The Protector Page 30

  Cavanaugh headed down to the intersection, turned left, and saw the Porsche among the traffic a block away. He knew he couldn't keep up with the sports car if Prescott used its maneuvering abilities to weave in and out of traffic and turn corners with an efficiency that made up for staying within the speed limit. But Cavanaugh hoped that once Prescott was away from the exercise club, he'd abandon the glitzy persona he'd created and do his best to blend, at least as much as he could with so expensive a car.

  In keeping with that logic, Prescott drove conservatively along Del Monte Avenue, taking that main thoroughfare west into the adjoining city of Monterey, where he made two conservative turns in the congestion of five o'clock traffic and entered a two-story parking garage next to an office complex.

  The exit from the garage was next to its entrance, but Cavanaugh had to make sure there wasn't a second entrance/exit and that Prescott had not entered the garage only to leave it immediately on the opposite side in case anyone was following him. The problem was, while Cavanaugh drove around the block, checking for other exits, Prescott might leave through the exit that Cavanaugh knew about. But then Cavanaugh noticed that so many drivers were leaving the garage at the end of the workday that a line of cars had formed inside, waiting to reach the checkout booth, enough cars that Cavanaugh figured he had time to drive around the block before Prescott could leave via this exit.

  As he hoped, there wasn't another exit. Returning to where Prescott had entered, Cavanaugh drove into the garage and wound his way all through the dusky, exhaust-smelling lower level, but he didn't see the Porsche. Continuing to the second level, he found it in an area marked compact only, along with other small cars, next to a door that led into the office complex.

  The location forced Cavanaugh to reconsider his strategy. In an ideal situation, the Porsche would have been away from a door and parked among larger vehicles, preferably SUVs, behind which Cavanaugh could have concealed the Taurus and taken cover, rushing Prescott when he approached the sports car.

  Now Cavanaugh was going to have to park a distance away. He considered hiding in a dark corner near the Porsche, charging Prescott before he could get in the car. An alternative was to use the Emerson knife to cut chunks from the seat covers that hid Cavanaugh's bloodstains. If he shoved the chunks into the Porsche's exhaust pipes, the engine wouldn't be able to function. When Prescott got out to see what was wrong, he'd be so distraded that Cavanaugh would have a better chance of rushing him.

  But would Prescott be distracted? Cavanaugh wondered. Or would the car's sudden failure make Prescott wary? If Prescott had a pistol, if there was a gunfight... I can't risk killing him, Cavanaugh thought.

  Then he realized that the best way to do this was to spray some of the knockout chemical on the Porsche's door handle. When Prescott touched it and collapsed, Cavanaugh could hurry over, Pick him up as if Prescott were drunk, and get him into the Tau-rus.

  Cavanaugh put on latex gloves that he'd purchased during the day. He took the spray container from the plastic bag, got out of the car, and put his hands behind his back to prevent departing office workers from noticing the gloves. Thirty seconds later, he was back behind the steering wheel. After returning the container to its bag, he cautiously removed the gloves, careful to touch them only on their interior.

  The Taurus was in a shadowy area. Office workers entering the garage didn't notice him. The sounds of car doors being opened and shut echoed throughout the garage. Vehicles pulled out of spaces and descended to the lower level. Fewer and fewer cars re-mained. By six o'clock, the Porsche was the only car against the wall next to the door, and the Taurus was one of only a handful across from it.

  Cavanaugh moved the Taurus to a farther section of the garage, blending with the remaining vehicles.

  Six-thirty. A few more office workers departed. Seven.

  When eight o'clock came and the only vehicles in the area were the Porsche and the Taurus, Cavanaugh had a premonition.

  * * *

  20

  "Somebody's got a brand-new Porsche up there," he told the kid with a ring in his nose who was in charge of the parking garage's exit booth.

  "Yeah, cool, huh?"

  "Is this place safe enough for a car that expensive?"

  "Somebody like me's always on duty. Nobody's tried to steal it so far."

  "So far?"

