He hated to think of Kris. It stirred up too much anger and pain. He consoled himself with the thought that at least Abby was dead.
Under the bridge now. Traffic thrumming overhead.
No moonlight or starlight reached into the concrete grotto. Dark water sloshed fitfully against the pylons, its wet slaps repeated in a train of soft echoes. He could hear his own breathing, amplified by the peculiar acoustics of the place.
He was rearing the far side of the bridge when he heard a car stop directly above him. Instinct froze him in place. A moment later a spotlight snapped on, sweeping the water straight ahead.
The car was a patrol unit, maybe the same one from the parking lot, and it was angling its spotlight down into the creek. He couldn't go forward. If he left the cover of the bridge he would be seen instantly.
Had to retreat, conceal himself in the lagoon until the way was clear.
He headed in that direction, then stopped as a flashlight beam shone down from the bridge on that side, panning the water.
There must be two cops. Highway patrol officers, probably; they rode in pairs after dark. Between them, they had both sides of the bridge covered. He was safe only as long as he stayed hidden underneath.
Trapped.
He backed up against one of the rusty pylons and huddled there, a scared animal. Minutes earlier he had been the predator lying in ambush. Now he was the prey, hiding from those who hunted him.
With trembling hands he removed the shotgun from the duffel, then felt inside the bag until he found a box of ammo. He fed four Federal Super Magnum shells into the gun. If the cops figured out where he was, he would open fire. The twelve-gauge was a better weapon than the rifle at close range. He might kill one of them, at least, before the sound of gunfire led his other pursuers to the bridge.
He hoped it wouldn't come to that. If Kris had died, his own fate would no longer matter. But as long as she lived, there was still a purpose to his life.
Travis saw him there, under the bridge.
The poor son of a bitch was pinned between one highway cop's downcast flashlight beam and the spotlight from the CHP car itself. He couldn't leave without being seen. All he could do was brace himself against a pylon and sit tight.
Crouching on the mud flat his flashlight off, Travis considered his next move. Carruthers and Pfeiffer were too far away to see him. The highway patrol cops were within hailing distance, but he would be invisible to them as long as he stayed in the high bulrushes and sedges along the bank.
Carefully he pocketed his flashlight, then made his way through the foliage, keeping his head down and relying on the tall plants for cover.
He advanced step by step, waiting for a gust of wind to shake the sedges and mask the disturbance his passage caused. As he drew close to the bridge, he timed his moves to coincide with each new rush of traffic, letting the roar of a Harley's unruffled motor or the rattle of a camper drown out the noise of his progress.
It had been a long time since he had been involved in the pursuit of an armed assailant. He found himself enjoying it. He almost wished he were an employee of Travis Protective Services, assigned to field duty, rather than the founder and proprietor, condemned to spend most of his time behind a desk.
He proceeded to within five feet of the bridge, and still the cop with the flashlight hadn't spotted him. Travis could see the patrolman leaning over the side, casting the beam into the waist-deep water, then exploring other parts of the creek and pond. Behind him the CHP car's light bar threw blue and red pulses over the scene.
Travis was wondering how he would get past the drifting glow of the flashlight when his problem was solved for him. The patrolman abruptly lifted the flashlight and turned away, his attention drawn by the rising whine of two ambulance sirens.
The fire station was practically next door to Malibu Reserve, and the paramedics must have arrived almost immediately. The nearest hospitals were in Santa Monica and West LA. To get there, the ambulances had to cross the bridge, heading south on PCH. The patrol cops had paused in their surveillance to slow oncoming traffic and wave the emergency vehicles through.
It would take less than a minute for both ambulances to pass, but that was all the time Travis needed.
He entered the creek, holding his gun high, and with one hand he cut the water with a strong stroke, gliding under the bridge.
When the first ambulance screamed overhead, he risked propelling himself forward with a strong kick.
He was sure Hickle couldn't hear the splashing above the din from above.
Behind a pylon Travis paused, only his head and the Walther above water.
Hickle, he saw, had turned toward the far side of the bridge.
He was watching the spotlight, which had stopped moving. The duffel was strapped to his shoulder, and the shotgun was in his hand.
The second ambulance blew past with a cacophonous wail. Travis used the covering noise to glide forward, eel-like in the slippery water, moving from pylon to pylon until Hickle was within reach.
At the last moment Hickle seemed to sense another presence in the dark, but it was too late. Before he could turn, Travis pressed the Walther's muzzle to the back of Hickle's head.
"Don't move, Raymond."
Hickle stiffened. Travis knew he was thinking of the shotgun, calculating odds and risks.
"I know you want to do something heroic," Travis whispered.
"Something crazy. Don't. Just listen to me.
Will you do that, Raymond? Will you listen to one thing I have to say?"
"So say it," Hickle breathed, tension bunching up the muscles of his shoulders.
"Okay, here it is, Raymond. Here's what I came to tell you."
Travis leaned close, pressing his mouth to Hickle's ear, and smiling in the dark, he recited the words of a nursery rhyme.
"Jack, be nimble… Jack, be quick…"
The gas was off. The furnace's pilot light was out.
The windows in the bedroom and living room were open. Abby had not yet risked turning on an electric fan to expel the gas-any spark might ignite an explosion-but already the air was clearing.
"We've got to get you to a hospital," Wyatt said for the third time.
The rover radio clipped to his uniform belt crackled with unintelligible crosstalk; he ignored it.
"I told you," Abby said, "I'll go when I'm through here."
"Through with what, exactly?"
"Damage control." She tried giving him a sharp look, but the effort of focusing her gaze spun ripples of vertigo through her skull.
She knew he was right about the hospital. It wasn't the inhalation of gas that worried her as much as the head trauma she'd suffered when Hickle knocked her out. She still had a raging headache centered behind her eyes, pain that she could no longer attribute entirely to the gas.
She was less steady on her feet than she ought to be, and the nausea in her belly had not completely vanished even after she'd started breathing fresh air.
So, yes, she would go to a hospital, but not until she had tied up a few loose ends. The police-by which she meant officers of the law other than Vie Wyatt-would arrive before long to check out Hickle's apartment and look in on his immediate neighbors. This was standard investigative procedure, and it would be triggered by Hickle's attack on Kris Barwood.
Abby knew there had been an attack. On the phone she'd heard Travis yell an order to a driver. Kris's voice had been briefly audible, asking what was wrong.