The Protector Read online

  The instructor frowned. "Is your name Cavanaugh?"

  "Why? Is something wrong?"

  "Man, I'm real sorry about what happened."

  "Sorry?"

  "After your wife fainted, her two friends told me she's got some kind of low blood pressure problem."

  Cavanaugh's hands and feet felt numb.

  "I wanted to call an ambulance," the instructor said, "but they said she'd had fainting spells a couple of times before. Nothing life-threatening. Something about her electrolytes being low."

  Cavanaugh's stomach turned to ice.

  "So I got them a bottle of Gatorade from the machine over there," the instructor said. "They gave her a couple of sips and helped her stand. She was woozy, but she could walk, sort of, if somebody put an arm around her."

  "Friends?" Cavanaugh could barely speak.

  "Two women who came in behind her. A good thing there were two of them. The one with the crutches couldn't have handled your wife all by herself."

  "Crutches?" The lobby seemed to waver.

  "Because of a cast on one leg. She said she knew you'd be worried, so she left a message for you." The instructor reached under the counter and set down an envelope.

  Cavanaugh's fingers didn't want to work as he fumbled to open it. The neatly hand-printed note inside made him want to scream.

  Tor House. Eight tomorrow morning.

  * * *

  10

  Grace,

  Cavanaugh thought. He struggled to keep control. Despite the weakness in his legs and arms, he drove at random through the area, going around blocks, making U-turns and heading back in the direction from which he'd just come. He timed traffic lights so he got through them just before they turned red, using every technique he could think of to make sure he wasn't followed. Cursing, he realized that Grace had made the connection between A Summer Place and Carmel. With no other direction in which to go, she was searching the area as he and Jamie had been doing. Sometime during the day, their paths had crossed. Perhaps at Tor House. Grace didn't know about Prescott's fascination with Robinson Jeffers, but that didn't matter. Tor House was one of the local attractions and had to be investigated. Perhaps Grace had been approaching it when she'd seen Cavanaugh and Jamie get in their car and drive away. That would explain Grace's choice for a meeting place tomorrow. Or had it been on 17-Mile Drive or at Pebble Beach's lodge, or had Grace seen Cavanaugh through binoculars while she scanned Carmel's beach? This much was certain: Grace had followed him, had taken her chance to grab Jamie, and was probably following Cavanaugh now. Inhaling sharply, he realized that while he'd been away from the Taurus, Grace might have planted a location transmitter in the car, making it easy for her to follow at a distance. Cavanaugh immediately stopped at a gas station and checked the obvious hiding places in and under the car. He used a pay phone to call information and get the numbers for Radio Shack stores in the area. One—to the north, in Monterey—was open until nine o'clock, he discovered. After asking directions about how to get there, he drove the seven miles along Highway 1 as fast as he could without breaking the speed limit. Using an FM receiver that he purchased at the store, he walked around the Taurus several times, slowly changing stations, waiting to hear the beep . . . beep . . . beep of the location transmitter. It would be set to one of the unused FM bands in the area. On Grace's end, the loudness or softness of the signal would tell her if Cavanaugh was near or far. But if Grace had managed to get something more sophisticated, something that used ultrasonic transmissions, Cavanaugh couldn't hope to find a comparably sophisticated device at Radio Shack to detect it.

  After an hour in which he failed to discover a transmitter, he got back in the Taurus and resumed his evasive driving, frequently checking his rearview mirror to see if any headlights took the same direction he did. At last, fatigue and frustration wore him down. He returned to the motel room that he and Jamie had rented. Grace might use chemicals to make Jamie tell her the name of the place, but as much as Cavanaugh was tempted to spend the night somewhere else, he couldn't let himself. If Jamie escaped, she would phone the room or return to it, looking for him. He kept the lights out, wedged the bureau against the door, and sat on the floor in the corner next to the front window, his knees drawn to his chest, his pistol in his hand, not daring to sleep, ready to shoot if anybody crashed through.

