The Shadow Hunter

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.

41
    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