There was a chance that Travis had stepped into the doorway to take his follow-up shot. She might get lucky.
She didn't. The Beretta fired at her, Travis targeting her muzzle flash, but she was already rolling into another corner of the office, and the shot missed.
She had four rounds now. The odds were stacked high against her. She needed to even things out. There might be a way.
'Raymond!' she yelled.
'He'll kill you next!' Even as she said it, she was on the move again, knowing that her voice would draw their fire.
Hickle was about to squeeze off another round when he heard Abby's shout. From the connecting hall Travis called, 'Don't listen to her.'
There was a shot. Travis had fired. Hickle had missed his turn. Still he hesitated, thinking about those words: He'll kill you next.
Travis seemed to guess what he was thinking.
'She's playing with your head,' he said in a loud, calm voice.
'She's a shrink, you know.'
'A shrink?'
'She's been studying you up close like a lab specimen.
She thinks she knows what makes you tick.'
That sounded right. Sounded just like Abby.
'Fuck her,' Hickle said, and he leaned through the doorway and fired once.
There was silence for a moment. He allowed himself to think he'd hit her, or maybe Travis had. Then Abby shouted again.
'He never wanted Kris to die. He's framed Howard Barwood-'
'Don't pay any attention to her bullshit,' Travis snapped.
'-and he's setting you up as the other fall guy. Raymond, he's not your friend, he's using you!'
Two more shots from the Beretta. Hickle knew Travis was rattled.
Travis had insisted on not wasting ammo, taking only one shot at a time.
Now he was violating his own rule.
'What's going on, Travis?' Hickle yelled.
'Don't let her get to you. You can't trust her. God damn it. You know that.'
Hickle did know it. But maybe he couldn't trust Travis either.
'You never told me why you did all this,' he called out.
'Why you jeopardized your own client, your business associate. You never said what it was all about.'
'Take your shot, asshole. We've got her right where we want her-'
'What's in it for you, Travis? Tell me!'
Travis hesitated long enough for Hickle to know he was improvising some lie.
He had no time to use it. Abby answered first.
'He has to keep Kris alive in order to save TPS. And he wants her husband out of the way so he can marry her, Raymond! So he can marry Kris!'
And with a crash of terrible insight Hickle knew it was true., Travis had never wanted Kris dead. He had wanted the attack to fail. That was why he had requisitioned the armored sedan, why he had ridden with her.
The whole thing had been a setup, and what he wanted… what he really wanted… Kris as his wife. Mrs. Paul Travis. He would get her money, and more than money-her lifestyle, her circle of glamorous friends, her world. He would have everything Hickle had dreamed of and fought for, everything that should have been his, as Kris should have been his, because she had always been his destiny.
'Mother fucker,' Hickle breathed.
With a roar of rage he charged for the connecting hall, pivoting around the corner, firing twice with the rifle, both shots aimed at the doorway, and then the flashlight snapped on, unexpectedly close, its glare catching him in the eyes, dazzling him for a crucial split second, and erupting through the glare a shapeless burst of violet like an afterimage of the sun, and another and another and noise everywhere.
Hickle's knees buckled. He staggered backward into the first hallway and slumped against a wall, the rifle leaving his hands as he clutched at the smooth unpainted wallboard. Slowly he slid down, leaving a track of blood, and sat in a spreading red puddle, trembling all over.
Travis crouched by him, the flashlight sweeping the damage done to Hickle's body by the volley of shots.
'You're a born loser, Raymond.' He did not say it unkindly.
He was even smiling.
'You can't do anything right. You couldn't kill Abby. Strike one. You couldn't kill Kris. Strike two.'
Hickle wanted to say something, utter some protest or excuse, but he had no more excuses, and anyway, there was a lot of blood in his mouth.
'And you couldn't kill me.' Travis bent closer, and his gun felt sleek and smooth as it slid gently under Hickle's chin.
'Strike three. You're out.'
Blammo, Hickle thought numbly.
The last thing he ever saw was Travis's cold smile.
Abby heard the coup de grace delivered outside the office wall.
Her plan had worked. It was no longer two against one. She had gotten Hickle killed. She ought to have felt good about that, but all she felt was nausea, cold and burning at the same time.
Think about it later. There was still Travis to deal with. If she wanted to survive, she had to take him out too.
'Nice job, Abby,' Travis said, his voice clear and close through the wall.
'I'll bet Raymond was thinking of you when-he died.'
She didn't answer. Talking would only betray her position, and she knew she couldn't manipulate Travis the way she had played with Hickle.
Travis was too smart and knew her too well.
'You've helped me out, actually. I was wondering how I'd explain one of my nine-millimeter rounds in your body. The police would ask questions about that. Now it won't be an issue. You want to know why?'
She wouldn't be goaded into giving a reply. She waited.
'Cat got your tongue? I'll tell you anyway. See, when the police find you, the Beretta will be in your hand. My prints won't be on it. It's not my personal weapon; that gun was confiscated by the sheriff's department for ballistics tests after the little dust-up in Malibu.
This Beretta is one I got from the TPS supply room. Only, when the police look at the sign-out sheet, they're going to see your signature.
I can forge it.'
She was sure he could. He had many talents, some of which she'd never guessed until today.
'They'll think you weren't satisfied with your five shot Smith, so you stopped by TPS and checked out a backup that packs more firepower. Then you went on a vendetta against Hickle. Tracked him down, and there was a running gun battle, slugs deposited everywhere-rounds from his rifle and your Smith and your new Beretta. There'll be no way for the evidence techs to ever piece it together and no reason for them to try very hard, since the bottom line will be obvious. Double homicide.
I'll be inconsolable when I hear the news.'
None of that mattered, except for one thing. He had told her he would be using the rifle now. It was the only way he could kill her and pin the blame on Hickle.
The rifle had to be nearly empty. She had lost count of the rifle shots, but there must have been at least six or seven by now, and Hickle's Model 770 had a ten-round magazine. Hickle might have carried spare mags in his pocket, but it was equally possible he kept the ammo in his duffel, and she doubted he had lugged the duffel with him on the run. There was a fair chance Travis was down to only three shots. He couldn't blast wildly. He would have to get close. If she ran, he would pursue until he had a clear shot.
