needed to cross Gateway, a risky endeavor if the guard happened to be looking in this direction. He took a breath and scurried across, the heavy bag slapping his hip with every step. At the far side of the road, he disappeared into the woods, sure he had not been seen.

Fast through the trees, heading toward the smell of the sea. He could hear the crash of breakers. Malibu had been named for that sound; the Chumash Indians had dubbed it the place where the waves are loud. But tonight there would be something louder than the surf. There would be gunshots. And screams.