Then, gunfire. The shotgun, from the sound of it. Several shots, Kris screaming, Travis yelling at her to get down-And silence. The connection had been lost.
Anything could have happened after that. Desperate to know, Abby had redialed Travis's cell phone twice. No answer. She'd considered phoning 911 before remembering that TPS had stationed security agents at the beach house. They must have heard the shots, as had Kris's neighbors.
So the police were definitely involved. Whatever the outcome of the attack, there would be a thorough investigation.
The Hollywood side of the case would focus on Hickle's apartment. Nice men in suits would be banging on every door on the fourth floor very soon. But by then she would be gone.
She made her way somewhat unsteadily into the kitchen and took out a pair of rubber gloves. As she was pulling them on, she heard Wyatt's low-top boots on the linoleum floor.
"I'm not sure I want to know what those are for," he said wryly.
She saw a frown of disapproval pinching his mouth.
"Then you'd better not follow me when I go into Hickle's apartment."
"His apartment?" The frown deepened, and he folded his arms across his chest, the blue sleeves of his jacket straining taut.
"Sounds like tampering with a crime scene."
"Going to arrest me. Sergeant?" His silence was an eloquent reply.
"Okay, then."
Taking her cell phone in case Travis called back, she hustled into the bedroom, where she picked up the padlock and chain. Then she climbed onto the fire escape and lifted herself into Hickle's bedroom window.
"You took a blow to the back of the head," Wyatt said from behind her.
His voice surprised her. He had followed her so silently that she hadn't been aware of his presence. She paused, straddling the windowsill.
"Yeah, Hickle clipped me," she admitted, self-consciously fingering the bump he had seen. There was no laceration, no bleeding, only a large, swollen knob, tender to the touch.
Wyatt leaned close and patted-the injury also, drawing a wince from her.
"How?" he asked, worry in his eyes.
"What did he use, his fist or a weapon?"
"I don't, know. I've got a little memory gap. I remember fighting him then coming to."
"You lost consciousness from the blow? Hell, Abby, you've suffered a grade three concussion. We have to get you to an ER. You need a neurologic exam-"
"I need to take care of business. The ER can wait."
She tried to complete her unlawful entry into Hickle's apartment. Wyatt grabbed her hand to stop her.
"You have any idea how serious a major concussion can be?"
She raised her head and met his eyes, experiencing another swoon of vertigo.
"I think I do. Let's see, when my brain sloshed forward, I could have suffered a cont recoup injury-contusion of the frontal and temporal lobes. Or I could have ruptured some blood vessels, in which case I have a nice little subdural hematoma building up pressure in my skull.
Maybe I've formed a blood clot, and if I receive another blow it'll be jarred loose and I'll have a stroke, possibly fatal. So yes. Vie, I have a vague idea of how serious a concussion can be, and the sooner you let me do what I have to do, the sooner I can get medical attention.
Okay?"
She shook free of his grip and finished climbing through the window.
She knew she had been sharp with him. Irritability was one symptom of head trauma.
The air in Hickle's apartment was clean. He hadn't set a similar death trap in his own place.
"Don't touch anything," she instructed Wyatt when he followed her inside.
"You were never here."
She wiped off the padlock and chain, tossing both items on the bedroom floor, and proceeded into the living room. The first thing she saw was that Hickle had pulled down the smoke detector. Scanning the carpet, she discovered the camera's crushed remnants.
She put them in her pocket.
"What was that?" Wyatt asked.
"Surveillance camera. In pieces, but the crime scene guys would still be able to identify it."
"Camera? One of yours?"
"It's just a tool of the trade, no big deal, except it's illegal."
"Yeah, except for that."
Abby retrieved the infinity transmitter from the smashed telephone, then found the bug in the oven's ventilation hood, which Hickle had overlooked. She returned to the bedroom. The place was a mess.
Hickle had torn down most of the photos; they littered the floor like a drift of faces. Abby wondered if Wyatt noticed that the subject of every photograph was Kris Barwood. If so, he didn't mention it.
As she was groping underneath the drawers of Hickle's nightstand to recover the other microphone, she heard Wyatt say, "You think you can disappear, is that it?"
"Possibly. I've done it before."
"You mean when you were Emanuel Earth's housekeeper?"
"How'd you guess?"
"I didn't, until Sam Cahill gave me the details. He's the detective who handled the case and put Earth away the second time."
She looked at him.
"You talked with a detective about me?"
"Your name never came up."
"Even so, you must've raised his suspicions."
"Sam's a friend. He'll be discreet. You can trust him."
"I don't seem to have a choice," she snapped.
"You know, for someone who just cheated death, you're in a pretty foul mood."
Abby found a smile.
"Sorry. I just don't like people knowing my secrets, that's all."
"Even me?"
"Even you. Vie. Even though you saved my life. It may be irrational, but that's the way I am. Anyway, you're right about the Earth case. I was Connie Hammond."
"And you disappeared."
"It was easy enough. Nobody was looking very hard for Connie. This time there are complications.
Hickle knows the truth about me. Someone else may know also. If either of them ends up in custody and wants to talk, I could have some explaining to do." She pocketed the second mike, then picked up her microcassette recorder, which Hickle had left on the bed.
"Sounds like you're in a lot of trouble, Abby."
"No, I was in a lot of trouble. Now I'm fine, thanks to you. And I do mean thanks. I was wrong, you know, the other night."
"Wrong about what?"
"When I said I didn't need any help, that I could handle myself and I didn't need anybody watching my back. I was wrong." It was difficult for her to say this. Self-reliance and self-sufficiency had been the basic credo of her life.
"Yeah, well"-Wyatt shrugged-"we all make mistakes."
The last thing Abby took out of Hickle's apartment was the Maidenform briefs he'd stolen from her laundry.
She noticed Wyatt eyeing the underwear with a puzzled look, but he didn't ask any questions, and she didn't feel like talking about it.
They returned via the fire escape to her apartment.
By now the gas had largely dissipated, and Abby felt ready to risk a spark. She turned on a table fan, blowing the rest of the fumes out the living room window.
In her bedroom, she removed the monitoring gear from the closet and arranged it on the bureau.
"More spy stuff?" Wyatt asked.
"Not anymore. Now it's your garden-variety TV and VCR."
"And an audio deck with long-playing reel-to-reel tapes."
"Quirky, but not particularly suspicious. I doubt anybody will even notice it on a casual walk through.
Can you get me a trash bag from the kitchen?"
While Wyatt fetched it, Abby went into the bathroom and poured a long drink of water. God, her throat was so sore. She was tempted to take aspirin, but she knew it would thin her blood and exacerbate any internal bleeding. At least her head no longer was beating like a bongo drum. Now it was more like a snare drum. That had to constitute an improvement.
She checked her eyes in the mirror. The pupils looked evenly dilated, a good sign. Maybe her injury wasn't as bad as she'd feared. Had she dodged the blow at the last instant, receiving only a glancing impact rather than a direct hit? Had her reflexes saved her from a skull fracture and brain injury? It was possible.