MIchael Prescott - The Shadow hunter

"Not a scratch on her. We had a close call, though."

"On the phone I heard gunshots."

"Yes, our friend mounted an assault with his shotgun.

Fortunately we were riding in a shielded car from the TPS fleet. Even so, he found a weak spot in the armor. The driver suffered superficial wounds, but he'll be all right"

"And you?" She knew she had asked him already, but she needed to hear his answer again.

Travis chuckled.

"The only damage was to my pride. I got wet. Soaked through."

"Wet?" She didn't understand.

"I pursued Hickle into the lagoon next to the beach.

Thought I saw him under the bridge. Tried to sneak closer and ended up falling into the damn creek. There were two highway cops on the bridge who got a good laugh out of it."

"And Hickle? Was he under the bridge?"

"Nobody was there. What I saw was a trick of the light. I humiliated myself for nothing."

"So he got away?"

"Evidently. The police are combing the area, and they've put up roadblocks on PCH, but I think it's a case of locking the barn door after the horse is gone.

There's a report of a car stolen from a shopping center across the highway from the lagoon. It's a safe guess Hickle took it. Even so, with all the media attention, he won't get far."

Abby wasn't so sure, but she didn't pursue the issue.

"I tried calling you again and again-"

"Lost my phone in the attack.

It probably melted when the car caught fire."

She hitched in a breath.

"Caught fire?"

"It's a long story"

"Were you burned?"

"Not at all. Stop asking for health updates. I'm fine."

"Where are you now?"

"The Barwoods' guest house. Some of the TPS staffers keep spare clothes there, and Mahoney's just my size. My suit was soaked through; I had to change before I caught pneumonia. Next on the agenda is a visit to the sheriff's station in Agoura. I have to give a heads-up to the captain who runs the show."

"About Howard?"

"Right. I'll keep you out of it for as long as I can.

You're not still in Hollywood, are you?"

"No, of course not. I had to make myself scarce."

"That's what I figured. Back in Westwood, then? My advice is to stay put in your condo for at least-"

"I'm not in my condo."

"You're not?" There was an odd note of disappointment in his voice.

"Actually, I'm staying overnight at Cedars. Got a minor bump on the noggin."

"Oh. I see. Hell, I thought you said you were unhurt."

He sounded more angry than concerned.

Abby shrugged.

"It's nothing. I'm here as a precaution, that's all. My brain's my livelihood; I don't like to take chances with it."

"Well, it sounds like you need your rest. I'd better let you go, but I'll visit you first thing in the morning. You check in as Abby Sinclair?"

"That's right. I'm back to my old self."

"Take care, Abby."

"Paul?"

"Yes?"

"It's good to hear your voice."

"Yours too, Abby. Always."

She ended the call and sat very still, the ice pack in one hand, the phone in the other. She sensed a peculiar tautness in the muscles of her face. At first she didn't understand it. Then she realized she was smiling.

Until now she hadn't permitted herself to know how scared she had been.

There was nothing to fear any longer. Paul had survived.

And Kris.

The good guys really had won after all.

Abby did her best to sleep once she was moved to a room on the third floor, but relaxation would not come. When she closed her eyes, her mind was crowded instantly with a confused rush of images-Hickle with the shotgun, Wyatt kneeling beside her on the fire escape, photos of Kris torn and scattered on Hickle's bedroom floor. At times Travis entered her thoughts, and she imagined him flailing in the creek while the cops on the bridge kidded him and laughed… but it wasn't funny, because dimly in the distance a slouching, raggedy figure that must be Hickle was slipping away unseen.

This made no sense. She was overtired, her brain making irrational connections. She wished she could quiet her thinking. At home she would have brewed some valerian tea, but she was sure the hospital stocked only conventional medicines. Anyway, the nurses wouldn't give her any tranquilizers; they needed to monitor her mental clarity at two-hour intervals.

Past 6 a.m." as dawn was brightening her window, she found a way to sleep. She expected bad dreams, but there were none. Her mind had shut down at last, and she drifted weightless in the humming dark.

And woke to see Travis gazing down at her.

"Sorry," he whispered.

"Did I wake you?"

She sat up quickly, noting in a detached way that she experienced no vertigo after the change of position, and that her headache was entirely gone.

"No," she said.

"I mean, yes, I guess you did, but it's all right. What time is it?"

"Eight-thirty."

"In the morning?" she asked stupidly.

Travis smiled.

"Saturday morning, March twenty-six. How are you feeling?"

"Not so bad, just drowsy. Didn't get much sleep last night. How about you?"

"No sleep. Spent all night at the sheriff's station. The captain in charge of the Malibu-Lost Hills station was extremely interested in what I had to say, as were two of his detectives."

"You sure it's not too soon to make an accusation?

We don't have any hard evidence-"

"We do now. Our computer techs found a link between Western Regional Resources and the company that owns the bungalow in Culver City.

However, I didn't approach the subject that way with the captain.

I left the bungalow out of it for now. Didn't want to raise any questions about unauthorized activities."

"You mean, like the fact that I illegally entered the place and searched it?"

"Exactly. All I said was that we'd learned Howard Barwood has at least one dummy corporation. Western Regional Resources, and we have reason to believe he may own a cell phone registered to that company. I suggested that if in fact Howard is Hickle's informant, then Howard might have used that phone to talk with him or arrange a rendezvous. I suggested they check the cellular carrier's records."

"Did they?"

"Yes. They found the Thursday night call made to Hickle's apartment.

That was when they started taking a serious interest in Mr. Barwood, though he doesn't know it yet."

"Where's Howard now?"

"Scheduled for a talk with those two detectives I mentioned. They'll be handling him with kid gloves, giving him the OJ treatment. He's well-connected, and they don't want to do anything rash until they know what's going on."

"Just be sure they keep an eye on him. If they give him too long a leash, he may flee. Then you'll have to tell them about the bungalow."

"Why? You think he'd go there?"

"It's possible. He keeps a gun in his nightstand. He might want to pick it up, especially if he has any plans to rendezvous with Hickle."

"A gun? You never mentioned that."

"It didn't seem too important at the time. A little Colt forty-five, like the malt liquor."

One of the nurses appeared in the doorway, telling Travis he'd been allowed only five minutes with the patient, and his time was up.

"I was just leaving," Travis said with a smile.

The nurse was not charmed.

"See that you do. Miss. Sinclair suffered a nasty concussion in a racquetball game." She squinted at Travis suspiciously.

"You wouldn't happen to be the one she was playing with?"

"Abby and I never play games," Travis said.

"At least not with each other."

The nurse frowned, aware that some sort of veiled joke had been told but unable to see the punch line.

"Well, say your good-byes, and let the patient sleep."

When the nurse was gone, Abby smiled at Travis.

"See how well protected I am?"