The Shadow Hunter

hairstylist, had repeatedly suggested that she was reaching the stage of life when it was better to wear her hair short. She had finally told him to quit it. She liked her hair long. Anyway, forty wasn’t old. And she could pass for thirty-five in most circumstances. Direct sunlight showed the creases at the corners of her eyes, the gathering tightness around her mouth, the hint of a sag in her cheeks, but while on the air she was lit by diffusion-filtered lights and masked by a layer of makeup that got thicker each year.
    She hated to worry about her looks. It was shallow and stupid, and she had other assets, after all. She could shoot tape and record sound, handle every piece of equipment in an editing booth, write copy, extemporize fluently in the coverage of a breaking story. Fewof those skills, however, were required in her present position. For better or worse, she had become a celebrity.
    Draped in a robe, she dried and brushed her hair in front of the big mirror over the bathroom’s marble countertop. The face that looked back at her was strong and Nordic—Kris Andersen had been her maiden name. Her eyes were blue-gray and had the peculiar quality of seeming larger and more intense than ordinary eyes. She had white, perfectly even teeth, and her mouth could execute an impressive variety of smiles, one of many tricks that made her interesting to watch. She knew that if she ever stopped being interesting, she would not be watched for long. Of course, there was one viewer whose attention she would gladly do without—
    She froze, the hairbrush motionless in her hand.
    From the bedroom had come a sound. A rustle of movement, barely audible. It might be Steve or Courtney, the housekeeper, but irrationally she was certain it was
him
.
    She heard it again—a whisper of motion, the soft scrape of fabric on fabric.
    She turned from the mirror. The hairbrush was her only weapon. Absurdly she raised it like a club, then stepped out of the bathroom, her gaze darting, and there he was by the windows, silhouetted against the vertical blind…
    “Kris? You okay?”
    All the tension leaked out of her, because it was Howard’s voice. She dropped the hairbrush. It thumped on the floor. “Damn,” she breathed. “Don’t
do
that to me.”
    “Do what?”
    She shook her head, dismissing his question. “I thought you were him,” she said simply.
    Her husband crossed the room to take her hand in his. “Come on, that’s crazy.”
    “I heard someone out here. I thought it might be—well, it could have been…”
    “No, it couldn’t. Not a chance.”
    From a strictly rational standpoint Howard was probably correct. But how could she explain to him that rationality played little part in her fears and nightmares, the false alarms and spasms of panic that made her glance over her shoulder at every stray noise and flicker of shadow?
    “You’re right,” she said, feeling empty. “Guess I’m a little overwrought.”
    He stooped and retrieved her hairbrush, placing it gently in her grasp as if she were a child. “Don’t worry about it. Don’t worry about anything.”
    “Good advice. Hard to follow.”
    He showed her a warm smile that lit up his square, tanned face. After retiring last year at fifty, he had taken to hanging around the house and eating too much. A belt of flab hung around his waist, and his neck had grown thick and loose. “You’re no good at taking orders,” Howard said. “Me, I’m great at it. Travis told me not to worry, and I haven’t.”
    “Your faith is touching.”
    “Isn’t it, though?” His smile faded. “Speaking of Travis, we’ll be late for that meeting if we don’t leave soon.”
    “Give me another minute to get dressed.”
    “Right. See how well I take orders? I’m a natural.” He moved toward the hall.
    She stopped him. “While you’re waiting, could you check the cottage for me?”
    “Is that necessary?”
    “I want to know if he’s called.”
    “Let’s assume he has. How does it help you to find out?”
    “I have to know. If you won’t check, I will.”
    “If you worry about it all the time, it defeats the whole purpose of having Travis’s people around.”
    “Their purpose isn’t to keep me happy. Their purpose is to keep me alive.”
    “You’re getting worked up again.”
    His patronizing tone infuriated her. “I have a right to get worked up. It’s me he’s after. Or is that another thing I’m supposed to not think about?” She turned away,