The Shadow Hunter

housekeeper?”
    “How’d you guess?”
    “I didn’t, until Sam Cahill gave me the details. He’s the detective who handled the case and put Barth away the second time.”
    She looked at him. “You talked with a detective about me?”
    “Your name never came up.”
    “Even so, you must’ve raised his suspicions.”
    “Sam’s a friend. He’ll be discreet. You can trust him.”
    “I don’t seem to have a choice,” she snapped.
    “You know, for someone who just cheated death, you’re in a pretty foul mood.”
    Abby found a smile. “Sorry. I just don’t like people knowing my secrets, that’s all.”
    “Even me?”
    “Even you, Vic. Even though you saved my life. It may be irrational, but that’s the way I am. Anyway, you’re right about the Barth case. I was Connie Hammond.”
    “And you disappeared.”
    “It was easy enough. Nobody was looking very hard for Connie. This time there are complications. Hickle knows the truth about me. Someone else may know also. If either of them ends up in custody and wants to talk, I could have some explaining to do.” She pocketed the second mike, then picked up her microcassette recorder, which Hickle had left on the bed.
    “Sounds like you’re in a lot of trouble, Abby.”
    “No, I
was
in a lot of trouble. Now I’m fine, thanks to you. And I do mean thanks. I was wrong, you know, the other night.”
    “Wrong about what?”
    “When I said I didn’t need any help, that I could handle myself and I didn’t need anybody watching my back. I was wrong.” It was difficult for her to say this. Self-reliance and self-sufficiency had been the basic credo of her life.
    “Yeah, well”—Wyatt shrugged—“we all make mistakes.”
    The last thing Abby took out of Hickle’s apartment was the Maidenform briefs he’d stolen from her laundry. She noticed Wyatt eyeing the underwear with a puzzled look, but he didn’t ask any questions, and she didn’t feel like talking about it.
    They returned via the fire escape to her apartment. By now the gas had largely dissipated, and Abby felt ready to risk a spark. She turned on a table fan, blowing the rest of the fumes out the living room window. In her bedroom, she removed the monitoring gear from the closet and arranged it on the bureau.
    “More spy stuff?” Wyatt asked.
    “Not anymore. Now it’s your garden-variety TV and VCR.”
    “And an audio deck with long-playing reel-to-reel tapes.”
    “Quirky, but not particularly suspicious. I doubt anybody will even notice it on a casual walk-through. Can you get me a trash bag from the kitchen?”
    While Wyatt fetched it, Abby went into the bathroom and poured a long drink of water. God, her throat was so sore. She was tempted to take aspirin, but she knew it would thin her blood and exacerbate any internal bleeding. At least her head no longer was beating like a bongo drum. Now it was more like a snare drum. That had to constitute an improvement.
    She checked her eyes in the mirror. The pupils looked evenly dilated, a good sign. Maybe her injury wasn’t as bad as she’d feared. Had she dodged the blow at the last instant, receiving only a glancing impact rather than a direct hit? Had her reflexes saved her from a skull fracture and brain injury? It was possible. She didn’t remember how she had reacted or even what Hickle had hit her with. She didn’t remember the moment of impact at all.
    “You’re hurting,” Wyatt said when she emerged from the bathroom. He had been watching her.
    “It’s nothing a little fresh air and exercise won’t cure.” She took the trash bag from him and stuffed it with the wrecked video cassette and audio reels, as well as the Maidenform briefs, which she sure as hell wasn’t going to wear again.
    Wyatt grunted. “Maybe. But you’re still going to the ER, if I have to drag you there by your hair.”
    “How Neanderthal of you. But entirely unnecessary.” She added the camera, microphones, and transmitters to the bag, along with the rubber gloves. “I’m going of my own volition. See?” She held up the trash bag. “All packed.”
    In the living room she picked up her purse and checked to confirm that her gun was still there. She put her microrecorderand cell phone inside, pausing as she wondered if she should try Travis’s number again.
    Wyatt saw her hesitate. “He still hasn’t called back—whoever you reported to.”
    “Maybe he can’t. Maybe the alert came too late. Maybe”—she hated to say it—“maybe