The Shadow Hunter

the next few seconds, she would have some explaining to do.
    The most dangerous part was what came next. Going in, she would be most vulnerable. She had no idea what sort of greeting she might expect inside.
    Hickle aligned the rifle’s muzzle with the hole in the glass, keeping the barrel inside to muffle the shot. Carefully he sighted the balcony, the glass door, the curtains.
    He would wait for her to open those curtains. It shouldn’t take long.
    When she stood in plain view, large in the scope, he would depress the trigger—gently, gently—and one-twentieth of a second later, there would be no more Abby in the world.
    Abby went in fast, throwing open the door and pivoting inside, then ducking into a crouch so any shots aimed at her head would go high.
    No shots. She closed the door but didn’t touch the wall switch near the frame. Her living room was in darkness; trusting the Royal’s security, she never bothered with putting her lights on timers. She was glad it was dark. If Hickle was hiding and she was exposed, light was her enemy.
    In her purse she carried a mini-flashlight with a surprisingly bright beam. She found it by feel and held it in her left hand, well away from her body, before turning it on. If the light drew fire, she wanted the shots aimed away from her vital organs.
    She swept the light over the living room, picking out the familiar shapes of her sofa and armchair, her stuffed animals, her stereo equipment and TV. Nothing had been moved or damaged, as far as she could tell.
    Into the kitchen, then down the short hall to the bedroom. She shone the flashlight into closets and behind doors, into the shower stall in the bathroom, and under the bed. She returned to the living room and checked behind the couch and the chair.
    Hickle was not here. He had never been here.
    She ought to be glad about that. Not having a psychopath in one’s home was ordinarily cause for celebration. But she knew something was wrong. She stood in the dark, her flashlight angled low, the gun still drawn and ready, and pondered the situation. Hickle hadn’t staked out the garage entryway or the garage itself, and he hadn’t gained access to her condo and waited for her return.
    So where was he?
    She tried to put herself into his mind. He was angry and desperate. He had the shotgun and was itching to use it. His fantasy of squeezing the trigger and blasting Kris into hell had been unfulfilled. He wanted a second chance.
    But the shotgun had not been his first choice of weapon, had it? He’d bought the rifle first. Fitted it with a scope and a laser targeting system. Last night when she’d entered his apartment to debug the place, she hadn’t seen the rifle in his closet. He must have taken it with the shotgun. He must still have it.
    The shotgun was good only at close range, but the rifle was made for longer distances. For marksmanship. With the scope and the laser, it was a sniper’s gun.
    Sniper…
    Her gaze moved to the curtains over the balcony door.

48
    Hickle was losing his patience. If it had been Abby’s car he’d seen, she should have arrived in her apartment by now. But no lights had come on inside, and the curtains had not opened.
    “Come on, you bitch,” he muttered, blinking away a bead of sweat that trickled into his left eye. “Show yourself. I only need one shot, Abby. One shot.”
    Abby considered the curtains. If she had not suspected that Hickle was in the neighborhood, what would she have done upon entering her condo? When she and Hickle shared Chinese food the other night, what was the first action she had taken?
    She had opened the windows to let in some air.
    She understood then, not in words but with a pair of bodily sensations—the prickling of the short hairs at her nape, the sudden tightening of her abdominal muscles.
    She pictured herself parting the curtains, sliding open the glass door. For a few seconds she would be framed in the doorway. Visible from outside. From a vantage point across the street. And across the street was an unfinished, unoccupied commercial building—a perfect hiding place for a man on the run.
    Abby switched off the flashlight and approached the glass door. Kneeling to make a smaller target, she drew the curtains an inch apart. She stared past the railing of the balcony at the black, looming mass of the office tower. She waited, her gaze fixed on the row of windows opposite her own.
    Some time passed, maybe a minute, maybe five or ten. She didn’t