The Shadow Hunter (24 page)

“I ordered Chinese.”

Abby kept smiling as she admitted Hickle to her apartment, and she emitted the appropriate exclamations of delight when he removed the food from the bag and filled the kitchen with its medley of aromas.

“Sweet and sour pork,” he announced, “almond chicken, and—because I know you like veggie meals-broccoli with black mushrooms.”

“Sounds great,” she said, still smiling, smiling. But she didn’t like this situation, didn’t like it at all. Hickle was a profoundly antisocial man, not the type to press for close friendship with anyone.

He was too insecure, too scared of women, of people in general, to take the initiative so boldly unless he had a compelling, hidden motive.

Maybe he was planning an attack in the privacy of her apartment. Or he might have doctored the food-the veggie dish, the one he’d bought for her. Might have put poison in it, or a sedative.

One thing was certain. This was no casual get together. It was a chess move, a tactic in a deadly serious contest of strategy, and she had a sense that it was perilously close to the end game

“Still warm,” Hickle said, touching the sealed containers.

“I hope it wasn’t presumptuous of me to order this stuff without asking you.”

“Not at all.”

“I just thought… well, I enjoyed our dinner last night.”

“Me too.”

“I guess I don’t get out as often as I should.”

“I don’t know if dinner in my apartment exactly constitutes getting out.”

“Is it a problem, eating in here? We could use my place if you want.”

She thought about taking the opening he had offered, but if he had trouble in mind, he could strike as easily in his place as in hers.

“Mi casa es su casa.” she said.

“Let me get the windows open, okay? It’s gotten stuffy.”

She raised the windows in both rooms, checking to be sure her surveillance gear was safely concealed behind the closed door of the bedroom closet, then deposited her purse on the coffee table by the sofa. She hated to be separated from her gun, but it wouldn’t look natural to hold on to her purse while at home.

Anyway, it was within close reach.

“Now I’ll get out some plates”—she nudged him aside to reach the cabinet—”you set’em up on the coffee table, and we’ll chow down.”

“Sounds like a plan.” He seemed lighthearted, almost droll, which worried her because she knew it was an act.

Rummaging in the cabinet, she became aware of her deficiencies as a hostess, at least in these temporary quarters. She lacked napkins, china, glassware, and metal utensils, as well as any beverages other than bottled water.

“I’m afraid we’ll have to dine picnic style,” she told him.

“Styrofoam plates, plastic cups and forks, paper towels as place mats and napkins. And if you want anything to drink besides water, you’ll have to grab it from your fridge. Sorry.”

“Water’s fine with me.”

“I’ll try a little of the pork and chicken if you don’t mind.” She spooned the meals onto the plates.

“I’m not a strict vegetarian. And why don’t you take a little of the broccoli?” If he had tampered with the veggie portion, he might find a way to decline the offer.

“That’ll be great,” Hickle answered calmly.

Maybe the food was okay, then. She sat next to him on the sofa, balancing the picnic plate in her lap. For a few minutes there was nothing to say. Ordinarily Abby was a skilled mechanic when it came to fixing a stalled conversation. She knew how to lubricate the gears and recharge the battery and get things moving again.

Tonight her mind seemed frozen. She knew why. She was not in control of this encounter. She was not the only one keeping secrets this time.

She ate the meat dishes exclusively until she saw Hickle sampling the veggie meal. He seemed to have no reservations about eating it. She saw him chew and swallow. Her fear of poisoning receded. Even so, she wasn’t very hungry.

“Anything on TV?” Hickle asked.

“I don’t think so.”

“You watch it much?”

“A little.”

“Like what?”

“Nothing special. Sometimes one of those magazine shows, you know, like Dateline.” She had never watched Dateline in her life, but she had the impression that it was on nearly every night, so it must be popular.

“How about you? You have any favorite shows?”

He hesitated.

“I like to watch the local news.”

She was almost sure he was studying her reaction.

She played it cool, showing a slight frown of distaste.

“The news? Isn’t that depressing?”

“I think it’s good to, uh, stay informed—you know, about the community.”

Yes, she thought, you’re very civic-minded.

“But there’s so much crime.”

“Crime is part of life. Without people who break the rules, where would we be?”

“The Garden of Eden?”

“Maybe, but what’s the point of living in paradise if you’re not really living? Know what I mean?”

She speared a chunk of broccoli with her plastic fork.

“Tell me.”

“Okay, here’s the thing. Adam and Eve were only going through the motions, see. They were content to just exist. They didn’t strive for anything. They never sought out their—well, their destiny.”

“Do you believe in destiny?”

“Yes, I do.”

“What is destiny, do you think?”

“Destiny…” Hickle drew a slow, thoughtful breath.

“Destiny is like what happened with Dante and Beatrice.

You know that story?”

“Not really.”

“Dante became a great poet, but his destiny was set when he was nine.

