The Shadow Hunter

and carried the plate to a card table, setting it down beside a can of diet soda, a spoon, and a paper napkin. He sat on the couch behind the card table and used his remote control to turn on the TV. It was always set to Channel Eight; he never watched anything else. His VCR was loaded with an eight-hour tape and set to record automatically at 6 and 10 P.M. every weekday.
    “That does it for us,” the male half of the 5 P.M. anchor team was saying. “Let’s check in with Kris and Matt to see what’s coming up at six.”
    Hickle leaned forward. It was always interesting to see what she was wearing. Today she had on a blue-green blouse, open at the collar to reveal the taut skin over her collarbone. She said something about a fire in Ventura, an arrest in a murder case, a good outlook for weekend weather. The words didn’t matter. He studied her face. Was she thinking of him right now? Could he see fear in her eyes?
    “All of that,” her partner concluded, “is straight ahead on
Real News
at six.”
    Theme music. The faces of the anchors and reporters against a montage of news images. The Channel Eight logo. An announcer saying, “KPTI
Real News
, number one at six, with Kris Barwood and Matt Dale…”
    Hickle sat and watched. When the camera was not on Kris, he lifted spoonfuls of beans and rice into his mouth, washing themdown with soda. When she was on the screen, he did not move or even blink. There were so many details to watch for. Even after all this time, he had not yet decided on the exact color of her eyes. Were they blue or gray or some mysterious blend? She wore earrings today but not the ones he’d sent her. The shade of lipstick she was using seemed different than usual. A lighter, more natural shade, a good decision; it brought out the glow of her skin. She laughed during the weather segment. He saw the laugh lines at the corners of her mouth, the explosive flash of her smile.
    He missed nothing. He wished the newscast had been all Kris, no one but Kris—she need not even speak, just sit before the camera, turning her head at different angles, posing like a model. In art classes female models posed nude while the students sketched. Imagine a class in which Kris was the model, naked on a pedestal, and he was the only student, free to stare.
    Staring, however, would not be enough. For it to be perfect, she would have to descend from her pedestal and embrace him, and he would kiss her neck, her breasts—
    He rose. With a sweep of his arm he flung the soda can against the wall, dousing the plaster with a spray of foam.
    Then he stood with his hands on his knees, his head down, his breathing shallow and rapid. He didn’t move for a long time.
    His fantasy of lovemaking had brought him comfort once. But now he had accepted the truth. Maybe it was seeing her with her husband—maybe that was what had made things clear to him at last.
    Whatever the reason, he knew that his fantasy was only a fantasy, and that he could not have her, ever.
    Therefore no one would have her.
    It was that simple and that absolute. Howard Barwood would not have her, and her audience would not have her, and this city would not have her, and the world would not have her.
    Hickle raised his head. The newscast was continuing. It had reached the intro to the sports segment. Kris and her co-anchorwere joshing with Phil, the sports guy. Making jokes about the Lakers’ easy victory last night. Laughing.
    “Laugh, Kris,” he breathed. “Have fun. Enjoy life.”
    But not for long.
    Because he was gaining proficiency with the shotgun. Soon he would be ready to lie in wait, a shadow among shadows. Ready to spring up and with a single trigger-pull erase her from existence.
    He aimed an imaginary shotgun at the TV set, and when she appeared in a smiling close-up, he worked the pump action.
    Blammo. Blammo. Blammo.

9
    Back in her apartment, Abby removed a microcassette recorder from her purse and dictated her initial observations.
    “Wednesday, March twenty-third. Made contact with Hickle. He’s socially awkward but possesses basic interpersonal skills. Shy around women. He asked if I was an actress. The question seemed inappropriate. He claimed to work in a restaurant in Beverly Hills. Maybe he wanted to impress me. He’s not a skilled liar, has a tendency to blurt things out. His defenses should be easy to penetrate.
    “After talking with him, I visited his next-door neighbor on the other side. Hickle’s apartment is a