The Shadow Hunter (34 page)

“How do I get inside?”

“You don’t.”

Travis explained in detail. Hickle listened, nodding now and then to signal either agreement or understanding.

“Got it?” Travis asked when he was through.

“I got it. Now how about Kris?”

“I told you, she’ll come later.”

“When?”

“I’ll be in touch. Once you’ve nailed Abby, hole up somewhere safe.

Get access to your e-mail account at a library or someplace and log on once a day. I’ll contact you as soon as I can. Trust me.”

“I’m still not sure I should.”

“But you have to. Right now, Raymond, I’m the only friend you’ve got.”

Hickle gave him a cool, perceptive stare.

“I bet Kris and Abby think you’re their friend too. Don’t they?”

Travis didn’t answer.

The Emergency Department at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center had been recently renovated and expanded, and to Abby it felt more like a hotel than a hospital. Then again, at a hotel she would not have been sitting on a wheeled mechanical bed that doubled as an examination table, reading a poster about flu season while holding an ice pack to her head.

Wyatt had dropped her off at the entrance. She’d declined his offer to accompany her inside, knowing that it was besst for both of them if they weren’t seen together.

The nurse at the semicircular admitting desk had listened-to Abby’s story of a blow to the head delivered by, a racquetball partner’s errant swing. If the nurse wondered why anybody would be playing racquetball at midnight, or where the partner had gone, or why Abby wasn’t wearing workout clothes, she didn’t ask. Obviously she assumed the story was a lie, and that Abby’s boyfriend or husband had struck her.

The ER was not excessively crowded even on a Friday night. It didn’t take long for a physician to perform an initial baseline evaluation, which included an eye exam and tests of her reflexes, as well as gentle probing of the goose egg on her head.

“Any vomiting?” he asked.

“Amnesia? Drowsiness? Headache?”

She answered no, yes, no, yes but it was getting better.

He gave her a non aspiring painkiller and an ice pack.

His diagnosis was an uncomplicated concussion, full recovery anticipated. He wanted her held overnight for observation. She could sleep, but a nurse would wake her periodically to monitor her alertness. She would be moved out of the ER shortly.

“Meanwhile, relax,” he said, adding that someone else would drop by to check on her before she was moved upstairs. A domestic violence counselor, Abby figured.

Now she waited restlessly, shifting on the bed and swinging her legs.

Really, she wasn’t sleepy at all.

There was too much adrenaline roaring through her system after her near-death experience. And there was fear. Travis still hadn’t called.

Gazing around the room, she saw what resembled a TV hovering at the end of a mechanical arm alongside the bed. Closer inspection established that it really was a TV—a color TV, in fact. She wondered if it got cable.

“Next vacation,” she decided, “I’m booking a room here.”

She was debating whether or not to turn on the TV and search for a news update when her purse began to chirp. It took her a moment to understand that a call was coming in on her cell phone. Fumbling one-handed with the purse, she got out the phone and answered the call on the fifth ring.

“Yes?” she gasped, praying to hear Travis’s voice.

“Abby—it’s me;” A knot of tension unraveled in her gut, and she let herself breathe deeply for the first time in more than an hour.

“Paul. Are you okay?”

“Just fine. You?”

“Never better,” she lied.

“What happened in Malibu? How’s Kris?”

“Not a scratch on her. We had a close call, though.”

“On the phone I heard gunshots.”

“Yes, our friend mounted an assault with his shotgun.

Fortunately we were riding in a shielded car from the TPS fleet. Even so, he found a weak spot in the armor. The driver suffered superficial wounds, but he’ll be all right”

“And you?” She knew she had asked him already, but she needed to hear his answer again.

Travis chuckled.

“The only damage was to my pride. I got wet. Soaked through.”

“Wet?” She didn’t understand.

“I pursued Hickle into the lagoon next to the beach.

Thought I saw him under the bridge. Tried to sneak closer and ended up falling into the damn creek. There were two highway cops on the bridge who got a good laugh out of it.”

“And Hickle? Was he under the bridge?”

“Nobody was there. What I saw was a trick of the light. I humiliated myself for nothing.”

“So he got away?”