That was when he saw a girl from afar, a girl his own age. Her name was Beatrice. He fell in love, dedicated his life to her. Years later, when he was in his forties and Beatrice was dead, he wrote an epic poem in tribute to her. She lives on through his art. She was his destiny, I think—even though they were never lovers, never even friends. Still, she was meant for him, and finally she was his, not in life, but in death.”

“I see’ Abby said softly.

He must have heard doubt in her tone.

“You don’t agree with me, do you? You don’t think it’s destiny?”

“I think…” Abby calculated the risk of honesty, then looked directly at him.

“I think it sounds like a kind of madness, Raymond.”

He stiffened but forced himself to smile.

“The kind of madness that breaks all the rules,” he said evenly.

“So I guess we’re back where we started.”

“Crime, you mean.” Abby looked away, breaking eye contact. It was not good to challenge him.

“Where there’s crime, there’s usually punishment.”

“Some people aren’t afraid of punishment.”

“Maybe they should be.”

He was silent, pensive. She forced herself to eat another few bites of her dinner. It had been a gamble to raise the issue of punishment. She had no idea how he would react. With violence, maybe, or simply by withdrawing into a sulk.

She thought she was ready for anything, but when he spoke, his question surprised her.

“Did you really come here from Riverside?” “Sure,” she said, holding her voice steady.

“And you had a fiance who cheated on you?”

“Yes, I did.” She didn’t like being interrogated. She tried to turn the tables.

“Why would you ask?”

“Sometimes I have the feeling you’re not what you seem.”

Not good. How to respond? With a smile.

“Then what am I?”

He smiled also, but it was a smile without humor.

“An image. An illusion. Or maybe what I said the first time we met: an actress.”

“I told you, I’m a girl trying to get her head together after a bad breakup. Nothing more complicated than that.”

“Everything is more complicated than that.” He studied her openly, his food forgotten. She knew he had more to say, and she waited for it.

“Do you know how it feels,” he asked finally, “to want to believe in something… or someone… when you’re not sure you can?”

She saw what looked like anguish in his face and almost pitied him.

“I know how it feels. But there are times when you’ve got to believe.”

“Why?”

“Because relationships are built on trust.” She thought of Travis when she said it, Travis with his stash of GPS.

Hickle shifted closer to her on the sofa. She could feel him trembling, but whether it was a signal of fear or rage or. some other feeling she couldn’t guess.

“You trusted your fiance,” he said, “and he lied to you.”

“Not everybody lies.”

“I think they do.”

He leaned toward her, and she felt the heat coming off his body and knew his pulse was racing. He might be preparing to strike. She almost tensed in anticipation of a fight, but if she did, he would sense it.

“I think,” Hickle said slowly, his voice dropping to a whisper! “everybody lies all the time. We all put on an act. We hide from view.” “Including you?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“And me?”

“I think so, Abby.”

“So you don’t trust me.” She put no judgment in the words.

“I’d like to, I really would.”

“But you don’t.”

“Should I?”

“Of course you should. I’m trying to be your friend.”

“What else are you?”

“Nothing else.”

She saw the intensity building in his gaze.

“Who are you, really?” he whispered.

Her purse was on the coffee table, but to reach it she would have to spring forward, and with Hickle pressed against her, she wasn’t sure she could.

“I’m your friend, Raymond.” She knew he wasn’t buying it.

“Just your friend.” If he had any kind of weapon, she was dead.

“My friend.”

“Yes.” “I hope so,” he said, leaning nearer, closing the distance between them, and he kissed her.

It was the briefest kiss, a gentle meeting of the lips, and Abby knew? it was unplanned, an act of impulse.

She did not resist or respond. Hickle was the one who pulled back in a violent recoil that upset the plate in his lap.

“Sorry,” he mumbled.

“I shouldn’t have—didn’t mean to—” Abby didn’t know whether to feel relieved or embarrassed, but she was suddenly sure he posed no immediate threat.

“It’s okay, Raymond,” she said soothingly.

“Forget about it. It’s okay.”

He looked away, his face flushed scarlet, and then he saw the multicolored stain painted on the sofa by his spilled chicken and pork.

“Uh oh,” Abby said, following his gaze.

“Looks like it’s wet cleanup time.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

“We’ll do it together. Wait here.” She busied herself in the kitchen, wetting paper towels under a stream of tap water. When she returned to the sofa, she saw Hickle standing near the coffee table, nervously shifting his weight like a boy who had to go to the bathroom.

Whatever his intentions had been in coming here, kissing her had not been on the agenda.

He took the towels from her and blotted up the mess.

“I’m sorry,” he said again.

“Don’t worry about it. The furniture’s not even mine. Besides, it looks like you got rid of the stain.”

“I think so.” Hickle put down the towels and began edging toward the door.

“Guess I’d better be going. It’s late.”

“Only nine.” Suddenly she didn’t want him to go.

He’d reached out to her in his clumsy way. She wanted to explore the new path he’d opened for her.

“I’m kind of tired.” He put his hand on the doorknob.

She tried stalling.

“There’s some leftovers for you to 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.