  * * *

  11

  Fog made the morning like twilight. Arriving at 7:00 a.m., an hour early, he parked a block away from Tor House. He shut off the headlights, the windshield wipers, and the engine, then stepped out into the fog. The car's heater had done little to warm him. Now the chill dampness made him tremble. Wanting to button his sport coat against the cold but needing to keep it open so he could draw his pistol, he forced himself to move. The fog thickened, shadows deepening. The echo of his footsteps made him shift to the side of the road, where fallen pine needles provided a cushion.

  As he approached the street on which Tor House was located, he wasn't sure what he hoped to accomplish by arriving early. The fog prevented him from identifying any ambush sites. What am I supposed to do when Grace shows up? he wondered. Shoot? Hope to wound her? Try to force her to tell me where Jamie is? Grace won't let it be that easy, and if this is an ambush, she could just as easily shoot me.

  Pausing, trying to assess the shadows of trees, shrubs, and houses before him, Cavanaugh realized that he should have listened to Jamie and not gone after Prescott. Then she wouldn't be missing and he wouldn't be standing here in the fog, as afraid as he'd ever been in his life.

  No longer afraid for himself. Afraid for Jamie.

  He had difficulty making his legs work. If, in the past weeks, anger had helped him to offset fear, the need to protect Jamie now proved to be an even greater force. During the night, he'd considered doing what Jamie had wanted and asking the FBI for help, but with no time to coordinate a plan, with the risk of a hastily assembled hostage-rescue team giving itself away, there was every chance that Grace would have sensed the danger and not shown up, destroying Cavanaugh's potentially single chance to save Jamie.

  As he passed murky trees and spectral homes, shifting closer to where he estimated Tor House was, the fog chilled him to the core, a sensation he would not have thought possible, given the searing heat in his stomach. Because no one lived in Tor House, he was tempted to hide somewhere on the grounds, possibly in Hawk Tower, and hope that the fog would thin in an hour, allowing him to watch Grace's approach.

  For all I know, Grace is already hiding on the grounds, he thought. Maybe she's in the tower.

  Bup-bup.

  The sound made Cavanaugh's heart lurch. He stopped halfway through the fog-shrouded intersection.

  Bup-bup.

  The sound came closer.

  Bup-bup.

  Seeing motion in the fog, Cavanaugh drew his pistol.

  Bup-bup.

  A silhouette appeared at the edge of the fog. The noises stopped.

  In the distance, the surf pounded.

  "You got here an hour early, huh?" a voice asked. Grace's. "Trying for an advantage. How come I'm not surprised?"

  Cavanaugh couldn't speak.

  "I'm stepping closer," Grace said. "I'd appreciate it if you don't shoot me again."

  Bup-bup.

  Grace's tall, trim silhouette emerged from the fog. Again, she had a pseudomilitary look: khaki pants, a matching tuck-in sweater, and a photographer's jacket, the kind with numerous loops and pockets, good for concealing a weapon.

  But what Cavanaugh noticed most were the crutches she held under her armpits. The rubber pads on the bottom accounted for the noise he'd heard on the pavement. A cast covered her lower left leg.

  "A good thing it's the left one. Otherwise, I'd have trouble driving. Care to autograph the cast? X marks the spot where you shot me?"

  Again, Cavanaugh couldn't answer.

  "Maybe later," Grace said. "After we finish our business." The fog drifted around her short blond hair, creating the illu
sion that the fog emanated from it. Her high-cheekboned face might have been attractive if her expression hadn't been so disagreeable.

  She frowned at the Beretta in Cavanaugh's hand.

  He holstered it.

  Somewhere in the fog, a door banged.

  "Let's go down to the beach, before we wake the neighbors," Grace said.

  She swung her feet forward, set them down, and moved the crutches. One landed slightly later than the other. Bup-bup.

  "Shooting me is something I can understand," she said, "but forcing me to watch all those Troy Donahue movies is unforgivable."

  Bup-bup.

