The Shadow Hunter

him off the muddy bank into the pond. He stayed low, bending almost double as he slogged through the shallow water, kicking up swirls of silt. Mud sucked at his waterlogged shoes, sending jolts of pain through his bad ankle. He kept going, his attention fixed on the bridge and the safety beyond it.
    The duffel bag was an increasingly difficult burden, but he would not relinquish it. He might need the guns. As the water deepened, he hoisted the bag higher to keep it dry. He couldn’t afford wet ammunition.
    The bridge was close. When a faint current moved against him, he knew he had left the pond and entered Malibu Creek. The creek wound inland through forest and scrub. He could follow it as long as he liked, exit whenever he felt sure he’d shaken off his pursuit. Then he would need a car. He would steal one. He knew how to hot-wire an ignition. He had seen it done on television a thousand times. One of Kris’s newscasts had detailed the procedure in a report on auto theft.
    He hated to think of Kris. It stirred up too much anger and pain. He consoled himself with the thought that at least Abby was dead.
    Under the bridge now. Traffic thrumming overhead. No moonlight or starlight reached into the concrete grotto. Dark water sloshed fitfully against the pylons, its wet slaps repeated in a train of soft echoes. He could hear his own breathing, amplified by the peculiar acoustics of the place.
    He was nearing the far side of the bridge when he heard a car stop directly above him. Instinct froze him in place. A moment later a spotlight snapped on, sweeping the water straight ahead.
    The car was a patrol unit, maybe the same one from the parking lot, and it was angling its spotlight down into the creek. He couldn’t go forward. If he left the cover of the bridge he would be seen instantly. Had to retreat, conceal himself in the lagoon until the way was clear.
    He headed in that direction, then stopped as a flashlight beam shone down from the bridge on that side, panning the water.
    There must be two cops. Highway patrol officers, probably; they rode in pairs after dark. Between them, they had both sidesof the bridge covered. He was safe only as long as he stayed hidden underneath.
    Trapped.
    He backed up against one of the rusty pylons and huddled there, a scared animal. Minutes earlier he had been the predator lying in ambush. Now he was the prey, hiding from those who hunted him.
    With trembling hands he removed the shotgun from the duffel, then felt inside the bag until he found a box of ammo. He fed four Federal Super Magnum shells into the gun. If the cops figured out where he was, he would open fire. The twelve-gauge was a better weapon than the rifle at close range. He might kill one of them, at least, before the sound of gunfire led his other pursuers to the bridge.
    He hoped it wouldn’t come to that. If Kris had died, his own fate would no longer matter. But as long as she lived, there was still a purpose to his life.
    Travis saw him there, under the bridge.
    The poor son of a bitch was pinned between one highway cop’s downcast flashlight beam and the spotlight from the CHP car itself. He couldn’t leave without being seen. All he could do was brace himself against a pylon and sit tight.
    Crouching on the mudflat, his flashlight off, Travis considered his next move. Carruthers and Pfeiffer were too far away to see him. The highway patrol cops were within hailing distance, but he would be invisible to them as long as he stayed in the high bulrushes and sedges along the bank.
    Carefully he pocketed his flashlight, then made his way through the foliage, keeping his head down and relying on the tall plants for cover. He advanced step by step, waiting for a gust of wind to shake the sedges and mask the disturbance his passage caused. As he drew close to the bridge, he timed his moves to coincide with each new rush of traffic, letting the roar of aHarley’s unruffled motor or the rattle of a camper drown out the noise of his progress.
    It had been a long time since he had been involved in the pursuit of an armed assailant. He found himself enjoying it. He almost wished he were an employee of Travis Protective Services, assigned to field duty, rather than the founder and proprietor, condemned to spend most of his time behind a desk.
    He proceeded to within five feet of the bridge, and still the cop with the flashlight hadn’t spotted him. Travis could see the patrolman leaning over the side, casting the beam