MIchael Prescott - The Shadow hunter

He advanced step by step, waiting for a gust of wind to shake the sedges and mask the disturbance his passage caused. As he drew close to the bridge, he timed his moves to coincide with each new rush of traffic, letting the roar of a Harley's unruffled motor or the rattle of a camper drown out the noise of his progress.

It had been a long time since he had been involved in the pursuit of an armed assailant. He found himself enjoying it. He almost wished he were an employee of Travis Protective Services, assigned to field duty, rather than the founder and proprietor, condemned to spend most of his time behind a desk.

He proceeded to within five feet of the bridge, and still the cop with the flashlight hadn't spotted him. Travis could see the patrolman leaning over the side, casting the beam into the waist-deep water, then exploring other parts of the creek and pond. Behind him the CHP car's light bar threw blue and red pulses over the scene.

Travis was wondering how he would get past the drifting glow of the flashlight when his problem was solved for him. The patrolman abruptly lifted the flashlight and turned away, his attention drawn by the rising whine of two ambulance sirens.

The fire station was practically next door to Malibu Reserve, and the paramedics must have arrived almost immediately. The nearest hospitals were in Santa Monica and West LA. To get there, the ambulances had to cross the bridge, heading south on PCH. The patrol cops had paused in their surveillance to slow oncoming traffic and wave the emergency vehicles through.

It would take less than a minute for both ambulances to pass, but that was all the time Travis needed.

He entered the creek, holding his gun high, and with one hand he cut the water with a strong stroke, gliding under the bridge.

When the first ambulance screamed overhead, he risked propelling himself forward with a strong kick.

He was sure Hickle couldn't hear the splashing above the din from above.

Behind a pylon Travis paused, only his head and the Walther above water.

Hickle, he saw, had turned toward the far side of the bridge.

He was watching the spotlight, which had stopped moving. The duffel was strapped to his shoulder, and the shotgun was in his hand.

The second ambulance blew past with a cacophonous wail. Travis used the covering noise to glide forward, eel-like in the slippery water, moving from pylon to pylon until Hickle was within reach.

At the last moment Hickle seemed to sense another presence in the dark, but it was too late. Before he could turn, Travis pressed the Walther's muzzle to the back of Hickle's head.

"Don't move, Raymond."

Hickle stiffened. Travis knew he was thinking of the shotgun, calculating odds and risks.

"I know you want to do something heroic," Travis whispered.

"Something crazy. Don't. Just listen to me.

Will you do that, Raymond? Will you listen to one thing I have to say?"

"So say it," Hickle breathed, tension bunching up the muscles of his shoulders.

"Okay, here it is, Raymond. Here's what I came to tell you."

Travis leaned close, pressing his mouth to Hickle's ear, and smiling in the dark, he recited the words of a nursery rhyme.

"Jack, be nimble… Jack, be quick…"

The gas was off. The furnace's pilot light was out.

The windows in the bedroom and living room were open. Abby had not yet risked turning on an electric fan to expel the gas-any spark might ignite an explosion-but already the air was clearing.

"We've got to get you to a hospital," Wyatt said for the third time.

The rover radio clipped to his uniform belt crackled with unintelligible crosstalk; he ignored it.

"I told you," Abby said, "I'll go when I'm through here."

"Through with what, exactly?"

"Damage control." She tried giving him a sharp look, but the effort of focusing her gaze spun ripples of vertigo through her skull.

She knew he was right about the hospital. It wasn't the inhalation of gas that worried her as much as the head trauma she'd suffered when Hickle knocked her out. She still had a raging headache centered behind her eyes, pain that she could no longer attribute entirely to the gas.

She was less steady on her feet than she ought to be, and the nausea in her belly had not completely vanished even after she'd started breathing fresh air.

So, yes, she would go to a hospital, but not until she had tied up a few loose ends. The police-by which she meant officers of the law other than Vie Wyatt-would arrive before long to check out Hickle's apartment and look in on his immediate neighbors. This was standard investigative procedure, and it would be triggered by Hickle's attack on Kris Barwood.

Abby knew there had been an attack. On the phone she'd heard Travis yell an order to a driver. Kris's voice had been briefly audible, asking what was wrong.

Then, gunfire. The shotgun, from the sound of it. Several shots, Kris screaming, Travis yelling at her to get down-And silence. The connection had been lost.

Anything could have happened after that. Desperate to know, Abby had redialed Travis's cell phone twice. No answer. She'd considered phoning 911 before remembering that TPS had stationed security agents at the beach house. They must have heard the shots, as had Kris's neighbors.

So the police were definitely involved. Whatever the outcome of the attack, there would be a thorough investigation.

The Hollywood side of the case would focus on Hickle's apartment. Nice men in suits would be banging on every door on the fourth floor very soon. But by then she would be gone.

She made her way somewhat unsteadily into the kitchen and took out a pair of rubber gloves. As she was pulling them on, she heard Wyatt's low-top boots on the linoleum floor.

"I'm not sure I want to know what those are for," he said wryly.

She saw a frown of disapproval pinching his mouth.

"Then you'd better not follow me when I go into Hickle's apartment."

"His apartment?" The frown deepened, and he folded his arms across his chest, the blue sleeves of his jacket straining taut.

"Sounds like tampering with a crime scene."

"Going to arrest me. Sergeant?" His silence was an eloquent reply.

"Okay, then."

Taking her cell phone in case Travis called back, she hustled into the bedroom, where she picked up the padlock and chain. Then she climbed onto the fire escape and lifted herself into Hickle's bedroom window.

"You took a blow to the back of the head," Wyatt said from behind her.

His voice surprised her. He had followed her so silently that she hadn't been aware of his presence. She paused, straddling the windowsill.

"Yeah, Hickle clipped me," she admitted, self-consciously fingering the bump he had seen. There was no laceration, no bleeding, only a large, swollen knob, tender to the touch.

Wyatt leaned close and patted-the injury also, drawing a wince from her.

"How?" he asked, worry in his eyes.

"What did he use, his fist or a weapon?"

"I don't, know. I've got a little memory gap. I remember fighting him then coming to."

"You lost consciousness from the blow? Hell, Abby, you've suffered a grade three concussion. We have to get you to an ER. You need a neurologic exam-"

"I need to take care of business. The ER can wait."

She tried to complete her unlawful entry into Hickle's apartment. Wyatt grabbed her hand to stop her.

"You have any idea how serious a major concussion can be?"

She raised her head and met his eyes, experiencing another swoon of vertigo.

"I think I do. Let's see, when my brain sloshed forward, I could have suffered a cont recoup injury-contusion of the frontal and temporal lobes. Or I could have ruptured some blood vessels, in which case I have a nice little subdural hematoma building up pressure in my skull.