  "I couldn't tell if you were lying that the movie also starred Sandra Dee, so I had to suffer through Donahue's greatest hits. Rome Adventure? With so many terrorist threats against Americans in foreign countries, someone as suspicious as Prescott wouldn't go to Europe. For sure, the tobacco farms in Parrish aren't Prescott's thing, even with all the sex-starved women the movie expects us to believe lurk among the tobacco plants. Palm Springs Weekend? It has the golf course Prescott wants, but because he built his lab in a lush Virginia valley, I couldn't imagine him living in a desert. That left A Summer Place and that amazing beach, which turned out not to be in Maine at all."

  The fog parted enough to reveal that Cavanaugh and Grace had reached the scenic drive above the surf. Cold sweat beaded Cavanaugh's face.

  "But to find that out," Grace said, "I had to watch every Clint Eastwood thriller I could get my hands on. As much as I enjoy watching Clint shoot bad guys, a steady diet of it can be a little much after a couple of days. I'm not sure I'll ever be able to make myself go to another movie of his. That's something else I blame you for."

  "Where did you spot us?"

  "I concentrated on Prescott's interest in golf. I knew sooner or later you'd look for him where every golfer dreams of playing: Pebble Beach. Yesterday, you showed up there."

  Cavanaugh didn't respond for a moment.

  The surf kept pounding.

  "Shit," he said.

  "Then I waited for my chance."

  "How did you manage to subdue Jennifer?"

  "Spare me the disinformation. The ID in her purse says her real name is Jamie. I called in a favor from a friend. My only friend, I might add. Thanks to you, the Justice Department is investigating Prescott's lab and everybody associated with it. At the moment, my controllers would prefer that Prescott and I both didn't exist. My friend gave Jamie a touch of this." Grace showed Cavanaugh a small spray container. It was sealed in a plastic bag. "The guy behind the counter seemed relieved that we got Jamie out of there. Fainting isn't the best advertisement for an exercise club. My crutches added sympathy. Nobody suspects that a woman with crutches is anything but a victim."

  It seemed to Cavanaugh that his heart pounded louder than the surf. "Is Jamie safe?"

  "As much as can be expected. But whether she's going to be depends on you. Have you had enough time to think about how much you miss her? Are you ready to do what you're told?"

  Temples throbbing, Cavanaugh waited for her to explain.

  "I need Prescott," she said. "It's the only way to keep my controllers from considering me a liability. If I can get him, if I can complete my assignment and deliver proof that he's dead, they might trust me again, enough that they'll let me disappear on my terms, rather than theirs."

  Cavanaugh felt sick.

  "You're going to get him for me," Grace said.

  "You followed us around the area. Isn't it obvious I don't know where he is? Damn it, I don't have any better idea of where he is than you do."

  "But you've got two good legs, and because of you, I don't. If you want Jamie back, find him," Grace said. "Find him by this time tomorrow."

  "Tomorrow?"

  "That's how much time you've got. That's how much time I've got. If the situation with Prescott isn't settled by tomorrow, my controllers will be so panicked, so distrustful of me, I'll never be able to regain their confidence. Find him. Here's my cell-phone number." Grace handed Cavanaugh a piece of paper.

  "You want me to bring him to you?"

  "Bring him to me? Hell no. I want you to kill him, then show me the body."

  Cavanaugh couldn't help thinking that setting out to kill Prescott was what had caused this mess.

  "Here," Grace said. "Maybe this'll help."

  She gave him the sealed plastic bag containing the spray container that had made Jamie faint.

  "It lasts a couple of hours," she said. "The chemical works via skin contact. Be sure you wear a latex glove when you administer it." As Cavanaugh put the bag in his jacket pocket, she added, "If I don't hear from you by this time tomorrow morning, the next thing you'll get from me will be Jamie's corpse."

  They stared at each other.

  The surf roared.

  Grace stepped into the gloom.

  As the sound of her crutches receded, the fog became colder. Shaking, Cavanaugh wanted to follow her, in the hope that she'd lead him to where Jamie was being held. But trying to follow Grace on foot would be useless once she got in her car and drove away. Even if he managed to identify the make of the car and get a license number, he didn't have a way to trace it. Moreover, he had to assume that Grace might have rented a car and would never be associated with it again. The alternative was to hurry to the Taurus and drive back to this street on the unlikely chance that Grace would not yet have reached her car. But in the fog, he'd be forced to use his headlights. She was bound to see them.