  "The guy who owns it pays by the month. Weird, though."

  "What do you mean?"

  "The guy never takes the Porsche out except in the afternoon. Half-past twelve or so, he leaves. A little after five, he comes back."

  And walks away via the office building, Cavanaugh realized. Then he watches from down the street to see if anybody followed him.

  * * *

  21

  He spotted me. I've got to assume the bastard spotted me. Cavanaugh drove from the garage, which he now realized was the dividing line between Joshua Carter and whatever identity Karen had created for him. As Cavanaugh headed back to Del Monte Avenue, he was absolutely convinced that Prescott had another vehicle near the garage, something that didn't attract attention, that blended in, the way Cavanaugh had taught him. Cavanaugh took care not to glance at his rearview mirror. He couldn't risk doing even the slightest thing that might make Prescott realize Cavanaugh hoped he was being followed. As sparks seemed to shoot through his nervous system, he turned left and headed deeper into the historic part of Monterey. Soon, he discovered he was on Cannery Row, where boutiques and cafes had replaced the fish factories from John Steinbeck's day, but he paid no attention. To his right, the sun was low over the ocean. He paid no attention to that, either.

  Follow me, Cavanaugh kept hoping. Follow me.

  He tried to imagine what was going through Prescott's mind. One temptation would be to flee the Carmel/Monterey area as quickly as possible. But to the best of Prescott's knowledge, only his Joshua Carter persona had been uncovered. If Prescott concluded that Cavanaugh was acting on his own, which Cavanaugh seemed to be doing, would Prescott decide to protect the false identity Karen had created for him by eliminating the threat to it, by going after Cavanaugh? It all depended on how much Prescott enjoyed his new life, on how much he hated to abandon it. Would he run, or would he protect the identity for which he'd already killed five people?

  Cavanaugh drove as steadily as possible, making no attempt at evasion tactics. Cannery Row dead-ended, forcing him to make a left turn and then a right, but otherwise he continued in a direct fashion, following the edge of the ocean on his right. The sun sank, casting crimson over the whitecaps. Never once did Cavanaugh look in his rearview mirror. Never once did he give an indication that he hoped he was being followed. He passed several scenic stopping places and finally chose one that had few vehicles. Steering from the road, he parked in an isolated area, got out of the car, and crossed the pavement, heading toward the numerous boulders along the ocean.

  There, he did something that he realized with surprise could be considered brave, although he didn't think that the act was anything remotely to be proud of. As he despondently reminded himself, if he'd listened to Jamie and gone home to Jackson Hole with her, he wouldn't need to deny all his protective instincts now. He selected two low boulders that were close enough to each other for him to sit on one while he propped his shoes on the other. With his back to the parking lot, he placed his hands on his knees and waited.

  The sunset gleamed across the water. He felt a cool breeze, spray from the waves hitting the boulders in front of him. But all he paid attention to was the sound of a vehicle pulling off the road and stopping in the parking area behind him.

  The engine remained on. A car door was opened and then closed. Despite the pounding of the surf, Cavanaugh heard footsteps crossing the pavement. Shoes crunched on pebbles as someone approached the boulder he sat on.

  The footsteps halted behind his back.

  Fear insisted on a fight-or-flight response. As Cavanaugh maintained his defenseless position, his central nervous sys
tem was on overdrive, speeding, pulsing, demanding more oxygen and an even more urgent flow of blood.

  "How did you find me?" Prescott's voice shook, just as it had the first time Cavanaugh had heard it.

  "A Summer Place and Play Misty for Me." Cavanaugh's palms sweated.

  For several moments, the only sound came from the surf and the idling engine. "Observant."

  "And you're a quick learner. In another life, you could have been an operator." Appeal to his pride, Cavanaugh thought.

  "Do you always speak highly of people you want to kill?"

  "I don't want to kill you anymore." Cavanaugh stared straight ahead toward the sunset-tinted ocean.

  "Is that supposed to persuade me not to kill you?"

