The Shadow Hunter

unexpectedly filed for bankruptcy. Work had halted. And those residents of the Wilshire Royal with northern exposures had been left to stare at a lightless, lifeless hulk.
    But tonight the Black Tower was not lifeless. There was body heat inside. There was breathing. There was the slow beat of a patient heart.
    Hickle waited, caressing the hammer-forged barrel and walnut stock of his Heckler & Koch 770.
    He had arrived at the building last night. In the trunk of the stolen Impala, he’d found a tire iron, with which he’d pried open the locked gate at the construction site. He had climbed nine flights of stairs, guided by his flashlight, lugging his duffel with the shotgun and rifle inside. On the tenth floor he had made his way along a dark hallway to the front of the tower, where bands of plate glass windows overlooked the rushing traffic on Wilshire Boulevard. Directly across the street was the Wilshire Royal. Travis had told him that Abby’s apartment was number 1015, fourth from the Royal’s western end. Hickle had taken up a position opposite her window. Her lights were off, the curtains shut. But she would be home eventually.
    Among the scattered tools left by the workmen were a glass cutter and a straightedge. With them, Hickle had cut a rectangularhole in the plate glass window. Through it, when the time came, he could fire.
    To pass the hours, he had tested the rifle’s laser sighting system, throwing a long beam of reddish-orange light along the target-acquisition line. Its glowing pinpoint was brilliant in the variable-power scope. He could direct the beam at any spot on Abby’s balcony or on the curtains behind the glass. And where the beam alighted, a bullet would be sure to follow, racing at twenty-two hundred feet per second across a distance of thirty-five yards.
    Periodically he had checked the flags in the Royal’s forecourt. He didn’t think windage would be a serious factor at this distance, but he was prepared to adjust his aim by a few inches if a strong gust kicked up. The flags had been limp throughout the day and evening. There was no breeze.
    Most of his time was spent simply waiting. He never rested, never shut his eyes. Now and then he shifted his position, easing the strain on his muscles. He tried standing and squatting, then sitting on a rough work table he’d dragged close to the window. Reluctant to leave his post even for a minute, he had ignored hunger and thirst and the need to urinate. After a while these bodily urges had faded. Now it was eight o’clock on Saturday night, and he felt nothing. He was numb.
    The only thing that still worried him was a flare-up of his nerves. He would have to hold the rifle steady, and he wondered if his body would betray him at the critical moment. He didn’t think so. He had failed to kill Abby once. By a miracle he had been offered a second chance. He did not intend to squander it.
    Abby checked the area north of Wilshire. There were more parked cars here. Many, belonging to UCLA students, were older models. Several times she thought she spotted one of the wanted vehicles, but always the license plate proved her wrong.
    Passing a house with dark windows and a FOR SALE sign on the lawn, she noticed a car in the carport. The car might bea Chevy Impala; at a distance it was hard to be sure. She parked down the street and returned on foot, carrying her purse with the gun inside. At the foot of the driveway she studied the car. It was parked facing out, which meant the driver had backed into the carport, an awkward procedure. And the front license plate frame was empty. California drivers were issued two plates and usually mounted both.
    She switched her attention to the house, which looked empty. She made a show of studying the FOR SALE sign, her performance for the benefit of anyone watching from a neighboring residence. Having established her bona fides as a prospective buyer, she approached the front door. The short, curved walkway allowed her to pass close to the bay window. The curtains were open, and although the living room was dark, she could see well enough in the glow of the streetlights to know that the furniture was gone. Whoever was selling the place had already moved out. So why was there a car in the carport?
    She rang the doorbell. No answer. She rang again without result, then entered the carport, her purse open, her index finger on the trigger of her Smith & Wesson.
    These precautions were unnecessary. The carport was