The Shadow Hunter

open, the screen was still in place. From outside, it proved difficult to remove. She wished she had brought her locksmith kit, which contained a thin, flexible celluloid strip that could slip into the crack of a door and open a latch. It might have allowed her the leverage to work the screen loose.
    She couldn’t take the time to go back inside her apartment and get the kit. Rummaging in her purse, she found a Swiss army knife. Among its spring-loaded tools was a pair of wire cutters. She snipped through part of the screen, inserted her fingers in the gap, and lifted the screen out of the window frame, then climbed into the apartment.
    The code for the call return service was the star key followed by six and nine. Abby punched the three buttons and listened as a synthesized voice gave her the most recent caller’s phone number. It was a local number with an unfamiliar exchange. She dictated it into her microrecorder. Later she could look it up. She subscribed to an online reverse directory service thatoffered a comprehensive listing of residential and commercial phone numbers.
    There was one more item of business in Hickle’s apartment. She’d brought an infinity transmitter from her tool kit; it broadcast on the same frequency as the two microphones she had already installed. Quickly she wired the transmitter into the base of the telephone. Hickle could see it if he took the trouble to look, but this was a chance she’d decided to take. If the mystery caller phoned again, she wanted his voice on tape. A voiceprint could then be made for purposes of identification.
    Done with the phone, she wiped off her prints. Mission accomplished. Time to blow this joint.
    She returned to Hickle’s bedroom, intending to make her escape through the window, then paused, noticing his laundry basket on the floor. It was still full to the brim. He had never put away his clothes.
    Odd. He’d had plenty of time.
    She knelt and rummaged through the clothes, not sure what she was looking for. Nothing was out of the ordinary, except that a few items seemed curiously damp, though the rest were dry.
    Almost as if a wet article of clothing had been stuffed into the basket…
    She touched the carpet and felt a wet spot, then another and another. The trail of drops led to the bathroom.
    In Hickle’s shower, hanging from the showerhead, dripping dry, was a pair of white high-cut Maidenform briefs.
    Hers, of course.
    When she’d sensed a presence in the laundry room, she had not been imagining things. Hickle had been watching her. He must have taken cover in the stairwell, and when she’d explored the boiler room, he had risked slipping past her and stealing this particular item right out of the washing machine.
    His prize. His little piece of her, to touch and smell and kiss…
    Abby shivered. She had a sudden urge to grab the poor, wrinkled, soggy thing that hung on the showerhead and abscond with it, but she couldn’t. If it was missing, Hickle would know she had been in here. She would have to leave it. And she would try not to think about what he would use it for.
    She left the bathroom and braced herself against the bedroom window, preparing to climb through, and then she looked past the railing, down at the parking lot.
    Hickle’s car was there.
    It was parked under the carport, headlights off.
    Hickle himself was nowhere in sight. He must already be inside the building, maybe riding the elevator to the fourth floor.
    Get out
, a voice in Abby’s mind yelled.
    Hickle would be enraged to find her here. And he was armed; he’d taken the duffel bag. Her Smith & Wesson was a poor match for a shotgun. Unless she killed him instantly, he would have time to pump out a couple of shells, and at close range even a single shotgun blast would literally tear her apart.
    “Oh, that’s good, Abby,” she hissed, scrambling through the window. “Keep thinking those happy thoughts.”
    She was on the fire escape. Her instinct was to scurry to the safety of her bedroom, but she couldn’t leave until the window screen had been replaced.
    Installing the screen from outside was harder than she’d expected. She got hold of it through the gap she’d cut in the mesh, then jammed the top of the screen into the frame, but the bottom stubbornly refused to snap into position. The panel was large and awkward, difficult to maneuver, especially with the Venetian blind in the way, jangling and clattering.
    She heard a squeal of hinges. Hickle’s