The Protector Read online

  "It probably saved his life. But the damage had been done. His body had established its stress level. Thereafter, if he was even in the same room with someone who smoked, if he inhaled just a few puffs of secondhand smoke, he went into overdrive and nearly collapsed. If he had just a sip or two of someone else's coffee—decaffeinated, mind you, which is never totally decaffeinated—his heart started pounding like a jackhammer."

  Jamie frowned. "Where are you heading with this?"

  "Adrenaline." Cavanaugh's legs felt more jittery. "Right now, it's flying through me. Before I went to Karen's house, I'd have welcomed it. But now ..." His mouth had become so dry, he had trouble speaking. "What I need to tell you, to warn you about. . . Whatever happened to me in Karen's basement..." He could hardly say it, would never have imagined that he'd say it. "Maybe I can't do this anymore."

  Jamie didn't react for a moment. "Do you want to go back to Wyoming?"

  "No. I ... Yes." Cavanaugh said. "I want to go back to Wyoming."

  Jamie looked surprised.

  "I'm so confused"—the word surprised him—"so afraid of what's changing inside me, I want to go back to Jackson Hole and never leave. But if I give in and hide, I'll never be any good to you or me or anybody else. How can I pretend to be close to anyone if I let John die? He wouldn't be in this mess if it weren't for me. If he gets killed . . ."

  "We won't let that happen."

  "That's right, by God. But I'm not sure how you're going to feel being around someone who shows signs of fear."

  "Signs of being human, you mean?"

  "I'll try to be as dependable as you've been." Cavanaugh breathed deeply, working to concentrate on what needed to be done. "Is anybody following us?"

  Jamie checked the rearview mirror. "Traffic looks normal."

  "Head over to the park where I met John this morning."

  "What's at—"

  "I phoned him at his condo. His wife died last year. He lives alone. That's where they held a gun to him when he talked to me. That's the logical spot for him to be held prisoner."

  * * *

  13

  They left the Taurus in a parking garage and followed the shadowy jogging path to the opposite edge of the park. There, concealed by trees, they peered across a busy street toward a brightly lit condominium building.

  "The sixth floor," Cavanaugh said. "On the right. The fourth unit from the end."

  Jamie adjusted her gaze. "Lights in one window." "That's the living room. John loves his view of the park." "Not tonight. The curtains are closed." "The window next to it, on the right—any lights in his bedroom?"

  "The curtains are closed there also, but no lights. Any other bedrooms?"

  "No." Cavanaugh wished they could get in the car and drive away. "After John's wife died, he sold their house and moved here. Wanted a simpler life, he said. Became kind of a hermit, reading his Bible when he wasn't hunting bad guys."

  "What's the arrangement of the rooms?"

  "Past the front door, there's a corridor that leads into the living room." Talking about what he knew helped distract him from what he was feeling. "As you go along the corridor, there's an archway on the left, leading into a small kitchen. An arch on the other side of the kitchen goes into the living room. To the left of the living room is the door to the bedroom."

  "Bathroom?"

  "Off the bedroom. On the left."

  Cavanaugh's attention quickened as a shadow moved beyond the closed curtains in the living room.

  "How many people are watching him, do you think?" Jamie asked.

  "At least two, so one can sleep while the other's on guard."

  The details of tradecraft continued to help distract him from his emotions. "He'll be tied up in a chair in the living room. That way, the bedroom's all theirs, so they can spell each other and take naps."

  "But how do we get him out?"

  As Jamie spoke, a man and woman approached the building's entrance and went into the gleaming lobby. Visible through floor-to-ceiling windows, a security guard stood behind a counter. He spoke to the couple, picked up a phone, said something into it, nodded, and pressed a button. That unlocked a gate on the right, allowing the couple to go farther into the lobby and reach a bank of elevators.

  "For that matter," Jamie added, "how do we get into the building?"

  "The law says there have to be other exits in case of an emergency. We can always go around to the back, find one, and pick the lock."

  "Which you haven't shown me how to do yet."

