The Shadow Hunter

industrial heaters, gas-fired, probably holding eighty gallons each. She groped in front of her and touched the smooth surface of the nearest water tank.
    She had thought that someone might hide behind the heaters, but as her eyesight adjusted to the gloom she saw that they were nearly flush with the rear wall, actually bolted to the concrete to prevent the gas supply lines from being ruptured in an earthquake.
    There were hiding places on either side of the heaters, though. She took another step forward and something brushed her hair, and for a moment she was in the spa again, a stranger’s hand pushing her down—
    No. Not a hand, not an attack. Only the length of chain hanging from the ceiling. The pull cord for the overhead light. That was why she hadn’t found a wall switch.
    She tugged the chain, and the bare bulb directly above her snapped on, brightening the room.
    She glanced around her, half expecting an assault, but nothing happened. There was no one in the boiler room. There never had been.
    “God, Abby,” she muttered, “get a grip.”
    She must have imagined the whole thing. Maybe it was some kind of posttraumatic reaction to her near-death experience in the hot tub last night. Or maybe she was just going crazy.
    Abby left the boiler room. The washing machine had completed its cycle. Her clothes were soaking wet, but she decided she could dry them in the sink or bathtub of her apartment. She’d spent enough time in the basement.
    Besides, she had to get ready for her big night on the town.

17
    Hickle hated to miss the six o’clock news.
    In the past year he had seen every one of Kris Barwood’s broadcasts. Sitting in front of the TV each weeknight at six and ten was part of the daily rhythm of his life. When she’d taken a vacation last September, he had been seriously distressed. Yet tonight he was missing the show. He reminded himself that he was taping it and could view the tape later, and he was sure to be home in time for the ten o’clock newscast.
    “Traffic’s not too bad.”
    He glanced at Abby, seated on the passenger side of his VW. “Yeah, it’s pretty light this evening,” he answered, “considering it’s rush hour.”
    “It’s always rush hour in this city.”
    He could think of no worthwhile reply. “Yeah.”
    His face was hot, his palms were damp, and he wished he were safe in his apartment watching Kris on the news—the show would have just started—watching her and enjoying her presence in his home, even if it was only a magical illusion.
    Instead here he was on Santa Monica Boulevard driving into the twilight with Abby Gallagher. She had changed into cottonslacks, a button-down blouse, and a nylon windbreaker. A nice outfit, better than the jeans and sweatshirt he’d thrown on.
    He risked conversation. “I guess it’s a lot different here from Riverside.”
    She raised her voice over the drone of the motor and the rattle of the dashboard. “LA’s so big. I can’t even find my way around. I’m lost.”
    “You’ll get used to it.” He forced himself not to retreat into silence. “I did.”
    “You’re not from LA originally?”
    “I moved down from the central part of the state a long time ago.” He was no good at small talk. He decided to dare a more direct approach. “Mind if I ask you a question?”
    “Go ahead.”
    “You said you were running from your problems…” He was sure she would tell him it was none of his business.
    “Boyfriend problems,” Abby answered, as unperturbed as if she’d asked his opinion of the weather. “Well, more than boyfriend. Fiancé. We were supposed to be married in May. Then I found him cheating on me. When I say
found
, I mean literally
found
. I walked in on him when he was banging her. In our bed. At one o’clock in the afternoon.”
    Hickle didn’t know what to say, but for once he felt no awkwardness because surely no one would know what to say in this situation.
    “So I screamed and threw things, the usual mature reaction of the woman wronged. Next day I drove out of town. Had to get away.” A shrug. “That’s my sad story.”
    The word
sad
cued him to the appropriate response. “I’m sorry.”
    “That’s life.”
    “But it’s awful, what he did to you.”
    “I guess you can’t expect long-term commitment anymore. Even so, I really thought we were meant to be together. You know how that is?”
    Hickle kept his voice steady. “I know.”
    “To find somebody who’s everything you want,