MIchael Prescott - The Shadow hunter

"That's not a word."

"It is now."

"Hickle will tell them about the bugs in his apartment.

How are you going to explain that?"

"Explain what? The paranoid ravings of a homicidal stalker?"

"And if Hickle is never caught and your cover isn't blown?"

"Then farewell, Abby Gallagher, wherever you are."

He looked at her with admiration.

"You've got it all worked out, haven't you?"

"This is nothing. You should see me in action when my brain hasn't been batted around like a beach ball."

Wyatt moved the Dodge to a side street, then escorted her to-his cruiser. He asked which hospital she wanted. She ran through the options in her mind and decided that on a Friday night any emergency room in this part of town would be a war zone.

"I don't suppose you could chauffeur me all the way to Cedars Sinai she said. It was in West Hollywood, a better neighborhood.

"No problem."

"It might be a problem for you if the watch commander starts to wonder where you've been for so long."

"I'll tell him I stopped at a donut shop. That's always plausible for a cop, right?"

Abby smiled.

"No comment."

Three blocks from the Gainford Arms, Wyatt detoured into an alley and discarded the trash bag in a Dumpster. As he pulled onto Santa Monica Boulevard, heading west, Abby fished her cell phone out of her purse and speed-dialed Travis's number. Still no answer.

"It'll be all right," Wyatt said quietly.

"Sure. I know. The good guys always win, don't they?" She sank back wearily in the passenger seat and shut her eyes, repeating the words as a mantra.

"The good guys always win."

Are you really him?" Hickle breathed.

"Are you Jackbnimble?"

"I'm him. You still thinking about using that twelve gauge The tension eased out of Hickle in a shaky expulsion of breath.

"Guess not."

"Glad to hear it." Travis stepped back, lowering the Walther.

"You can turn around. No reason we can't talk face to face. We're partners, after all."

Hickle turned, the water rippling around him. Overhead a burst of crosstalk sounded from the squad car's radio, the volume high. The flashlight winked on again, and, the spotlight resumed probing the creek waters. The two cops had returned to their task.

"We're both trapped in here now," Hickle whispered.

"No, I'll get us out. You'll go inland while I distract the two Smokies on the bridge."

"Distract them how?"

"Don't worry about that. We have a lot to discuss and not much time.

Do you know who I am?"

Hickle studied him in the gloom. Travis took the opportunity to assess Hickle's face. He had never seen the man in person. He had small, suspicious eyes, a rodent's eyes. His skin was pasty, his hair greasy and wild. He belonged here under the bridge in the fetid water, amid the flotsam of fast-food containers and cigarette packs.

"No," Hickle said finally.

"Should I?"

"I think so, if you've watched the news." Travis allowed himself a brief smile.

"And I know you never miss the news."

The small eyes narrowed. The bloodless line of Hickle's mouth pinched in a frown.

"Hey," he whispered, "you run the security firm. You're Paul Travis.

You're famous in this town."

Hickle seemed almost honored to be meeting a celebrity, even if the encounter had to take place in a dark creek during a police pursuit.

And why not?

Fame was his obsession.

"You're the one who's famous now," Travis said.

"In a few hours your name will be all over the newspapers and the TV, radio-everywhere."

Hickle nearly brightened, then twisted his mouth in a pout.

"As a failure."

"For the moment." Travis sighed.

"You know, you really should've killed her when you had the chance."

"Don't you go blaming me for that. It was the car, the Lincoln. It was bulletproof-"

"That's not what I meant. I'm talking about Abby."

"Abby?" A beat of silence as Hickle took this in.

"She's-she's still alive?"

"Unfortunately, yes. But she doesn't have to be."

Travis's words returned in a wave of echoes.

"What do you mean?" Hickle's voice, very soft, produced no echo at all.

"I know a way for you to get Abby, really get her this time, no mistakes. You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

The glimmer in Hickle's eyes was pure malice.

"I'd like Kris more."

"She'll come later. Abby first. It only makes sense.

Security around Kris will be tight for a few days. Not just TPS security-police protection too. But Abby won't have any protection at all."

Hickle processed this, then nodded.

"How do I do it?"

"I can tell you where she lives. Her permanent address, not the apartment she rented next door to you.

With that rifle of yours, you can nail her easily. I've got it all worked out."

"Yeah, sure, you've got it all worked out." Hickle took a step toward Travis in the deep water, launching concentric circles of ripples that sloshed against the pylons.

"So why the hell didn't you ever mention the armored car and the bulletproof glass? Why-"

"Keep your voice down." Travis glanced upward at the underbelly of the bridge.

"They may hear." "Don't tell me what to do," Hickle said, but he did lower his voice.

"You're the one who messed up everything.

Or maybe it was all a setup. Is that it? You were in the car with her.

You're the one who protected her from me. You never wanted me to kill her. This is all some kind of game-"

"No game, Raymond."

"So explain it." Hickle was close now. Travis could see the wildness in his eyes. To control him, Travis would have to handle this next answer just right. He wished he were more skilled at reading people.

That was Abby's special talent. Absurdly he regretted that she wasn't here to help.

"Raymond," he said quietly, "I had no choice about what happened tonight. Kris insisted on using a TPS staff car, one of our armored vehicles. And she insisted that I ride shotgun. I couldn't refuse either request without raising her suspicions. It all happened fast, I had no chance to e-mail you an update."

The story sounded plausible, Travis thought. He waited while Hickle's eyes ticked back and forth, his brain probing the story for weaknesses.

"Why would Kris want special protection tonight of all nights?" he asked finally.

Travis was ready for that one. He fixed Hickle with a reproving stare.

"Because you varied your routine.

You didn't call her today."

A beat of silence, broken only by the sizzle of radio crosstalk overhead.

"You're saying," Hickle breathed, "it's my fault?"

This was precisely what Travis was saying, but he chose to be magnanimous.

"What's done is done. It's nobody's fault. Just one of those things."

"But you protected her. You helped her find cover after I blew up the car."

"I wasn't protecting her. I was defending myself.

You would have killed us both. A shotgun isn't a discriminating weapon."

"You fired at me even after she broke away from you. You popped off two shots right at me."

"And missed both times. I'm a skilled marksman, Raymond. I didn't have to miss." He paused to let that statement register.

"For that matter, I don't have to be telling you any of this right now.

I could have alerted the cops on the bridge-or shot you in the back of the head when I swam up. Instead I've taken you into my confidence.

I've revealed my identity. Don't I deserve a little trust in return?"

Nicely done. Travis was pleased with himself. Even Abby couldn't have manipulated the man any more expertly.

"Well," Hickle muttered, "maybe. But I can't figure your angle. Kris is your client. Abby's your employee or business associate or something. Why would you want either of them dead? Why would you be helping me when it's your job to stop me?"