The Shadow Hunter

heard a metallic pop and a hiss of gas. The coupling on the gas inlet pipe had ruptured. Gas was flooding in from the main supply line. It smelled like rotten eggs. The gas was a bomb. The pilot light was the fuse. When the gas reached critical concentration…
    “Blammo,” Hickle whispered.
    Half the fourth floor would be obliterated. Abby’s apartment and his own place next door and, with luck, nosy Mrs. Finley in apartment 422—all gone in a white-hot explosive flash. He had wanted to erase the tapes. This was one way to do it. As a bonus, he would erase all vestiges of his former life…and, oh yes, Abby too.
    He added his shotgun to the duffel and headed into the hall, shutting Abby’s door behind him. Quickly to the elevator, then down to the lobby and across the parking lot, running hard.
    One thought galvanized him as he ran. He was doing this, really doing it. After months of delay he’d found his nerve.
    Hickle stashed the duffel on the passenger seat of his VW, slipped behind the wheel, keyed the ignition. The dashboard clock glowed 10:59.
    At this very moment the late news on Channel Eight was ending, and Kris Barwood would be signing off for the last time.

30
    Kris saw Travis across the soundstage as she and Matt Dale wrapped up the ten o’clock news.
    Travis had not come to KPTI in months. His presence rattled her, and she stumbled during her closing remarks. Matt saved her with a joke, allowing both of them to beam smiles at Camera One while the theme music came up and the set faded to black.
    “You okay?” Matt asked, removing the Telex from his ear.
    “Got distracted. It appears I have a visitor.”
    Matt followed her gaze. “That’s the TPS guy, isn’t it?” After the furor surrounding the Devin Corbal case, Travis was recognizable to any media person in LA.
    “The very same.”
    “He seems to be putting the ‘personal’ back in personal protection.”
    “Maybe that should be his slogan.” Kris got up from behind the curvilinear shell of the desk. “I’d better find out what he wants. See you Monday.”
    “Have a nice weekend.”
    She wished she could. Somehow she found it unlikely.
    Quickly she made her way past the cameras, away from the small set with its video wall and its photographic backdrop of LA at night, complete with artificial city lights that glittered like stardust. Lit with klieg lights and photographed through a layer of diffusion, the set was a magical island, but up close it was cheap, almost tacky. The desk was a false front, the swivel chairs were uncomfortable, and the backdrop had been torn and hastily repaired, leaving a ragged seam like a fault line. At full power the lights were harsh and hot, though the studio itself was cold in deference to the balky equipment that cluttered the floor.
    Travis smiled at her as she approached. That smile worried her. It seemed calculated to convey reassurance. “What’s up?” she asked guardedly.
    “I thought I’d ride along with you tonight in one of our staff cars.”
    “What’s wrong with my car?”
    “If you don’t mind, I’d like you to use our vehicle right now. I chose a Town Car from our fleet—same model as yours.”
    “If it’s the same, why can’t we take mine?”
    “This car has added features.” Travis paused until a pair of stagehands had sauntered past. “Bullet-resistant glass, armor plating, the works.”
    “Why exactly do I need this extra level of protection? Because Hickle varied his routine by not calling today?”
    “That’s part of it.”
    “What’s the rest?”
    “Abby’s found out a few things. I can’t go into detail right now.” Travis placed a hand on her arm, lowering his voice. “There’s a chance he may be close to taking action.”
    “There’s a nice euphemism. Trying to kill me is what you mean.”
    “It could be a false alarm. Anyway, Steve Drury will be driving, and I’ll ride in the back with you. The detail posted at the house has been put on alert. The guards at the Reserve’s gatehousehave been notified, as well as the KPTI security staff. Every precaution is being taken. You’ll be fine, Kris. You’ll be fine.”
    He was still touching her arm. Gently she pulled away. She didn’t want his reassurances. He found it easy to be calm. Dealing with threats was his job. He reduced the problem to a set of procedures, an action plan. He enjoyed it. To her it was only a nightmare without logic or clarity, offering no escape.
    She looked back at the