"Hi again," she said brightly.
He nodded, then realized a response was called for.
"Hello."
"Sorry to bother you, but can you tell me where the phone outlet is?"
"Phone outlet?"
"Not the one in the living room. I found that. But there must be one in the bedroom somewhere. I've been crawling around on my hands and knees like a moron, but I can't find it."
"There isn't one."
"There's gotta be."
"Only one. All these apartments have the same layout. The only phone outlet is in the living room. If you need a phone in the bedroom, you'll have to get an extra-long phone cord."
She sighed.
"Any other surprises the landlord didn't want to spoil for me?"
"Probably quite a few. There's not enough hot water in the mornings, so take your shower early. Don't hook up too many appliances on any circuit, or you'll blow a fuse."
"This gets better and better."
Hickle risked humor.
"Not exactly a garden spot, is it?"
She rewarded him with a laugh.
"That might be an understatement."
"So are you an actress?" Damn. He hadn't meant to say that. It had come out of nowhere and sounded strange.
She didn't seem put off by the question, though.
"No. What makes you think I might be?"
Because you're so pretty-but what he said was "We've got a fair number of aspiring show-biz types in this building."
The explanation was lame, but she appeared to buy it.
"Well, I'm not an actress. Actually, I'm not much. of anything right now. I just came here from Riverside-you know, everybody's favorite desert hellhole. Spent last night in a Motel Six."
"No job?"
"I'll find something. I can type. I use all ten fingers."
She held up both hands, as if to demonstrate that she really did have the full complement of digits.
"How about you? What do you do?"
"I work at a restaurant." He wasn't sure why he had lied. Not lied, exactly. Exaggerated the truth.
"Really? A restaurant around here?"
"Beverly Hills." Another untruth.
She was impressed.
"Wow."
"It's just a job." He looked for a way to change the subject.
"So what's your name?"
"Abby Gallagher."
"I'm Raymond. Raymond Hickle."
"Glad to meet you, Raymond Hickle." She smiled.
"It's good to have a nice neighbor."
This was too much for him. He had no idea how to handle anyone's kindness, and certainly not the kindness of an attractive young woman.
"Likewise," he said weakly.
"Good luck getting moved in."
"Thanks. Bye."
He watched her walk away. When she was inside her apartment, he slowly shut his door.
She ought to be an actress, he decided. She was pretty enough. She had hazel eyes and smooth skin and dark brown hair in a cute pageboy cut, and she was fit and slim. Nice, she had called him. How often had a woman said that about him? Said it right to his face? And she had smiled.
Then he wondered if it wasn't a little odd that Abby Gallagher had come to him for help when the landlord was still on duty. She had found one phone outlet. She could have called the office to ask about an outlet in the bedroom. Instead, after making eye contact in the hall, she had knocked on his door.
Could she be… interested in him? Interested, the way women sometimes were interested in men?
New to the city. Friendless. Lonely.
"Impossible," he whispered.
Anyway, he had higher priorities. He had the shotgun and what he meant to do with it.
He had Kris.
Most nights Hickle dined on beans and rice, a cheap and nourishing repast. At 5:57, right on time, he ladled the pot's steaming contents onto a plastic plate and carried the plate to a card table, setting it down beside a can of diet soda, a spoon, and a paper napkin. He sat on the couch behind the card table and used his remote control to turn on the TV. It was always set to Channel Eight; he never watched anything else. His VCR was loaded with an eight-hour tape and set to record automatically at 6 and 10 p.m. every weekday.
"That does it for us," the male half of the 5 p.m. anchor team was saying.
"Let's check in with Kris and Matt to see what's coming up at six."
Hickle leaned forward. It was always interesting to see what she was wearing. Today she had on a bluegreen blouse, open at the collar to reveal the taut skin over her collarbone. She said something about a fire in Ventura, an arrest in a murder case, a good outlook for weekend weather. The words didn't matter. He studied her face. Was she thinking of him right now? Could he see fear in her eyes?
"All of that," her partner concluded, "is straight ahead on Real News at six."
Theme music. The faces of the anchors and reporters against a montage of news images. The Channel Eight logo. An announcer saying, "KPTI Real News, number one at six, with Kris Barwood and Matt Dale…"
Hickle sat and watched. When the camera was not on Kris, he lifted spoonfuls of beans and rice into his mouth, washing them down with soda.
When she was on the screen, he did not move or even blink. There were so many details to watch for. Even after all this time, he had not yet decided on the exact color of her eyes. Were they blue or gray or some mysterious blend? She wore earrings today but not the ones he'd sent her. The shade of lipstick she was using seemed different than usual. A lighter, more natural shade, a good decision; it brought out the glow of her skin. She laughed during the weather segment. He saw the laugh lines at the corners of her mouth, the explosive flash of her smile.
He missed nothing. He wished the newscast had been all Kris, no one but Kris-she need not even speak, just sit before the camera, turning her head at different angles, posing like a model. In art classes female models posed nude while the students sketched.
Imagine a class in which Kris was the model, naked on a pedestal, and he was the only student, free to stare.
Staring, however, would not be enough. For it to be perfect, she would have to descend from her pedestal and embrace him, and he would kiss her neck, her breasts-He rose. With a sweep of his arm he flung the soda can against the wall, dousing the plaster with a spray of foam.
Then he stood with his hands on his knees, his head down, his breathing shallow and rapid. He didn't move for a long time.
His fantasy of lovemaking had brought him comfort once. But now he had accepted the truth. Maybe it was seeing her with her husband-maybe that was what had made things clear to him at last.
Whatever the reason, he knew that his fantasy was only a fantasy, and that he could not have her, ever.
Therefore no one would have her.
It was that simple and that absolute. Howard Barwood would not have her, and her audience would not have her, and this city would not have her, and the world would not have her.
Hickle raised his head. The newscast was continuing.
It had reached the intro to the sports segment. Kris and her co-anchor were joshing with Phil, the sports guy. Making jokes about the Lakers' easy victory last night. Laughing.
"Laugh, Kris," he breathed.
"Have fun. Enjoy life."
But not for long.
Because he was gaining proficiency with the shotgun.
Soon he would be ready to lie in wait, a shadow among shadows. Ready to spring up and with a single trigger-pull erase her from existence, and where she had been, there would be nothing-no face, no voice, no eyes, no Kris.
He aimed an imaginary shotgun at the TV set, and when she appeared in a smiling close-up, he worked the pump action.
Blammo. Blammo. Blammo.
Back in her apartment, Abby removed a microcassette recorder from her purse and dictated her initial observations.
"Wednesday, March twenty-third. Made contact with Hickle. He's socially awkward but possesses basic interpersonal skills. Shy around women. He asked if I was an actress. The question seemed inappropriate.