The Shadow Hunter
everything you’re looking for—and then they go and do something like that…” Abby let her statement slide away unfinished.
“I know,” Hickle said again, more firmly. “I know exactly what that’s like.”
“So it’s happened to you?”
Because the car was stopped at a red light at Beverly Drive, Hickle could turn in his seat and look directly into Abby’s eyes. “It’s happened to me,” he said. “Just recently, in fact—just within the past year—I found the perfect woman. Perfect. And she…” Abby watched him, no judgment in her expression. “She tore my heart out. She killed my soul. She murdered the best part of me.”
There. It was said. Probably he should have stayed silent. The words had come out in a rush, desperate and angry. He was afraid Abby would think he was some kind of nut.
“I’m sorry, Raymond,” she whispered.
Raymond. She had called him by name.
A horn blatted behind him. The stoplight had cycled to green. He was holding up traffic.
He motored through the intersection, continuing west, afraid to speak again and risk damaging whatever fragile intimacy he’d established.
Raymond. His first name. Spoken with such gentle understanding.
Raymond.
The parking lots that served the Venice promenade were filled to capacity this evening. Hickle navigated the maze of narrow side streets and alleys until he found an open slot at a curb two blocks from the beach. By the time he maneuvered the Rabbit into the space, the last of the twilight glow was gone, and darkness lay thick and smooth on all sides.
After his blurted confession in Beverly Hills, he had said little, and Abby hadn’t prodded him. Although the present excursion was perhaps not technically a date, it came close enough to raise his anxiety level dangerously high. Once they were in the restaurant, he would loosen up, and she would learn what she had to know.
On every case Abby started out with a mental checklist, questions about the person whose threat potential she was assessing. The questions were simple and specific, and the more of them she answered, the nearer she came to a final evaluation. Already she had checked off several of the most serious questions about Hickle, each time with an answer in the affirmative.
Did he feel a deep personal connection to Kris Barwood? Yes. His unguarded comments in the car had confirmed it.
Did his obsession go beyond writing letters and making phone calls? Yes. After searching his apartment, she knew he had devoted enormous energy to researching Kris’s life, tracking down her address, and photographing her from a distance.
Did his obsession show signs of escalating into violence? Yes. The books on stalkers and combat tactics were proof.
Had he obtained a weapon or weapons? Yes. Guns.
Two items on the checklist remained unresolved.
Did he believe he could successfully carry out an attack? Without that belief, he might fantasize and rehearse and plan but never act.
Would he be deterred by fear? Often fear functioned as a conscience of last resort.
Hickle struck her as a timid man. Possibly it was fear that had stayed his hand so far. Possibly the same fear would serve as a permanent brake on his most violent ambitions.
Hickle shut off the Volkswagen’s motor and headlights, then fumbled the key free of the ignition slot. “We’re here,” he announced. “Well, not at the restaurant—we’ll have to walk there—it’s not far.”
He was stammering like a high school kid. She would have felt sorry for him had she not seen the rifle and shotgun, the secret photos of Kris. “It’s a nice night for a walk,” she said cheerily. “The ocean air feels good.”
They got out of the car, and Hickle locked it. “Yeah, it’s one thing I’ve always appreciated about LA. Where I grew up, we were fifty miles inland. Not much chance for an ocean breeze.”
“Desert country?”
“No, hills and farmland. My folks ran a grocery store. It was—what’s the word? Bucolic.”
“But boring.”
“Yeah. Not exactly bright lights and big city.” They started walking. “I guess you didn’t see much of the ocean out in Riverside,” Hickle said.
“Only in the form of a mirage, usually induced by imminent heatstroke. It gets to be a hundred-ten in the shade, and there is no shade. Sometimes I’d drive to the coast to get away from the desert heat. Never came to this part of town, though.”
“It’s…colorful.”
“Why do they call it Venice?” She
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