MIchael Prescott - The Shadow hunter

"Good questions. I wish I had time for an in-depth discussion. But you see, there are other men combing the lagoon. One of them will see us soon. We need to wrap this up."

His point was punctuated by a sudden clatter of wings in the lagoon-a bird startled into flight. Either Carruthers or Pfeiffer must have blundered into a nest not far away.

"Hear that?" Travis said.

"They're closing in. Now, do you want my help or not?"

Hickle hesitated only a moment, then nodded.

"I want it."

"Okay, first things first. How were you planning to get out of Malibu?"

"Head upstream to where there are houses and ranches, then steal a car out of somebody's driveway.

Or if I can't find a car, I'll hide in the woods till the heat dies down."

"No good. Either way it'll take too long, and time is not on your side.

You're underestimating the gravity of this situation. You're big news, Raymond. Let me tell you what's going to happen within the next fifteen minutes. First the choppers will arrive. Sheriff's department aerial units. TV and radio helicopters too.

One of them will spot you in the creek or the woods. If they don't find you, the dogs will. K-nine units. You've seen them on the news, right?

Those dogs will be sniffing for a scent on both sides of the highway.

The creek won't cover your scent, either. That's a myth.

Smells carry just fine over water."

Clearly Hickle hadn't thought about dogs, choppers.

He licked his lips.

"So," Travis continued relentlessly, "you're screwed any way you look at it. Stay in the creek or hide in the woods, and the dogs will track you down unless a chopper spots you first. Take cover in a house, and the police will figure out where you are once they start conducting house-to-house searches. You'll be surrounded by a SWAT team, and your only choice will be whether you kill yourself or let them do it for you."

"All right, all right." Hickle was even paler than before.

"I won't hide out. I'll steal a car, like I said."

"That's right, you will, but you have to do it fast.

There'll be roadblocks set up before long. Highway patrol units and sheriff's cruisers, checking every car that goes through. The one thing that's working in your favor is that Malibu is relatively isolated. It takes time to deliver manpower and other resources out here.

That's why there are only three patrol units on the scene so far. You have to make your move before it gets any more crowded. That means you don't have time to go far inland. You grab the first car you see. This creek runs past a parking lot behind the little shopping center across the street. Even at this hour, there's a good chance you'll find some sort of vehicle in that lot. If there's anything you can drive, take it. And go north."

"Not south? There's more traffic that way. I might blend in better."

"South is too obvious. There may already be a roadblock south of here.

Your odds are better if you cut through Topanga Canyon to the Ventura Freeway.

They won't block off the freeway, so once you're on it you'll be reasonably safe. Connect with the northbound 405.

You know where San Fernando Road meets the Golden State Freeway?"

"North end of the Valley" Travis nodded.

"High-crime district, lots of auto theft. That's where you'll ditch your vehicle. Leave it unlocked, motor running. With any luck someone else will take it for a joyride, and by the time the police find it, they won't know where you abandoned it."

"Then what do I use for transportation?"

"Steal another car. Cars get stolen in that part of town every night.

The crime probably won't be linked to you at first, which means it won't be a high priority.

Drive south into LA but avoid Hollywood. They'll be expecting you to return there. Where you want to go is Westwood."

"Because that's where Abby is," Hickle breathed.

"Or where she will be, eventually. She lives in a condo tower called the Wilshire Royal." Travis gave the cross street and the address.

"Her unit is ten-fifteen. It's at the front of the building, fourth window from the right, facing Wilshire."

"How do I get inside?"

"You don't."

Travis explained in detail. Hickle listened, nodding now and then to signal either agreement or understanding.

"Got it?" Travis asked when he was through.

"I got it. Now how about Kris?"

"I told you, she'll come later."

"When?"

"I'll be in touch. Once you've nailed Abby, hole up somewhere safe.

Get access to your e-mail account at a library or someplace and log on once a day. I'll contact you as soon as I can. Trust me."

"I'm still not sure I should."

"But you have to. Right now, Raymond, I'm the only friend you've got."

Hickle gave him a cool, perceptive stare.

"I bet Kris and Abby think you're their friend too. Don't they?"

Travis didn't answer.

The Emergency Department at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center had been recently renovated and expanded, and to Abby it felt more like a hotel than a hospital. Then again, at a hotel she would not have been sitting on a wheeled mechanical bed that doubled as an examination table, reading a poster about flu season while holding an ice pack to her head.

Wyatt had dropped her off at the entrance. She'd declined his offer to accompany her inside, knowing that it was besst for both of them if they weren't seen together.

The nurse at the semicircular admitting desk had listened- to Abby's story of a blow to the head delivered by, a racquetball partner's errant swing. If the nurse wondered why anybody would be playing racquetball at midnight, or where the partner had gone, or why Abby wasn't wearing workout clothes, she didn't ask. Obviously she assumed the story was a lie, and that Abby's boyfriend or husband had struck her.

The ER was not excessively crowded even on a Friday night. It didn't take long for a physician to perform an initial baseline evaluation, which included an eye exam and tests of her reflexes, as well as gentle probing of the goose egg on her head.

"Any vomiting?" he asked.

"Amnesia? Drowsiness? Headache?"

She answered no, yes, no, yes but it was getting better.

He gave her a non aspiring painkiller and an ice pack.

His diagnosis was an uncomplicated concussion, full recovery anticipated. He wanted her held overnight for observation. She could sleep, but a nurse would wake her periodically to monitor her alertness.

She would be moved out of the ER shortly.

"Meanwhile, relax," he said, adding that someone else would drop by to check on her before she was moved upstairs. A domestic violence counselor, Abby figured.

Now she waited restlessly, shifting on the bed and swinging her legs.

Really, she wasn't sleepy at all.

There was too much adrenaline roaring through her system after her near-death experience. And there was fear. Travis still hadn't called.

Gazing around the room, she saw what resembled a TV hovering at the end of a mechanical arm alongside the bed. Closer inspection established that it really was a TV-a color TV, in fact. She wondered if it got cable.

"Next vacation," she decided, "I'm booking a room here."

She was debating whether or not to turn on the TV and search for a news update when her purse began to chirp. It took her a moment to understand that a call was coming in on her cell phone. Fumbling one-handed with the purse, she got out the phone and answered the call on the fifth ring.

"Yes?" she gasped, praying to hear Travis's voice.

"Abby-it's me;" A knot of tension unraveled in her gut, and she let herself breathe deeply for the first time in more than an hour.

"Paul. Are you okay?"

"Just fine. You?"

"Never better," she lied.

"What happened in Malibu? How's Kris?"