The Shadow Hunter

take.”
    “You keep them. It’ll make a good lunch.” He fumbled the door open and stepped into the hall.
    “Raymond, if you ever want to talk to me…about anything…drop by, okay?”
    He didn’t look back. “I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks.”
    Then the door was shut and she was alone. Abby wished he hadn’t fled. There had been a chance for a dialogue, a breakthrough. It was an opportunity that might not present itself again.
    Hickle stood unmoving in the hallway for a long time, thinking of one thing only.
    He had kissed her. Kissed her mouth.
    He hadn’t meant to. Nor had he meant to ask most of the questions he’d asked. He’d simply been unable to stop himself. It was as if he’d been carried along on a current of energy that flowed between Abby and himself, with no willpower of his own, no self-control.
    He let himself into his apartment, then paced the living room. After a while it occurred to him that he was hungry. He’d managed to eat only a few bites with Abby so near to him on the couch. In the kitchen he fried up some beans and ate them out of a bowl, washing them down with Coca-Cola. Eating calmed him.
    He had made a fool of himself, but she hadn’t seemed to mind. She had smiled kindly and offered to be there if he needed to talk. She had said she was his friend. He wished he could believe her. But the words from last night’s e-mail message still scrolled through his memory:
Her job is to get close to men like yourself, learn their secrets, and report what she finds
.
    He finished his meal, wandered into the bedroom, and sat on his bed, shoulders slumping. He still didn’t know if Abby was his friend or his betrayer. But he could find out. It was easy now, as easy as the press of a button.
    Hickle reached into his pants pocket and took out the item he had snatched from Abby’s purse.
    There had been other things in the purse, things he’d barely had time to notice in his brief, frantic rummaging. A lightweight revolver—suspicious but not conclusive; in LA many women armed themselves. A wallet containing a driver’s license that bore the name Abby Gallagher and an address in Riverside—it meant nothing; ID could be faked. A pair of small tools, their purpose unidentifiable.
    The last item he’d found had been the one he wanted. He had slipped it into his pocket and backed away from the coffee table just before she emerged from the kitchen with the wet towels. He held it now in the palm of his hand.
    A microcassette recorder with a tape inside, partially used. He touched Rewind, and the tape began to run back.
    If she was keeping secrets, he would find them on the tape. Her ruminations and reminders, her notes to herself. All he had to do was listen.
    The tape kept rewinding. It made a low hiss as it turned.
    He wondered if he wanted to play it. Maybe he would be better off not knowing. If he could accept Abby as what she claimed to be, if he could put away all doubt and suspicion, wouldn’t he be happier?
    He weighed the tape recorder in his hand, as if weighing the choice it represented. Then his finger pressed the button marked Play.
    From the small speaker came Abby’s voice, faint as a whisper. Hickle stretched out on the bed, the tape recorder inches from his ear, and listened.

27
    “Where is this going to lead?”
    Howard Barwood paused in the act of pulling on his pants. He looked at Amanda, naked in bed. “I told you,” he said, “I intend for us to be together.”
    “When?”
    “When Kris is out of the picture.”
    “I’m a cynical big-city gal, Howie. And I’m starting to wonder if that’s ever going to happen.”
    “It’ll happen.” He tugged his pants up around his waist and fastened the buckle. He hated it when she called him Howie.
    The bedside lamp was the only light in the room. It was fitted with a three-way reading bulb, but the two higher wattages had burned out, and only the lowest setting was still functional. The bulb cast a wan, sallow glow over half the bedroom, leaving the far corners in shadow.
    “You know,” Amanda went on as if he hadn’t spoken, “I’m starting to sense a certain proclivity toward procrastination on your part. You’ve had months to tell her.”
    “There are other considerations.”
    “Such as?”
    “The timing of certain financial transactions.” It seemed safe to tell her that much.
    “Sounds very mysterious,” Amanda purred, “and disturbingly nonspecific.”
    “Let’s just say we’re not going to