The Shadow Hunter

portabella mushrooms—what’s not to like? So, do you come here often?”
    “Hardly ever. Actually”—an embarrassed smile—“I’ve been here only once. It’s not my kind of atmosphere.”
    “No?”
    “Well, I mean,
look
at them.” He propped his elbow on the table and pointed an accusing finger at the room. “The way they move. Their faces. They’re so
confident
. They own the world.”
    Abby followed his gaze, studying the other patrons. It was true. They were beautiful, women and men alike. The very distinction between male and female was all but lost in their unisex hairstyling and wardrobe. The men conveyed a sense of delicacy, of frail and sensitive soulfulness; the women looked hard. Hard-bodied after hours in the gym, and hard-featured, their faces untouched by makeup, eyes narrowed and stern.
    “They own the world,” Hickle said again, then wrinkled his brow. “Not that
you
need to envy them,” he added in what was intended as a compliment but sounded like a reproach.
    “I don’t envy anybody.” Abby twirled her salad fork, letting the tines catch the candlelight. “Green’s not my color.”
    Hickle picked up his club sandwich and tore off a chunk with his teeth. “You don’t envy them because you don’t have to. You fit right in. You belong here.”
    “And you don’t?” Though of course he didn’t.
    He waved his arm vaguely at the crowd in a loose, graceless motion that nearly upset his beer mug. “I’m not in their league.”
    “They’re not that special.”
    “Oh, yes, they are. Can’t you feel it?” He lowered his voice, leaning forward, shoulders hunched defensively. “There was a movie once with a strange title.
The Killer Elite
. Whenever I come to a place like this, those are the words I think of. The killer elite.”
    She noted the word
killer
and the fact that he projected it onto those around him, when it applied far more realistically to himself. “They’re just kids out for a burger and a beer,” she said mildly.
    “Kids, yes, but not
just
kids. They have the look.”
    “The what?”
    “The look,” he said again, with peculiar earnestness. “You know how they say the world is divided into the haves and the have-nots? Well, it’s true, but not the way most people think.” He tipped the beer mug to his mouth and swallowed a third of its contents with a canine slurp. “It’s not about money. Money is nothing; anybody can get money. Show up for work on time, display a modicum of intelligence, and in three months your boss will be offering you a promotion whether you want it or not.”
    “Why wouldn’t you want it?” Abby asked, but Hickle didn’t hear.
    “What matters,” he said, his voice too loud, his eyes too bright, “is the look. That’s what the haves have and what the have-nots haven’t got. You should know because you’ve got it. Every woman in this room has it. Every guy, too…” His hand closed into a fist, though he was unconscious of the gesture. “Except me.”
    His anger was growing dangerously large. She tried to contain it. “You’re being way too hard on yourself.”
    “Just honest. See, in the end, brains don’t matter. You can be the brainiest guy in the class, straight A’s, but if you don’t have the look, you can’t get a date to the prom. Without the look you’re nothing. You’re either class clown or class…freak.” He took a last, listless bite of his sandwich and set down the remnant wearily. “Hell, you’re not going to understand. I’ll bet
you
didn’t have any trouble getting dates.”
    He was studying her with a lopsided smile that was meant to look friendly but conveyed, instead, a cold and cramped malice.
    Abby kept her tone light. “I was a tomboy, really. Not very popular. Certainly not a prom queen.”
    This surprised him. His expression softened a little. “Is that so?” he asked quietly.
    “I was kind of a washout in most my classes. My mind had this tendency to wander. I was basically a loner. When I wasn’t in school I spent most of my time hiking in the desert or grooming horses at a ranch. I was always dirty, hair mussed, no makeup.Mosquito bites on my arms, and a million freckles all over my face.” Every word of this was true. “My dad called me a late bloomer.”
    Hickle considered her, and she felt his resentment cool. “Well,” he said at last, “you’ve flowered nicely.”
    She smiled. “I’m a whole different person now. So I guess there really is life after high