  "I've been remiss, 1 admit, but we don't have time to make up for that now. Anyway, in this busy neighborhood, there's always a chance we'll be noticed. We can't help John if we're in jail. Why don't we walk up to that corner store and buy some cigarettes."

  "Cigarettes? What are you talking about? You don't smoke."

  "I used to when I first joined Protective Services. Duncan put a stop to that. I can still hear him scolding me: 'How can you hope to protect somebody when you're fumbling around, trying to light a cigarette?'"

  "And now you're going to start smoking again?"

  * * *

  14

  The condo building's entrance was thirty feet from the street. Shrubs flanked a walkway. Half a dozen stone benches provided a further friendly appearance.

  Cavanaugh chose the bench nearest the street, motioned for Jamie to join him, and opened the pack of cigarettes. "Smoke?" he asked. "What's gotten into you?"

  "Give it a try. Be daring. It'll help pass the time." He handed her a cigarette and lit it, managing to keep his hand steady. "I haven't the faintest idea how to hold this," she said. "Doesn't matter." Cavanaugh lit a cigarette for himself. Jamie coughed.

  "Hey, I didn't say to inhale the thing. Just puff on it a little and blow out the smoke . . . Not so quickly." "Tastes awful."

  "Doesn't it, though. I wonder what I ever liked about this." Two women passed them and glanced away in disapproval. "These days, with so many nonsmoking areas, it's the most natural sight imaginable for two people to be huddled outside a building, awkwardly puffing on cigarettes," Cavanaugh said. "We look like we were visiting somebody in the building and got banished down here so we wouldn't stink up the living room when we absolutely had to get a nicotine fix."

  A man and woman shook their heads in pity. The next couple actually looked sympathetic, as if on occasion they'd been forced to smoke outside also.

  "All right, so you found a way to make us an acceptable presence outside the building," Jamie said. "Now what?" "Do what Prescott does. Listen and learn." People came and went, their conversations filled with references to domineering bosses, newly discovered restaurants, cheap plane tickets to the Bahamas, and women who ought to stop flirting with other people's husbands.

  Five minutes passed.

  "Gosh, I can't believe we're done with those cigarettes so quickly. We'd better light up again," Cavanaugh said.

  "If I get yellow stains on my fingers ..." Jamie said.

  Cavanaugh gave her another cigarette, struck a match for her, and pretended to ignore two taxis that stopped at the curb. Each cab discharged four well-dressed people. After lighting a new cigarette for himself, he glanced up at the night sky, pretending to ignore the eight people hurrying past.

  "What time is it?" a woman asked urgently. "Almost ten? Thank God we made it. Sandy said she and Ted'd be home from the movie by ten-fifteen."

  "How's she going to manage that?" a man asked.

  "Pretend she's sick, so they don't go to dinner. Isn't she clever? Her sister's going to let us in. Imagine the look on Ted's face when we all shout 'Surprise.'"

  They crowded into the lobby, several of them speaking at once to the security guard, who made a phone call, nodded, and buzzed them through.

  "Poor Ted," Jamie muttered as she blew out smoke.

  Through the windows, Cavanaugh was able to see the console above the elevator the group used. Numbers flashed, indicating the floors the elevator passed. He was too far away to read
the numbers, but he could count the times the console flashed. Seventeen. On the eighteenth, the number remained steady. Add another number for the ground floor, he told himself. They're on nineteen.

  Flicking ashes from his cigarette, he noticed a car with a domino's pizza sign stopping in the building's delivery zone. A gangly, bespectacled driver got out, lugging an armful of pizza boxes in an insulated wrapper.

  "Let's see where these pizzas are going," Cavanaugh told Jamie. As the driver came closer, Cavanaugh stood, put on a convincing smile, and said, "Hi. We thought we'd come down for a smoke and head you off at the pass. Unit six twenty-eight." That was the number of John's unit.

  "Sorry. These are all for somebody else." "All?" Cavanaugh looked at the stack. "Must be that party on the seventh floor. That's one of the reasons we came down here. They're making so much racket."

