He drew his service pistol, approaching Hickle's apartment. He tested the door. Locked. He heard no movement inside. Even so, he ducked low, dropping below the peephole, as he passed by.
Abby's apartment was next. Number 418. He rapped his fist on the door, then frowned. He smelled something.
"Oh, shit," he whispered.
He tried the knob. It turned freely. He stepped into a den of fumes, moving fast, unafraid of an ambush now. Hickle wasn't here, wasn't coming back. He'd made Abby's apartment into a giant bomb and fled before it could explode.
The stench was overpowering. The gas must be nearly at critical mass.
Any spark could set off a detonation.
Wyatt advanced into the room, grateful that the lights had been left on; he wouldn't dare flip a light switch now.
He saw the dislodged oven immediately, the ruptured inflow line spewing gas. He cranked the shutoff valve, sealing the pipe, then got the living room window open. Leaning on the sill, he took a deep breath of fresh air to dispel any dizziness. He was shaking. It seemed okay to shake. He was standing inside an apartment that had been converted into a large-scale explosive device. It could still go off at any moment.
In the bedroom he found Abby. She lay unmoving in a twisted pose before the window, which was unlatched and a few inches ajar.
Hickle hadn't left it open, that was for sure. Abby must have raised it. The effort had exhausted her, but by bringing in a small quantity of clean air and diluting the lethal concentration of vapors, it had also saved her life.
If she was still alive. Wyatt didn't check until he had raised the window fully. Then he knelt, feeling her carotid artery. His fingertips detected the flutter of a pulse.
He hauled Abby through the window onto the fire escape and set her down.
She was barely breathing. He tilted her head back to open her airway, pinched her nostrils, sealed her mouth with his and blew air into her lungs. He did it a second time, then paused, studying her chest, waiting for an exhalation. None came.
He repeated the procedure, expelling air down her throat, forcing her chest to rise. Still she wasn't breathing.
He did it again. He would not give up. He would not let her die.
Hickle struggled out of the drainage pipe, toting the duffel bag, and scrambled through a shallow ravine, emerging near Gateway Road. Gateway was two lanes of pitted macadam lined with eucalyptus trees, the only way for vehicular traffic to get in or out of Malibu Reserve. The guardhouse with its lowered gate lay at the end of the road, the coast highway beyond.
He needed to cross Gateway, a risky endeavor if the guard happened to be looking in this direction. He took a breath and scurried across, the heavy bag slapping his hip with every step. At the far side of the road, he disappeared into the woods, sure he had not been seen.
Fast through the trees, heading toward the smell of the sea. He could hear the crash of breakers. Malibu had been named for that sound; the Chumash Indians had dubbed it the place where the waves are loud. But tonight there would be something louder than the surf. There would be gunshots. And screams.
Hickle reached Malibu Reserve Drive, which intersected with Gateway and ran parallel to the beach.
The Barwoods' house lay on the far side of the street, one of a row of beachfront homes built close together, most fronted by guest cottages and elaborate entry ways He hunkered down behind a tuft of weeds and studied the house. The lights in the guest cottage glowed, and there was restless movement in the windows. As he watched, a man in a dark blazer and turtleneck stepped out of the cottage, looking around. A moment later the man went back inside, but he kept the door open.
This was bad. The two security agents stationed in the house seemed to have been put on alert. Was it possible TPS had already been notified of the explosion in Hollywood? He doubted that the news would travel that fast. More likely, Abby's earlier reports had triggered a higher state of readiness.
His idea had been to cross the road and hide in the bushes alongside the Barwoods' driveway, then fire at the Town Car when it pulled up.
Now he wasn't sure the plan would work. He might be spotted as he approached the house or when he took cover close to the cottage.
He checked his watch. Midnight. Kris could arrive at any time. If he was going to rethink the ambush, he had better do it fast.
The TPS man slipped out of the doorway again, casting another wary glance up and down the road.
That decided things. There was no chance of success if he stuck to his original plan. He had to improvise.
Hickle slipped through the woods, moving parallel to Malibu Reserve Drive, until he reached the intersection with Gateway. After entering the compound, Kris's Town Car would proceed down Gateway, then turn left on Malibu Reserve Drive, heading for the beach house. It was a sharp turn, forcing the driver to cut his speed. When the car slowed and the driver was turning the wheel, Hickle would strike.
He squatted in the tall grass. To his right he saw the dim glow of the guardhouse four hundred yards away. The guard would come running when the shots were fired, as would the two security agents in the cottage, but nobody would reach the scene in time to save Kris.
Hickle set down the duffel bag and took out the shotgun, dumping extra shells into the pockets of his windbreaker. He wondered how long he would have to wait, how long Kris had left to live. He did not hate her now. He was past hate. He merely wanted to set things right, out of a sense of justice.
At the far end of Gateway-headlights. A car pulled up to the gate. He couldn't tell if it was a Lincoln.
Hickle crouched low, the shotgun gripped in his cold, steady hands.
There was air in her lungs, and she was breathing.
The smell of rotten eggs was leaving her nostrils. She felt a flicker of returning strength in her arms and legs.
These were the first reports that reached her as Abby swam upward out of bright light and found herself on the fire escape with Vie Wyatt bending over her.
"You'll be all right, Abby," he said.
"You'll be fine."
She had no idea how he had come here. He might have been a dream. But the cold iron grillwork beneath her was real enough, and so was the pulsing pain in her head.
Later she would find out how he'd rescued her.
Right now there was something else she needed to deal with. Something urgent, if only she could remember what it was.
An image flashed in her mind: Devin Corbal motionless on the floor of the nightclub. Was it Corbal who was in danger? No, it was too late to save him.
She saw the lake of blood spreading under his body.
He was dead, and it was her fault, no matter what anyone said. She had to make up for it somehow. Couldn't lose another one. Couldn't lose Kris… Kris.
And Hickle. Ambush in Malibu. Tonight.
With a jolt of panic she tried to sit up.
"Rest, Abby," Wyatt said.
Couldn't rest. Had to tell him. She tried to force out speech but produced only a dry cough that racked her abdomen with spasms.
"Abby, lie still, okay? You had a close call."
She wouldn't listen. She gulped air and found a way to make words.
"Phone," she gasped.
"Get me a phone…"
The car was a Lincoln. Hickle could see it clearly as the gate lifted and the guard waved the driver through.
Kris's car: He was sure of it.
The Lincoln rolled forward, moving slowly, headlights fanning across the cracked macadam. Hickle sank lower on his haunches, tensing for the moment when he would leap upright and open fire.
Side windows first. Kris rode in the backseat. Kill her with multiple shots to the head and upper body.