He could get to Malibu well before then. The shotgun was already in his car. All he had to do was crawl through the drainage pipe, conceal himself near the beach house, and when Kris's car pulled into the driveway-A pump of the shotgun, a spatter of brains and skull fragments.
The copy machine drummed again, churning out paper, and Joan Baez was lost in its noise.
He could do it. Do it tonight. Kill Kris-but first, detour back to the Gainford Arms and take care of Abby.
Jack had said she worked without backup. There would be no one to save her when he caught her by surprise and snapped her neck.
It would be easy. Almost too easy… 'Too easy,' he whispered slowly.
No one heard him. The clatter of the copy machine swallowed every other sound.
He read the message twice more. He could be certain of this much-Jack knew that a woman had moved into apartment 418. Perhaps he even knew that Hickle had gone out with her tonight. He might have watched the building and seen them leave together.
For weeks he had been goading Hickle to strike.
Had he decided to try a more subtle approach, convince Hickle that his new neighbor was part of a conspiracy against him, launch him into a homicidal rage?
Or was the information genuine? Was she really a spy?
He didn't know. His head hurt. He clutched his scalp and blinked at the light, which was suddenly too bright.
There was no one he could trust. Jack claimed to be a friend, but his identity and motives were unknown.
Abby presented herself as a young woman fleeing a bad breakup, but how much did he know about her?
She might be a TPS spy probing his secrets. Or maybe it was Jack who was the real TPS agent, playing mind games to push him over the edge and get him arrested.
Or were they both in it together?
He read the message again. The words made no sense anymore. They spilled together and fell apart.
Abby a spy? Ridiculous.
On impulse he clicked the Reply link, then typed a furious declaration:
I WON'T LET YOU PLAY WITH MY HEAD!
But he didn't send it. He stared at the crisp, explosive words, then deleted the text with a sweep of his mouse.
He couldn't assume Jack was lying. That was as foolish as blindly assuming he told the truth. He typed a new reply:
Are you friend or foe?
This was no good either. What was Jack supposed to say? What more could he say to establish his bona fides? He had already pointed Hickle to the drainage pipe and the agents in the cottage and the chauffeur who carried a gun.
He erased the second reply and stared at the screen.
What was going on exactly? Was it simply that he didn't want to believe in Abby's betrayal? Maybe so.
He had pursued Jill Dahlbeck, only to be rebuffed and humiliated and finally confronted by police officers warning him to back off. He had tried to reach Kris Barwood by every means available to him, but she would not meet with him or even acknowledge the reality of his feelings for her.
But with Abby, things had been different. She was not like Jill or Kris. She was kind to him. She treated him like a human being. She made him feel like a man.
But if it was all an act? If she was the enemy?
Pounding violence filled his skull. He wanted to scream and smash things. He lowered his head. Had to think. Jack could be telling the truth or lying. Abby could be what she was or a fraud. There was no way for him to gauge Jack's honesty directly. As for Abby… He knew her. She lived right next door. She was not merely a made-up name on a computer screen, a collection of pixels that mocked him. She was real and close, and he could learn the truth about her.
He typed a third reply.
I'll check out your story and see for myself.
This was the right thing to say. He clicked Send.
He had no plan, but he would come up with one. He was smart. He would work something out. And if she had indeed deceived him… He'd kill her. Yes.
First her, then Kris.
If she had deceived him. If.
Hickle clung to that word as he deleted Jack's email message and signed off.
If.
Such a little word, but Abby's life hung on it. ** Abby climbed onto the fire escape and stepped across the narrow landing to Hickle's bedroom window.
The lights in his apartment were on, but because the blinds were drawn she couldn't see in. A glance at his empty parking space reassured her that he had not returned.
Although his window was open, the screen was still in place. From outside, it proved difficult to remove.
She wished she had brought her locksmith kit, which contained a thin, flexible celluloid strip that could slip into the crack of a door and open a latch. It might have allowed her the leverage to work the screen loose.
She couldn't take the time to go back inside her apartment and get the kit. Rummaging in her purse, she found a Swiss army knife. Among its spring loaded tools was a pair of wire cutters. She snipped through part of the screen, inserted her fingers in the gap, and lifted the screen out of the window frame, then climbed into the apartment.
The code for the call return service was the star key followed by 6 and 9. Abby punched the three buttons and listened as a synthesized voice gave her the most recent caller's phone number. It was a local number with an unfamiliar exchange. She dictated it into her micro recorder Later she could look it up. She subscribed to an online reverse directory service that offered a comprehensive listing of residential and commercial phone numbers.
There was one more item of business in Hickle's apartment. She'd brought an infinity transmitter from her tool kit; it broadcast on the same frequency as the two microphones she had already installed.
Quickly she wired the transmitter into the base of the telephone.
Hickle could see it if he took the trouble to look, but this was a chance she'd decided to take. If the mystery caller phoned again, she wanted his voice on tape. A voiceprint could then be made for purposes of identification.
Done with the phone, she wiped off her prints. Mission accomplished.
Time to blow this joint.
She returned to Hickle's bedroom, intending to make her escape through the window, then paused, noticing his laundry basket on the floor. It was still full to the brim. He had never put away his clothes.
Odd. He'd had plenty of time.
She knelt and rummaged through the clothes, not sure what she was looking for. Nothing was out of the ordinary, except that a few items seemed curiously damp, though the rest were dry.
Almost as if a wet article of clothing had been stuffed into the basket… She touched the carpet and felt a wet spot, then another and another. The trail of drops led to the bathroom.
In Hickle's shower, hanging from the showerhead, dripping dry, was a pair of white high-cut Maidenform briefs.
Hers, of course.
When she'd sensed a presence in the laundry room, she had not been imagining things. Hickle had been watching her. He must have taken cover in the stairwell, and when she'd explored the boiler room, he had risked