  "Nope. This bunch goes to"—the delivery guy squinted through his spectacles toward a piece of paper taped to the insulated wrapper—"nineteen eleven."

  "Lucky them," Jamie said. "Guess we'll just have to wait and have another cigarette."

  "Shouldn't be long," the driver said. "Sorry we bothered you," Cavanaugh said. "No problem." Balancing the pizza boxes, the delivery guy walked up to the glass door at the entrance just as somebody came out and held the door open for him.

  Jamie stubbed out her cigarette. "What was that about? Did you really believe those pizzas would be going to John's apartment?"

  "Maybe not this time. But eventually, pizzas or Chinese or some kind of food will probably be delivered there." "How can you be sure?"

  "Because I've seen guards make that mistake too many times before. Round-the-clock watchdog duty is tedious. If the guys on the security team don't have any discipline, they keep thinking about eating. They could scrounge the cupboards and cook, but most of them aren't good at it." Except for Chad who could make anything taste delicious, Cavanaugh thought, sorrow blindsiding him. "They start fantasizing about pizza or egg rolls and chicken chow mein. If this is part of the bunch that tried to grab Prescott at the warehouse, they have a few rough edges that suggest they're the type to give in and have food delivered." "We could wait for hours." "If it's going to happen, it'll be sooner rather than later. My call to John was less than an hour ago. Before then, they were too preoccupied to think about food. But now they're getting a routine established."

  "Won't the building's guard get curious about us hanging around out here?"

  "He can't see us."

  "Why?"

  "The last time I was here, I noticed that the lobby's more brightly lit than this outside walkway. The glare in there reflects off the inside windows. The guard can't see out."

  "But what about the camera above the door?"

  "You spotted that? It's pointed toward the area in front of the door, not toward the street. When we get John out of there, I'm going to tell him to move to a building with better security."

  "Is that a mind trick you use with your clients?"

  "'Mind trick'?"

  " 'When we get John out of there.' You put me in the future and made me believe everything's going to be fine. It's very reassuring."

  Another car stopped at the building's delivery zone, this one marked pizza hut.

  "My turn." Jamie looked grateful for something to do to control her nerves.

  As the driver pulled pizza boxes from the car, she approached him, rubbing her hands together in hungry anticipation. "Hi. We decided to come down for a smoke and save you the trouble of going upstairs. Unit six twenty-eight. We're starved."

  The pimply teenager looked starved as well, but for something other than food. He nearly dropped his boxes at the sight of the attractive woman standing next to him. "Um," he said. "Um. Lemme see." He studied a delivery slip taped to a box. "Yep, six twenty-eight."

  "Wonderful."

  "Two mediums? One pepperoni and black olives? The other deluxe?"

  "Exactly. They smell delicious. How much do I owe you?" Jamie added a tip and took the two boxes. "See you next time."

  "Yes, ma'am." The kid blushed. "Thank you." He looked flustered as he got in the car and drove away.

  "Two medium pizzas. Enough for two husky guards," Jamie said.

  "Seems that way to me," Cavanaugh said, "unless there's only one guard and he's being generous to his prisoner, which I doubt."

  "That they ordered food means they're feeling comfortable, right?"

  "Right. They assume nobody knows they're keeping John prisoner."

  "So what happens now?" Jamie asked.

  "We go back to the park, find somebody sleeping in the bushes, and donate these pizzas. All we need are the boxes."

  Jamie looked puzzled.

  "I need to tear off the top of one box and the bottom of the other so I can stack them together to hold my Kevlar vest," Cavanaugh said.

  * * *

  15

  The guard looked up from the counter as Jamie held the door open and Cavanaugh carried the pizza boxes into the lobby. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the glare of the lights.

  "Hi. We're with the surprise party for Ted up in nineteen eleven," Cavanaugh said.

  The guard's face was stern. "A bunch of pizzas went up about twenty minutes ago."

  "I knew we should have brought ribs, french fries, and coleslaw," Jamie said.

  "You really do think a lot about food," Cavanaugh said, trying to sound humorous in spite of the tightness in his chest.

  "Tell them to make sure to keep the noise down," the guard said. "We don't want complaints from the neighbors."

