Hickle turned, the water rippling around him. Overhead a burst of crosstalk sounded from the squad car’s radio, the volume high. The flashlight winked on again, and the spotlight resumed probing the creek waters. The two cops had returned to their task.
“We’re both trapped in here now,” Hickle whispered.
“No, I’ll get us out. You’ll go inland while I distract the two Smokies on the bridge.”
“Distract them how?”
“Don’t worry about that. We have a lot to discuss and not much time. Do you know who I am?”
Hickle studied him in the gloom. Travis took the opportunity to assess Hickle’s face. He had never seen the man in person. He had small, suspicious eyes, a rodent’s eyes. His skin was pasty, his hair greasy and wild. He belonged here under the bridge in the fetid water, amid the flotsam of fast-food containers and cigarette packs.
“No,” Hickle said finally. “Should I?”
“I think so, if you’ve watched the news.” Travis allowed himself a brief smile. “And I know you never miss the news.”
The small eyes narrowed. The bloodless line of Hickle’s mouth pinched in a frown. “Hey,” he whispered, “you run the security firm. You’re Paul Travis. You’re famous in this town.”
Hickle seemed almost honored to be meeting a celebrity, even if the encounter had to take place in a dark creek during a police pursuit. And why not? Fame was his obsession.
“You’re the one who’s famous now,” Travis said. “In a few hours your name will be all over the newspapers and the TV, radio—everywhere.”
Hickle nearly brightened, then twisted his mouth in a pout. “As a failure.”
“For the moment.” Travis sighed. “You know, you really should’ve killed her when you had the chance.”
“Don’t you go blaming me for that. It was the car, the Lincoln. It was bulletproof—”
“That’s not what I meant. I’m talking about Abby.”
“Abby?” A beat of silence as Hickle took this in. “She’s—she’s still alive?”
“Unfortunately, yes. But she doesn’t have to be.” Travis’s words returned in a wave of echoes.
“What do you mean?” Hickle’s voice, very soft, produced no echo at all.
“I know a way for you to get Abby, really get her this time, no mistakes. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
The glimmer in Hickle’s eyes was pure malice. “I’d like Kris more.”
“She’ll come later. Abby first. It only makes sense. Security around Kris will be tight for a few days. Not just TPS security—police protection too. But Abby won’t have any protection at all.”
Hickle processed this, then nodded. “How do I do it?”
“I can tell you where she lives. Her permanent address, not the apartment she rented next door to you. With that rifle of yours, you can nail her easily. I’ve got it all worked out.”
“Yeah, sure, you’ve got it all worked out.” Hickle took a step toward Travis in the deep water, launching concentric circles of ripples that sloshed against the pylons. “So why the hell didn’t you ever mention the armored car and the bulletproof glass? Why—”
“Keep your voice down.” Travis glanced upward at the underbelly of the bridge. “They may hear.”
“Don’t tell me what to do,” Hickle said, but he did lower his voice. “You’re the one who messed up everything. Or maybe it was all a setup. Is that it? You were in the car with her. You’re the one who protected her from me. You never wanted me to kill her. This is all some kind of game—”
“No game, Raymond.”
“So explain it.” Hickle was close now. Travis could see the wildness in his eyes. To control him, Travis would have to handle this next answer just right. He wished he were more skilled at reading people. That was Abby’s special talent. Absurdly he regretted that she wasn’t here to help.
“Raymond,” he said quietly, “I had no choice about what happened tonight. Kris insisted on using a TPS staff car, one of our armored vehicles. And she insisted that I ride shotgun. I couldn’t refuse either request without raising her suspicions. It all happened fast; I had no chance to e-mail you an update.”
The story sounded plausible, Travis thought. He waited while Hickle’s eyes ticked back and forth, his brain probing the story for weaknesses. “Why would Kris want special protection tonight of all nights?” he asked finally.
Travis was ready for that one. He fixed Hickle with a reproving stare. “Because you varied your routine. You didn’t call her today.”
A beat of silence, broken only by the sizzle of radio crosstalk overhead. “You’re saying,” Hickle breathed, “it’s my fault?”
This was precisely what Travis was saying, but he chose to be magnanimous. “What’s done is done. It’s nobody’s fault. Just one of those things.”
“But you protected her. You helped her find cover after I blew up the car.”
“I wasn’t protecting her. I was defending myself. You would have killed us both. A shotgun isn’t a discriminating weapon.”