  "You didn't come here to do that. Otherwise, you'd have pulled the trigger by now."

  "Then why did I come here?"

  "To talk to me." Cavanaugh struggled to control his breathing.

  Again, the only sounds were the surf and the idling engine.

  "Keep your hands on your knees. Keep looking at the water," Prescott said.

  As the breeze strengthened, Cavanaugh heard footsteps on pebbles. To his right, a solid-looking figure appeared in his peripheral vision, coming around to a boulder a careful distance from him. Prescott had a jacket over his hands, concealing what Cavanaugh assumed was a handgun. "You seem to be alone."

  "You had plenty of time to watch the garage. You know I was the only person keeping tabs on the Porsche."

  "What did you put on the car's handle?"

  "You had that good a look at me?"

  "I hid small video cameras at the top of various support beams in the garage. They're tiny. Battery-powered. Barely noticeable. The Internet's crammed with advertising for them: 'Check up on your baby-sitter. See your neighbor's teenaged daughter sunbathing.' I watched the images on monitors in a van on the garage's lower level."

  "Then you're aware I don't have help."

  "What did you put on the car's handle?"

  "A knockout chemical that works on skin contact."

  "Why are you doing this alone? Why didn't you tell the government where you'd found me?"

  "Because the government would make a deal with you, in exchange for your testimony against the military officials who hired you to develop the hormone."

  "You learned about that?"

  "I assume the only reason you're not using it on me now is that the breeze coming ashore would carry it away before it did anything to me."

  "Who told you about it?"

  "A man who called himself Kline. He led the team that tried to kidnap you."

  "I know who Kline is." Prescott's voice hardened.

  "You don't need to worry about him anymore. He's dead."

  "Because of you?"

  "No. A woman I call Grace was responsible for that."

  "Grace?"

  "Five feet ten. Blue eyes. Short blond hair. Looks like she goes to the gym a lot. Could be attractive if she weren't so disagreeable."

  "1 know Grace also. Her real name's Alicia."

  "Seems too feminine for her."

  "If you're a female trained in an experimental special-ops program, I suspect you lose some of your femininity."

  The sun was almost gone. As shadows turned to dusk, Cavanaugh understood why Prescott had left his car's engine idling. The headlights were on, glaring at them. Prescott wanted to avoid depleting the car's battery.

  "She's the one who gave me the knockout chemical I put on your door handle."

  "I'm pleased you said that."

  "Oh?"

  "I doubt your skills extend to laboratories and formulas. Someone must have given you the knockout chemical. It goes against your claim to be working alone."

  "I'm not working with Grace, believe me."

  "Convince me."

  "I have . . ." With effort, Cavanaugh broke his rule of never revealing personal details. "A wife."

  "You told me you didn't have a family."

  "Imagine that," Cavanaugh said. "Normally, I keep her away from my business. But after what happened at the bunker, she was the only person I could call for help. She came to Carmel with me. Yesterday, Grace kidnapped her. If I don't deliver your corpse, my wife will"—the word caught in his throat—"die."

  "A powerful incentive to kill me."

  "To the contrary." Spray from the surf sprinkled Cavanaugh's face, but his cheeks were so fear-numbed, he barely felt it. "If I delivered your body, what motive would Grace have to release my wife? Grace has every reason to hate me. I crippled her and eliminated her team." "Crippled her?"

  "Shot her leg. Put her on crutches. Her controllers have practically disowned her."

  "Yes, all of that would definitely have annoyed her," Prescott said.

  "So I suspect that if I deliver your corpse, she'll use my wife to pay me back for all the trouble I've caused her." "Likely."

  "I want you to help me," Cavanaugh said. The surf pounded. The engine idled. The headlights glared. "Excuse me?" Prescott asked.

  "I have a way to solve both our problems." Cavanaugh's chest cramped.

  "Keep talking."

  "My wife means more to me than anything else in the world." "More than your five dead friends?"