  If she felt he was a threat, she might decide to cut her losses, kill Jamie, and do her best to disappear.

  No, he thought. I have to find Prescott.

  And then? he wondered. Can I depend on Grace to keep her word and let Jamie go?

  Bup-bup.

  The sound of the crutches became fainter. In the fog, the dim headlights of an indistinct car swept past him on the scenic drive. The car's engine became a murmur as the vehicle stopped. A door was opened and then slammed shut. The sound of the car receded into the distance. He raced up the fog-choked street toward where he'd left the Taurus. Kill Prescott? he thought. No way. I've got to keep him alive. That's my only hope of getting Jamie back.

  But first, God help me, I need to find him.

  * * *

  12

  "This is Rutherford," the deep voice said.

  Outside a gas station, Cavanaugh clutched a pay phone. "Do you still hate Chinese food?"

  Rutherford hesitated only a moment. "That was quite a war zone you left us."

  "Self-defense."

  "You'd be a lot more convincing if you'd stuck around to explain what happened. Do you have any idea how many agents are looking for you, how many laws you've broken? I don't suppose you'd like to tell me where you've been."

  "Be glad to, since your caller ID system will tell you anyhow. Carmel."

  "Nice to have the leisure for a vacation." Rutherford's voice thickened with sarcasm. "Someday, I'll take one"—several voices spoke chaotically in the background—"when I'm not up to my ears helping investigate Prescott and his lab. The Justice Department thinks it's identified Prescott's military controllers, but with the lab destroyed and Prescott missing, there's no way to connect them with the lab or to prove it was manufacturing an unsanctioned biochemical weapon. The same goes for proving the weapon was tested illegally on civilians and military personnel."

  "Maybe I can help get the proof," Cavanaugh said.

  "Earlier in the week, you had the chance to stick around and do that, but you bugged out."

  "I've had a change of heart." He gripped the phone with such force that his fingers ached.

  "How do you explain this miraculous turnaround?"

  "My wife's missing." Trying to keep his voice steady, Cavanaugh explained what had happened to Jamie and what he needed to do to get her back. "Will you work with me on finding Prescott and using him as bait?"

  "Work with you? Hey, you wouldn't include us before, so why should we include you now?" />
  "Because that's what it'll take for me to tell you where to look."

  "In Carmel? I already figured that much."

  "I can give you a lot more focus than that, but listen to me, if this isn't done right, she'll be killed."

  The voices in the background, presumably an office, were all Cavanaugh heard for several moments as Rutherford thought about it.

  "So what's the right way?" Rutherford finally asked.

  "Check all the golf courses in the Carmel/Monterey area. Get the name of every golfer who contacted them within the past three weeks to make an appointment to play."

  "But that could be thousands."

  "Then talk to all the Realtors in this area. Get the names of everybody who bought or leased property around here in the past three weeks. If Prescott leased, he might have done it through someone other than a Realtor, but we've got to start somewhere. Compare those names to the golf lists. Look for the common denominators."

  Rutherford became briefly silent again. "A lot of people to talk to. This'll take time."

  "I don't have time. This afternoon, John. I'll call you back this afternoon." He almost slammed the phone's handset down in helplessness. As he ran toward the car, he couldn't help thinking that phoning Rutherford was exactly what Jamie had wanted him to do in the first place.

  * * *

  13

  "Bob Bannister." Cavanaugh extended his right hand in greeting.

  "Vic McQueen." The instructor put a lot of manly sincerity and strength into his handshake.

  Cavanaugh let Vic crush his fingers for a few seconds and then withdrew them. "I write for a new fitness magazine called Our Bodies, Our Health. It's based in Los Angeles, but thanks to E-mail and the Internet, I didn't have to move from around here."

  Vic nodded in sympathy with anyone who might have been forced to leave the clean air of the Carmel Valley for the smog of LA.

  "My editors are pretty wild about an idea I suggested," Cavanaugh said. "I want to write an article about how quickly people can get into shape if they're really determined."