“You fired at me even after she broke away from you. You popped off two shots right at me.”
“And missed both times. I’m a skilled marksman, Raymond. I didn’t have to miss.” He paused to let that statement register. “For that matter, I don’t have to be telling you any of this right now. I could have alerted the cops on the bridge—or shot you in the back of the head when I swam up. Instead I’ve taken you into my confidence. I’ve revealed my identity. Don’t I deserve a little trust in return?”.
Nicely done. Travis was pleased with himself. Even Abby couldn’t have manipulated the man any more expertly.
“Well,” Hickle muttered, “maybe. But I can’t figure your angle. Kris is your client. Abby’s your employee or business associate or something. Why would you want either of them dead? Why would you be helping me when it’s your job to stop me?”
“Good questions. I wish I had time for an in-depth discussion. But you see, there are other men combing the lagoon. One of them will see us soon. We need to wrap this up.”
His point was punctuated by a sudden clatter of wings in the lagoon—a bird startled into flight. Either Carruthers or Pfeiffer must have blundered into a nest not far away.
“Hear that?” Travis said. “They’re closing in. Now, do you want my help or not?”
Hickle hesitated only a moment, then nodded. “I want it.”
“Okay, first things first. How were you planning to get out of Malibu?”
“Head upstream to where there are houses and ranches, then steal a car out of somebody’s driveway. Or if I can’t find a car, I’ll hide in the woods till the heat dies down.”
“No good. Either way it’ll take too long, and time is not on your side. You’re underestimating the gravity of this situation. You’re big news, Raymond. Let me tell you what’s going to happen within the next fifteen minutes. First the choppers will arrive. Sheriff’s department aerial units. TV and radio helicopters too. One of them will spot you in the creek or the woods. If they don’t find you, the dogs will. K-nine units. You’ve seen them on the news, right? Those dogs will be sniffing for a scent on both sides of the highway. The creek won’t cover your scent, either. That’s a myth. Smells carry just fine over water.”
Clearly Hickle hadn’t thought about dogs, choppers. He licked his lips.
“So,” Travis continued relentlessly, “you’re screwed any way you look at it. Stay in the creek or hide in the woods, and the dogs will track you down unless a chopper spots you first. Take cover in a house, and the police will figure out where you are once they start conducting house-to-house searches. You’ll be surrounded by a SWAT team, and your only choice will be whether you kill yourself or let them do it for you.”
“All right, all right.” Hickle was even paler than before. “I won’t hide out. I’ll steal a car, like I said.”
“That’s right, you will, but you have to do it fast. There’ll be roadblocks set up before lon
g. Highway patrol units and sheriff’s cruisers, checking every car that goes through. The one thing that’s working in your favor is that Malibu is relatively isolated. It takes time to deliver manpower and other resources out here. That’s why there are only three patrol units on the scene so far. You have to make your move before it gets any more crowded. That means you don’t have time to go far inland. You grab the first car you see. This creek runs past a parking lot behind the little shopping center across the street. Even at this hour, there’s a good chance you’ll find some sort of vehicle in that lot. If there’s anything you can drive, take it. And go north.”
“Not south? There’s more traffic that way. I might blend in better.”
“South is too obvious. There may already be a roadblock south of here. Your odds are better if you cut through Topanga Canyon to the Ventura Freeway. They won’t block off the freeway, so once you’re on it you’ll be reasonably safe. Connect with the northbound 405. You know where San Fernando Road meets the Golden State Freeway?”
“North end of the Valley.”
Travis nodded. “High-crime district, lots of auto theft. That’s where you’ll ditch your vehicle. Leave it unlocked, motor running. With any luck someone else will take it for a joyride, and by the time the police find it, they won’t know where you abandoned it.”
“Then what do I use for transportation?”
“Steal another car. Cars get stolen in that part of town every night. The crime probably won’t be linked to you at first, which means it won’t be a high priority. Drive south into LA but avoid Hollywood. They’ll be expecting you to return there. Where you want to go is Westwood.”
“Because that’s where Abby is,” Hickle breathed.
“Or where she will be, eventually. She lives in a condo tower called the Wilshire Royal.” Travis gave the cross street and the address. “Her unit is ten-fifteen. It’s at the front of the building, fourth window from the right, facing Wilshire.”
“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.
40
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 best 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 nonaspirin 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 s
tay 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.
41
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.
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