If anybody opened fire, he would be ready. He would not go down without a fight.
Nobody shot at him. He guided the Volkswagen into a shadowy corner of the parking lot, where he could observe the store without being seen from inside.
A neon sign blazed above a glass storefront framing rows of self-service photocopy machines and computers. A few people were running off copies or tapping at keyboards. The clerk behind the-counter looked pale and drawn under the fluorescent glow.
Nothing out of the ordinary. Hickle stuffed the duffel bag on the floor of the passenger side, out of sight, then headed into the store to see what Jackbnimble had to say.
Abby had lost him. After driving for twenty minutes on Santa Monica and adjacent streets she had caught no glimpse of Hickle's car. She pulled into a gas station and parked near the air hose to collect her thoughts.
The phone call was the key. She had to know its point of origin. There was a way. Pacific Bell offered call return service. Entering a three-button code on the phone's keypad provided the customer with the number of the most recent caller. A charge of seventy-five cents for the service would appear on Hickle's next phone bill, possibly tipping him off, but she couldn't worry about that now.
To use his phone she had to get inside his apartment.
Picking the lock on his door was no good; the electric pick gun was too noisy to use in the evening when other tenants were around, and doing the job by hand would take too long. The only other means of entry was his bedroom window. She had seen him open both windows. He hadn't closed them when he left. He'd been in a hurry.
Abby pulled out of the gas station and headed back to the Gainford Arms, driving fast.
The copy store rented computer use by the hour.
Hickle paid in advance and seated himself at the machine farthest from the counter, where he was least likely to be observed.
There was little activity in the shop. The tile floor and white countertops glowed under fluorescent lights. Folk music played on overhead speakers, drowned out when the big photocopy machines started to whir and drone.
Hickle focused on the desktop computer in front of him, which brought up a browser frame when he connected to the Internet. He found Zoom Mail home page and typed Jackbquick and his password. There was one message in his Inbox. The sender was Jackbnimble. The title was one word in capitals: URGENT.
Hickle felt a prickle of dread at the back of his neck.
He opened the message. The first two lines appeared in the message window.
Your enemies are closer than you know. TPS is playing hardball.
They've hired a spy.
The hard, rhythmic chugging in Hickle's ears was the beat of his heart.
"A spy," he whispered.
One of the clerks at the counter glanced at him.
Hickle realized he'd spoken aloud. Nervously he cleared his throat.
There was more to the message, but he would have to scroll down to see it. For a moment he did nothing, merely stared at the screen, unwilling to read further.
A kind of superstitious fear held him paralyzed. If he learned nothing more, then maybe the news would not be real. Maybe he could pretend he'd never come here. Maybe he could go back to his apartment, carry on with his daily routine, have dinner with Abby again-And then of course he knew.
His new neighbor, so friendly, always bumping into him, first in the hall, then in the laundry room.
The bottom seemed to drop out of his stomach, and he felt a wave of some indescribable feeling that was almost physical pain.
Numbly he read the rest of the message.
She moved in next door to you yesterday. Her job is to get close to men like yourself, learn their secrets, and report what she finds. She works alone, without backup.
She is a threat to you and indirectly to me also. I hope you understand the gravity of what I am telling you.
The words ran together. Hickle couldn't concentrate.
He was thinking that the story about her unfaithful fiance had been a lie to win his empathy. He was thinking that she had never regarded him as a nice guy or somebody to have dinner with.
He shut his eyes, shoulders slumping. The computer hummed. Behind the counter one of the copy machines shut off, and the background music became audible again, Joan Baez singing about the night they drove old Dixie down.
His date tonight… the questions she'd asked… the things he'd told her. What had he said, exactly?
Malibu-he'd mentioned how he liked it there. And he'd said he was going to be famous. How much could she determine from those clues?
Enough to guess his intentions? Was she reporting to TPS now, telling Kris everything she'd learned?
He looked at the clock. Quarter past nine. Abby couldn't be meeting with Kris. Kris was still at KPTI preparing for the ten o'clock newscast. She would leave Burbank at eleven-thirty, arrive home soon after midnight.
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.