The Shadow Hunter Read Free

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 crewcut. 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 hairstylist, had repeatedly suggested that she was reaching the stage of life when it was better to wear her hair short. She had finally told him to quit it. She liked her hair long. Anyway, forty wasn’t old. And she could pass for thirty-five in most circumstances.
    Direct sunlight showed the creases at the corners of her eyes, the gathering tightness around her mouth, the hint of a sag in her cheeks, but while on the air she was lit by diffusion-filtered lights and masked by a layer of makeup that got thicker each year.
    She hated to worry about her looks. It was shallow and stupid, and she had other assets, after all. She could shoot tape and record sound, handle every piece of equipment in an editing booth, write copy, extemporize fluently in the coverage of a breaking story. Few of those skills, however, were required in her present position. For better or worse, she had become a celebrity.
    Draped in a robe, she dried and brushed her hair in front of the big mirror over the bathroom’s marble countertop. The face that looked back at her was strong and Nordic—Kris Andersen had been her maiden name. Her eyes were blue-gray and had the peculiar quality of seeming larger and more intense than ordinary eyes. She had white, perfectly even teeth, and her mouth could execute an impressive variety of smiles, one of many tricks that made her interesting to watch. She knew that if she ever stopped being interesting, she would not be watched for long.
    Of course there was one viewer whose attention she would gladly do without-She froze, the hairbrush motionless in her hand.
    From the bedroom had come a sound. A rustle of movement, barely audible. It might be Steve or Courtney, the housekeeper, but irrationally she was certain it was him.
    She heard it again—a whisper of motion, the soft scrape of fabric on fabric.
    She turned from the mirror. The hairbrush was her only weapon.
    Absurdly she raised it like a club, then