  "More than anything. If something happened to her, I don't know how I could . . . Help me get her back, and you'll never have anything to fear from me. I'll never harm you. I'll never allow anyone else to harm you, either."

  "You'll be my protector again?" Prescott scoffed. "And just how am I supposed to help you?"

  "By solving your problem at the same time I solve mine. I phone Grace and tell her I've got you but that I'm keeping you alive until she releases my wife. I arrange for an exchange. You walk to Grace while my wife walks to me. What Grace doesn't realize is, you're not my prisoner—you're my ally." "Why won't she suspect?"

  "Because she knows I came all this way to get you. Because she believes you and I are enemies." "And aren't we?" "Not if you help me."

  "What's to keep her from shooting me the moment I step into view?"

  "She'll want the personal satisfaction of being close to you before she harms you. But just in case, you'll be wearing a Kevlar vest I've got in my car. Grace has seen you only when you're heavy. Because you've lost so much weight, the bulk of the vest will make you look closer to the way you used to be. It won't attract attention. It won't make her suspicious. I'll pretend to rough you up before I shove you over to her. I'll subdue her suspicions even further by making it look as if your hands are tied. But the binding won't be secure, and the moment you're close enough ... Do you know how to use that pistol you've got under your jacket?"

  "Every morning, I practice at an indoor range in Monterey."

  Cavanaugh didn't bother to point out that shooting a target was quite different from mustering the resolve to shoot a human being. As Prescott had repeatedly demonstrated, he had no hesitation about killing. "The moment you're close enough to Grace, you break the bindings on your hands, draw your pistol, and shoot her."

  "Easy to say. But suppose she has help?"

  "In fact, she does. One other operator. She claims she's been so disowned that she can't find more help than that."

  "She could be lying."

  "We pick a trade-off spot we can get to before they can. That way, we can watch for surprises. No matter what happens, you've got me to protect you."

  "You're actually serious about this?" Prescott asked.

  "Grace hates you so much, she'll never stop hunting you. You'll never feel safe. You'll always hear footsteps behind you. If you want to keep your new identity, you've got to stop her. Help me get my wife back, and I'll help you get rid of Grace."

  "And afterward? If we're successful, if you get your wife back, you won't do anything to harm me?"

  "That's right," Cavanaugh said.

  "In spite of what I did to your team? That's one hell of a leap of faith. Give me a reason to believe you."

  "I'll give you th
e best reason in the world," Cavanaugh said. "My word."

  For the first time, Cavanaugh took his gaze away from the dark horizon. In the glare of the headlights, he turned and looked squarely at Prescott, at the almost unrecognizable mannish features, the pronounced cheeks and jaw, the goatee, the shaved head, and the developed shoulders.

  "I give you my word. Help me get my wife back, and you'll never have anything to fear from me."

  "Your word?" Prescott made it sound like a brand-new concept.

  "And my love for my wife."

  "How do I know this wife even exists? How can I be sure this isn't some trick?"

  "I could have shot you in the parking lot outside the exercise club. I kept you alive because we need each other."

  Prescott's dark eyes reacted.

  "But if that's not good enough, will you believe Grace?" Cavanaugh asked. "The phone at the motel where I'm staying has a speaker function. When I call Grace and you hear her voice, when she talks about my wife, will you believe me then?"

  * * *

  22

  His handgun aimed beneath the jacket in his hands, Prescott followed Cavanaugh into the motel room, then told him to lock the door and close the curtains. Cavanaugh moved carefully, keeping his hands away from his sides, even though he had left his pistol and his Emerson knife in the Taurus, as Prescott had instructed.

  With the curtains closed, Prescott put his jacket on a chair, revealing that he'd followed Cavanaugh's example, even to the extent that his pistol was the same kind he'd seen Cavanaugh carrying: a Sig Sauer 225.

  "This is how we met," Cavanaugh said, "with you pointing a handgun at me."

  The pupils of Prescott's eyes were as huge and dark as they'd been at the warehouse.

  "Remember the conversation we had about adrenaline?" Cavanaugh asked.