The Shadow Hunter

saw his eyes, open, staring.
    Sheila had fired twice. One shot had gone wild, but the other, by skill or luck, had hit Devin Corbal squarely in the back and killed him instantly.
    The bodyguard performing CPR finally reached the same conclusion. He stood slowly, shaking his head.
    “We lost him,” the man said. “Goddamn it, we lost him.”
    No, Abby thought. You didn’t lose him.
    I did.

1
    Hickle watched her as she ran.
    Her hair fascinated him. It was long and golden, blown in wild trammels by the sea breeze. It trailed behind her, a comet’s tail, a wake of blond fire.
    She was crossing directly in front of him now. Instinctively he withdrew a few inches deeper into the overhanging foliage that screened him from view.
    She pounded past, plumes of sand bursting under her bare feet. Her long legs pumped, and her slim belly swelled with intakes of air. Even from a distance of twenty yards he could see the glaze of perspiration on her suntanned skin. She glowed.
    Months earlier, when he had first seen her, he had wondered if her radiance was a trick of the camera lens. Now that he had observed her in person many times, he knew it was real. She actually did glow, as angels did. She was an ethereal being, tethered lightly to this world.
    Soon he would cut the tether, and then she would not be part of the world at all.
    He could have done it now, today, if he’d brought the shotgun with him. But there was no hurry. He could kill her at any time.
    Besides, he enjoyed watching her.
    She continued down the beach, followed by her bodyguard. The bodyguard always accompanied her when she went jogging, and never once had he even glanced into the narrow gap between two beachfront houses, where a trellis of bougainvillea cast a shadow dark enough to conceal a crouching man.
    “You shouldn’t trust your life to him, Kris,” Hickle whispered. “You’re not nearly as safe as you think.”
    There was sun and sea spray and blue sky. There was the momentum of her body, the rhythm of her feet on the sand. There was her breathing, her heart rate.
    This was all. Nothing more. Only the moment. One moment detached from the rest of her life, one moment when she did not have to think about threats and security measures, the bodyguard jogging a few paces behind her, the command post in the guest cottage at her house…
    Damn.
    Kris Barwood slowed her pace. The thoughts were back. The mood was broken.
    Her daily exercise routine, a four-mile run along the strip of semiprivate beach that bordered Malibu Reserve, had been her one respite from the constant stress of vigilance and fear. The beach had always felt safe to her. It was a special place. People played here with their dogs and flew kites in the salty wind. On one side was the Pacific, studded with wave-battered rocks, and on the other side stood rows of immaculate homes, some boasting the extravagance of swimming pools only steps from the high tide mark. The houses were narrow but deep, extending well back from the strand. Though ridiculously close together, they afforded a curious sense of privacy, and loud parties were rare. Most of the owners worked long hours in intensely competitive fields. They came home to relax, as she used to do—but now there was no relaxation for her anywhere.
    “Kris? You okay?” That was Steve Drury, her bodyguard, a pleasant young man with a swimmer’s build and a sun-streaked crew cut. When they jogged together, he wore shorts, a T-shirt, and a zippered belly-pouch that contained a 9mm Beretta.
    She realized she had stopped running entirely. “Fine,” she said. “Don’t have my usual energy.”
    “You’ll make up for it tomorrow. We’ll do two extra miles. Deal?”
    She found a smile. “Deal.”
    They crossed the sand to her house, a three-story modernistic box with wide windows that let in the magical Malibu light. She left Steve at the outdoor shower and entered through the door at the upper deck to avoid disturbing her husband in the game room, where he spent an unhealthy amount of time playing with his expensive toys—pinball machines, model railroads, radio-operated cars, and his favorite, an electronic putting green. Lately, Howard seemed fonder of these acquisitions than he was of her.
    The master bedroom was on the third floor, at the rear of the house, with a view of the sea and the curving coastline. Kris stripped, running the shower hot. Under the steaming spray she shampooed and rinsed her long blond hair.
    Edward, her