“Evidently. The police are combing the area, and they’ve put up roadblocks on PCH, but I think it’s a case of locking the barn door after the horse is gone.

There’s a report of a car stolen from a shopping center across the highway from the lagoon. It’s a safe guess Hickle took it. Even so, with all the media attention, he won’t get far.”

Abby wasn’t so sure, but she didn’t pursue the issue.

“I tried calling you again and again—”

“Lost my phone in the attack.

It probably melted when the car caught fire.”

She hitched in a breath.

“Caught fire?”

“It’s a long story”

“Were you burned?”

“Not at all. Stop asking for health updates. I’m fine.”

“Where are you now?”

“The Barwoods’ guest house. Some of the TPS staffers keep spare clothes there, and Mahoney’s just my size. My suit was soaked through; I had to change before I caught pneumonia. Next on the agenda is a visit to the sheriff’s station in Agoura. I have to give a heads-up to the captain who runs the show.”

“About Howard?”

“Right. I’ll keep you out of it for as long as I can.

You’re not still in Hollywood, are you?”

“No, of course not. I had to make myself scarce.”

“That’s what I figured. Back in Westwood, then? My advice is to stay put in your condo for at least—”

“I’m not in my condo.”

“You’re not?” There was an odd note of disappointment in his voice.

“Actually, I’m staying overnight at Cedars. Got a minor bump on the noggin.”

“Oh. I see. Hell, I thought you said you were unhurt.”

He sounded more angry than concerned.

Abby shrugged.

“It’s nothing. I’m here as a precaution, that’s all. My brain’s my livelihood; I don’t like to take chances with it.”

“Well, it sounds like you need your rest. I’d better let you go, but I’ll visit you first thing in the morning. You check in as Abby Sinclair?”

“That’s right. I’m back to my old self.”

“Take care, Abby.”

“Paul?”

“Yes?”

“It’s good to hear your voice.”

“Yours too, Abby. Always.”

She ended the call and sat very still, the ice pack in one hand, the phone in the other. She sensed a peculiar tautness in the muscles of her face. At first she didn’t understand it. Then she realized she was smiling.

Until now she hadn’t permitted herself to know how scared she had been.

There was nothing to fear any longer. Paul had survived.

And Kris.

The good guys really had won after all.

Abby did her best to sleep once she was moved to a room on the third floor, but relaxation would not come. When she closed her eyes, her mind was crowded instantly with a confused rush of images-Hickle with the shotgun, Wyatt kneeling beside her on the fire escape, photos of Kris torn and scattered on Hickle’s bedroom floor. At times Travis entered her thoughts, and she imagined him flailing in the creek while the cops on the bridge kidded him and laughed… but it wasn’t funny, because dimly in the distance a slouching, raggedy figure that must be Hickle was slipping away unseen.

This made no sense. She was overtired, her brain making irrational connections. She wished she could quiet her thinking. At home she would have brewed some valerian tea, but she was sure the hospital stocked only conventional medicines. Anyway, the nurses wouldn’t give her any tranquilizers; they needed to monitor her mental clarity at two-hour intervals.

Past 6 a.m.” as dawn was brightening her window, she found a way to sleep. She expected bad dreams, but there were none. Her mind had shut down at last, and she drifted weightless in the humming dark.

And woke to see Travis gazing down at her.

“Sorry,” he whispered.

“Did I wake you?”

She sat up quickly, noting in a detached way that she experienced no vertigo after the change of position, and that her headache was entirely gone.

“No,” she said.

“I mean, yes, I guess you did, but it’s all right. What time is it?”

“Eight-thirty.”

“In the morning?” she asked stupidly.

Travis smiled.

“Saturday morning, March twenty-six. How are you feeling?”

“Not so bad, just drowsy. Didn’t get much sleep last night. How about you?”

“No sleep. Spent all night at the sheriff’s station. The captain in charge of the Malibu-Lost Hills station was extremely interested in what I had to say, as were two of his detectives.”

“You sure it’s not too soon to make an accusation?

We don’t have any hard evidence—”

“We do now. Our computer techs found a link between Western Regional Resources and the company that owns the bungalow in Culver City. However, I didn’t approach the subject that way with the captain.