  "Mum's the word," Cavanaugh said.

  The guard pressed a button that caused a waist-high gate on the right to buzz and unlock.

  "Thanks." They went through and reached the elevators, where Jamie pressed the up button. After a short wait that felt interminable, one set of doors made a ding and opened.

  Hating elevators, Cavanaugh entered. As Jamie reached to push the button for the sixth floor, he murmured, "Stop."

  "What's the matter?"

  "The guard will watch the numbers above the elevator to make sure we go to the floor we said we wanted."

  "Ooops." Jamie pushed the button for the nineteenth floor.

  The doors closed.

  Cavanaugh's legs felt heavy as the elevator rose. He watched orange numbers on a console go from one to two to three. It seemed to take a long time to reach nineteen, enough for him to repeat instructions he'd given to Jamie before they'd entered the building.

  "You're sure they'll open the door?" Jamie asked.

  "For a pimply delivery kid, they'd keep a chain on the door, hand money through the crack, and tell the kid to hand in the pizzas sideways. But after they get a look at you through the peephole, believe me, they'll open the door. Undo your blouse."

  "Excuse me?"

  "The top three buttons."

  "What kind of girl do you think I am?" Jamie undid them.

  Good, Cavanaugh silently told her. Keep making jokes. It tells me you're in control.

  And what about me? Cavanaugh wondered. Am I in control?

  Ding.

  The doors opened. His breath rate increasing, he stepped out onto a new-looking beige carpet in what smelled like a freshly painted white corridor that had bright overhead lights and no one in view. A quick look each way showed them a door marked stairs on their right. They pushed through and found themselves in a dank concrete stairwell even more brightly lit than the corridor. As Jamie shut the door, Cavanaugh checked for security cameras but saw none. They listened for noises and heard none. Their footsteps echoed as they descended in a cautious hurry to the sixth floor.

  Outside the door, they paused.

  "Can you manage this?" Cavanaugh kept his voice low. "I'll be right there next to you. Just do everything exactly as I explained."

  Jamie hesitated.

  "It's not too late to back out," he said.

  "Sure it is," she said. "I'll never be able to force myself to
go this far again."

  "Maybe you shouldn't go this far at all." "Can you save John without me?" Cavanaugh didn't answer.

  "Then give me the boxes." Jamie's pupils were large. Cavanaugh watched her react to the weight of the Kevlar vest in them. She arranged the boxes so they pushed up slightly under her breasts, widening the gap where she'd opened the buttons.

  "They'll think they'd died and gone to heaven," Cavanaugh said. "Before you knock on their door, close your eyes for a few seconds. That'll make your pupils smaller, so you won't seem on edge. Remember, if you hear a TV, it means they're careless. Good watchdogs keep the room quiet so they can hear noises outside." Jamie took a deep breath and nodded toward the door. "Open it."

  * * *

  16

  The sixth floor had the same type of new-looking beige carpet and freshly painted white walls as on the nineteenth. Tense, Cavanaugh followed Jamie along the corridor. As he'd anticipated, after 10:00 p.m. no one was in it.

  It's still not too late to back out, he kept telling himself.

  Sure it is. If I back out, I might not get another chance to save John.

  Unit 628 was on the right. Pressing himself against the wall next to it, Cavanaugh heard the muffled sounds of an explosion, followed by gunshots, sirens, and pulsing music: an action program on television. He gave Jamie a reassuring look and drew his pistol.

  Jamie stood in front of the door's peephole and closed her eyes. When she opened them a few seconds later, her pupils were a normal size, in no way suggesting she was under stress.

  But Cavanaugh was. He made a sudden decision that he should never have allowed her to be part of this. He motioned to her that they were leaving.

  Jamie ignored him and knocked on the door.

  Cavanaugh motioned even more forcefully.

  Paying no attention, Jamie knocked again, and this time, the TV's sound went off.

  We're in it now, Cavanaugh thought. He marveled at how bored Jamie made herself look in front of the door's peephole, the pizza boxes propping up her breasts.