The Shadow Hunter

watchful eyes.
    There was a knock on his door.
    Hickle looked up, his head canted at an odd angle, his breath held. Momentarily he was baffled by the prospect of company. Nobody ever visited him. He had no friends, and the apartment building’s outside doors were locked to keep out trespassers.
    Could it be the people who were watching him? The people Kris had hired? Would they be so brazen as to approach him directly?
    He crossed the living room, moving warily. Before opening his door, he peered through the fish-eye peephole.
    It was the dark-haired woman, the one who’d said howdy.
    He removed the security chain and drew back the deadbolt. This was an adventure—talking to an unfamiliar woman—and he felt his heart beating harder than it should.
    The door swung ajar under his hand, and he was facing her. “Hi again,” she said brightly.
    He nodded, then realized a response was called for. “Hello.”
    “Sorry to bother you, but can you tell me where the phone outlet is?”
    “Phone outlet?”
    “Not the one in the living room. I found that. But there must be one in the bedroom somewhere. I’ve been crawling around on my hands and knees like a moron, but I can’t find it.”
    “There isn’t one.”
    “There’s gotta be.”
    “Only one. All these apartments have the same layout. The only phone outlet is in the living room. If you need a phone in the bedroom, you’ll have to get an extra-long phone cord.”
    She sighed. “Any other surprises the landlord didn’t want to spoil for me?”
    “Probably quite a few. There’s not enough hot water in the mornings, so take your shower early. Don’t hook up too many appliances on any circuit, or you’ll blow a fuse.”
    “This gets better and better.”
    Hickle risked humor. “Not exactly a garden spot, is it?”
    She rewarded him with a laugh. “That might be an understatement.”
    “So are you an actress?” Damn. He hadn’t meant to say that. It had come out of nowhere and sounded strange.
    She didn’t seem put off by the question, though. “No. What makes you think I might be?”
    Because you’re so pretty
—but what he said was “We’ve got a fair number of aspiring show-biz types in this building.”
    The explanation was lame, but she appeared to buy it. “Well, I’m not an actress. Actually, I’m not much of anything right now.I just came here from Riverside—you know, everybody’s favorite desert hellhole. Spent last night in a Motel Six.”
    “No job?”
    “I’ll find something. I can type. I use all ten fingers.” She held up both hands, as if to demonstrate that she really did have the full complement of digits. “How about you? What do you do?”
    “I work at a restaurant.” He wasn’t sure why he had lied. Not lied, exactly. Exaggerated the truth.
    “Really? A restaurant around here?”
    “Beverly Hills.” Another untruth.
    She was impressed. “Wow.”
    “It’s just a job.” He looked for a way to change the subject. “So what’s your name?”
    “Abby Gallagher.”
    “I’m Raymond. Raymond Hickle.”
    “Glad to meet you, Raymond Hickle.” She smiled. “It’s good to have a nice neighbor.”
    This was too much for him. He had no idea how to handle anyone’s kindness, and certainly not the kindness of an attractive young woman.
    “Likewise,” he said weakly. “Good luck getting moved in.”
    “Thanks. Bye.”
    He watched her walk away. When she was inside her apartment, he slowly shut his door.
    She ought to be an actress, he decided. She was pretty enough. She had hazel eyes and smooth skin and dark brown hair in a cute pageboy cut, and she was fit and slim.
Nice
, she had called him. How often had a woman said that about him? Said it right to his face? And she had smiled.
    Then he wondered if it wasn’t a little odd that Abby Gallagher had come to him for help when the landlord was still on duty. She had found one phone outlet. She could have called the office to ask about an outlet in the bedroom. Instead, after making eye contact in the hall, she had knocked on his door.
    Could she be…interested in him? Interested, the way women sometimes were interested in men?
    New to the city. Friendless. Lonely.
    “Impossible,” he whispered.
    Anyway, he had higher priorities. He had the shotgun and what he meant to do with it.
    He had Kris.
    Most nights Hickle dined on beans and rice, a cheap and nourishing repast. At 5:57, right on time, he ladled the pot’s steaming contents onto a plastic plate