I left the bungalow out of it for now. Didn’t want to raise any questions about unauthorized activities.”

“You mean, like the fact that I illegally entered the place and searched it?”

“Exactly. All I said was that we’d learned Howard Barwood has at least one dummy corporation. Western Regional Resources, and we have reason to believe he may own a cell phone registered to that company. I suggested that if in fact Howard is Hickle’s informant, then Howard might have used that phone to talk with him or arrange a rendezvous. I suggested they check the cellular carrier’s records.”

“Did they?”

“Yes. They found the Thursday night call made to Hickle’s apartment.

That was when they started taking a serious interest in Mr. Barwood, though he doesn’t know it yet.”

“Where’s Howard now?”

“Scheduled for a talk with those two detectives I mentioned. They’ll be handling him with kid gloves, giving him the OJ treatment. He’s well-connected, and they don’t want to do anything rash until they know what’s going on.”

“Just be sure they keep an eye on him. If they give him too long a leash, he may flee. Then you’ll have to tell them about the bungalow.”

“Why? You think he’d go there?”

“It’s possible. He keeps a gun in his nightstand. He might want to pick it up, especially if he has any plans to rendezvous with Hickle.”

“A gun? You never mentioned that.”

“It didn’t seem too important at the time. A little Colt forty-five, like the malt liquor.”

One of the nurses appeared in the doorway, telling Travis he’d been allowed only five minutes with the patient, and his time was up.

“I was just leaving,” Travis said with a smile.

The nurse was not charmed.

“See that you do. Miss. Sinclair suffered a nasty concussion in a racquetball game.” She squinted at Travis suspiciously.

“You wouldn’t happen to be the one she was playing with?”

“Abby and I never play games,” Travis said.

“At least not with each other.”

The nurse frowned, aware that some sort of veiled joke had been told but unable to see the punch line.

“Well, say your goodbyes, and let the patient sleep.”

When the nurse was gone, Abby smiled at Travis.

“See how well protected I am?”

“I should hire her for TPS. She’d make a good bodyguard.

As for Howard, you don’t have to worry about him. Men of his social standing seldom run. They stick around and hire smart lawyers. They always think they can beat the system. Half the time they’re right.”

“I guess so.”

“But I’ll keep the bungalow in mind. If he flees, I’ll tell the police.” He touched her hand lightly, then pulled away.

“Better get going before Nurse Patched returns. Besides, there’s another stop I have to make on this floor. Kris is here.”

“Kris? Right down the hall?”

He nodded.

“She showed symptoms of neurogenic shock. The paramedics brought her in.”

“Saint John’s would have been closer, or UCLA Medical.”

“Her regular physician is on call at Cedars, so this is where she wanted to come. And you don’t say no to Kris Barwood, especially now.

If you thought she was big before, you should see the coverage of this case.”

She understood what he was thinking.

“Then maybe TPS will make a comeback?”

“Here’s hoping.”

“And maybe… maybe I can let it go.” She said the words softly, half to herself.

“Corbal?” Travis asked.

She nodded.

“I know I told you I wasn’t trying to prove anything or redeem myself.

I lied. It’s all I’ve thought about for the past four months. The way I screwed up… and what I could do to try to make it right.”

“You did everything you could,” Travis said gently, “and then some.

Now get some sleep. You’ve earned a good long rest.”

“I will. Thanks, Paul.”

She let her head fall back on the pillow, drowsiness washing over her.

She was closing her eyes when Travis leaned down and kissed her forehead, a tender act, unusual for him.

“A good long rest,” he repeated softly.

She was asleep before he left the room.

Their names were Giacomo and Heller, and they greeted Howard Barwood at the sheriff’s station with smiles and handshakes, saying how much they appreciated his taking the time to clear up a few minor details about the case. He scarcely listened. He’d slept little, having spent most of the night at Cedars-Sinai with Kris. He was tired and hungry; Courtney had fixed him breakfast, but he’d had little appetite. Above all, he was burdened with guilt.

He regretted his every hour with Amanda. He regretted every thought of leaving Kris. He regretted being a bad husband. What made it worse was that he knew this was only a mood that would pass, and before long he would be sneaking out for more liaisons with Amanda or some new young thing. His good intentions never lasted.