The Shadow Hunter

a key. Months earlier, when he had done his research on Howard and learned of the bungalow’s existence, he had anticipated the possibility that he might require access to the house. He had thought of planting the cell phone here—the phone he’d purchased himself and registered in the name of Western Regional Resources—although as things had turned out, he had been able to place the evidence in an even more incriminating location.
    In any event, wanting to be prepared, he had come here late one night when the house was empty. Working in the glow of a pencil flashlight, he had used an impressioning file and a key blank to produce a new key for the front door.
    That key was in his hand now. He used it to enter the bungalow.
    The house was still, the air heavy. He moved quickly down the hall to the master bedroom. Abby had told him that Howard kept a gun in his nightstand.
    And yes, there it was in the sock drawer, a neat little Colt .45.
    Travis picked it up with his bare hand. He had no worries about fingerprints. The gun would be thoroughly wiped before he left it for the police to find.
    He was pleased to see that the serial number had not been filed off. The gun was traceable. There was every reason to believe that Howard Barwood had bought it legally and that it could be easily linked to him. Presumably Howard had purchased the .45 for the same reason he had installed bars on the bungalow’s windows. In a high-crime neighborhood he had wanted to feel safe.
    Travis pocketed the gun after confirming it was loaded. Soon enough he would have a use for it. He would send Hickle an e-mail arranging a rendezvous in a secluded spot—perhaps one of the trails in Topanga State Park. At dawn, say, when no one was around. When Hickle arrived, Travis would sidle up next to him conspiratorially, and then—bang—one bullet to the head. He would wipe the gun and leave it in Hickle’s dead hand. Easy.
    But first Hickle had to take care of Abby. Well, she ought to be going home later today. She would face a one-man welcoming committee.
    The police could be trusted to put it all together the right way. They would say that Hickle had killed Abby, then had shot himself in the woods. They would say that Howard Barwood, a real estate developer with ready access to property assessment records, had given Abby’s home address to Hickle sometime in the previous two or three days, just as he had supplied Hickle with other inside information. They would say that Howard had even gone so far as to arm Hickle with a handgun he himself had purchased.
    Howard would deny everything, but no one would believe him. It was all very tidy, no loose ends. The only person who might have been able to see through the charade was Abby. She was intuitive about these things. She was also a few hours away from being dead.
    He only wished he could have contrived a way of killing her personally. Sadly, the idea wasn’t practical. He must content himself with arranging the hit, pulling the strings as Hickle’s puppet master. It was not all he wanted, but it was enough.
    Abby had to die. She had failed him, after all.
    And failure was the only sin he recognized.
    Travis left the house, locking the front door. The sun was high and bright, and he blinked at its glare, keeping his head down as he walked to his car.
    There had been a time when he loved Southern California’s sun. Lately he preferred the dark. He wasn’t sure why.

44
    In midafternoon Abby woke for good. She knew she had recovered from the concussion. Her headache was gone, and she felt no aftereffects of her head trauma. After lunch she informed the nurse of her diagnosis. The nurse smiled and suggested that a second opinion might be required.
    “Fine,” Abby said, but once the nurse had left, she dressed herself in yesterday’s outfit, preparing for her departure.
    There was a rap of knuckles on the open door. She turned and saw Kris Barwood in the doorway. Abby almost said hello, then hesitated, struck by the wildness in Kris’s eyes.
    “Kris,” she said uncertainly.
    “Abby.” The word was less a greeting than a dulled acknowledgment.
    Abby looked her over. Kris was fully dressed, evidently ready to leave. In the hallway a TPS officer in a sport jacket and open-collared shirt stood post. “Going home?” Abby asked.
    “In a minute or two. Mind if we talk first?”
    “Of course not.”
    Kris shut the door for privacy, leaving the TPS man outside. “I guess you’ve heard,”