He stumbled into the bedroom. Had she planted a mike in here too, or had she listened through the shared wall with a stethoscope? And what about that second camera? There could be a hidden lens peering at him through a pinhole in one of his pictures of Kris.
He tore down the pictures. No camera. No microphone.
There had to be something. She wouldn't have bugged one room and not the other. He must have overlooked it. He searched under the bed, behind the nightstand. He unscrewed the base of his table lamp.
Nothing.
"Where is it? Where did you hide it, you whore?"
His voice was an octave higher than normal.
Given a day or two, he could find everything she'd planted. But he didn't have a day or even an hour. He had to strike against Kris tonight. Delay would wreck his chances. When Abby failed to report, her colleagues would know something was wrong. They would come after him. Even if he evaded arrest, Kris would be protected behind additional layers of security, and he would never be able to reach her.
It was nearly ten-thirty. Kris would leave the KPTI studios in an hour or so. She would arrive home after midnight. He had to be there when her car pulled into the driveway of the beach house. To stay on schedule, he must leave soon. But he hadn't debugged his apartment.
He hadn't erased the tapes.
"There's no time." Hickle spun in circles. He couldn't undo all that Abby had done. But neither could he leave it for the police to find.
Destroy it, then. Destroy it all-everything in both apartments-every trace of it.
"All right," he whispered, regaining some measure of self-control as a plan took shape in his mind.
"All right, yes, it'll work, it'll be fine."
Before leaving his apartment, he gathered all the items he would need for that night's work, both there and in Malibu. He removed his duffel bag from the closet and stuffed his rifle inside. With its scope and laser sighting system, the HK 770 had been a costly investment, and he intended to have it with him as a backup should the shotgun fail.
What else was required? Extra ammo for both firearms. A flashlight. A jacket-the night was cool. He shrugged on his navy blue windbreaker.
The dark color would provide camouflage.
And the padlock and chain that had secured the closet. He took those with him, along with the duffel.
He left his apartment, climbing through the window, never looking back.
The TV monitor in Abby's bedroom was now a sheet of static. Abby remained unconscious. Hickle nudged her with his foot. She didn't stir.
He knelt by her for a minute or two, then turned his attention to the bedroom windows. The screen had been ruined by his forced entry, but the glass pane was intact. He closed and locked the window, then sealed the living room window as well.
The apartment was now airtight. Crouching, he checked the furnace's pilot light and saw its blue flame.
Now for the hard part. Muscles straining, he wrestled the oven away from the kitchen wall until he heard a metallic pop and a hiss of gas.
The coupling on the gas inlet pipe had ruptured. Gas was flooding in from the main supply line. It smelled like rotten eggs.
The gas was a bomb. The pilot light was the fuse.
When the gas reached critical concentration… "Blammo," Hickle whispered.
Half the fourth floor would be obliterated. Abby's apartment and his own place next door and, with luck, nosy Mrs.
"Finley in apartment 422-all gone in a white-hot explosive flash. He had wanted to erase the tapes. This was one way to do it. As a bonus, he would erase all vestiges of his former life… and, oh yes, Abby too.
He added his shotgun to the duffel and headed into the hall, shutting Abby's door behind him. Quickly to the elevator, then down to the lobby and across the parking lot, running hard.
One thought galvanized him as he ran. He was doing this, really doing it. After months of delay he'd found his nerve.
Hickle stashed the duffel on the passenger seat of his VW, slipped behind the wheel, keyed the ignition.
The dashboard clock glowed 10:59.
At this very moment the late news on Channel Eight was ending, and Kris Bar-wood would be signing off for the last time.
Ty ris saw Travis across the soundstage as she and Matt Dale wrapped up the ten o'clock news.
Travis had not come to KPTI in months. His presence rattled her, and she stumbled during her closing remarks. Matt saved her with a joke, allowing both of them to beam smiles at Camera One while the theme music came up and the set faded to black.
"You okay?" Matt asked, removing the Telex from his ear.
"Got distracted. It appears I have a visitor."
Matt followed her gaze.
"That's the TPS guy, isn't it?" After the furor surrounding the Devin Corbal case, Travis was recognizable to any media person in LA.
"The very same."
"He seems to be putting the'personal' back in personal protection."
"Maybe that should be his slogan." Kris got up from behind the curvilinear shell of the desk.
"I'd better find out what he wants. See you Monday."
"Have a nice weekend."
She wished she could. Somehow she found it unlikely.
Quickly she made her way past the cameras, away from the small set with its video wall and its photographic backdrop of LA at night, complete with artificial city lights that glittered like stardust. Lit with klieg lights and photographed through a layer of diffusion, the set was a magical island, but up close it was cheap, almost tacky. The desk was a false front, the swivel chairs were uncomfortable, and the backdrop had been torn and hastily repaired, leaving a ragged seam like a fault line. At full power the lights were harsh and hot, though the studio itself was cold in deference to the balky equipment that cluttered the floor.
Travis smiled at her as she approached. That smile worried her. It seemed calculated to convey reassurance.
"What's up?" she asked guardedly.
"I thought I'd ride along with you tonight in one of our staff cars."
"What's wrong with my car?"
"If you don't mind, I'd like you to use our vehicle right now. I chose a Town Car from our fleet-same model as yours."
"If it's the same, why can't we take mine?"
"This car has added features." Travis paused until a pair of stagehands had sauntered past.
"Bullet-resistant glass, armor plating, the works."
"Why exactly do I need this extra level of protection?
Because Hickle varied his routine by not calling today?"
"That's part of it."
"What's the rest?"
"Abby's found out a few things. I can't go into detail right now."
Travis placed a hand on her arm, lowering his voice.
"There's a chance he may be close to taking action."
"There's a nice euphemism. Trying to kill me is what you mean."
"It could be a false alarm. Anyway, Steve Drury will be driving, and I'll ride in the back with you. The detail posted at the house has been put on alert. The guards at the Reserve's gatehouse have been notified, as well as the KPTI security staff. Every precaution is being taken. You'll be fine, Kris. You'll be fine."
He was still touching her arm. Gently she pulled away. She didn't want his reassurances. He found it easy to be calm. Dealing with threats was his job. He reduced the problem to a set of procedures, an action plan. He enjoyed it. To her it was only a nightmare without logic or clarity, offering no escape.
She looked back at the set. From a distance its magic was intact. At this moment she wanted only to return to her fake desk under the lights and continue reading off the Teleprompter and smiling into the cameras.
She felt safe there, enclosed in a protective circle, doing what she did best. But the show was over, and all she could do was go away into the dark and hope Travis and his people kept her safe.