The Protector Read online

  Prescott nodded, drawing his tongue along his lips. "At the bunker."

  "I told you that someone who masters adrenaline, who prefers the 'fight' option, can't be called brave. But someone like you, who somehow functions in spite of being afraid, who wants to run away but instead faces his threats head-on, is brave."

  "Don't flatter me. All I want is to be free of my enemies."

  Cavanaugh pointed toward the bureau. "I'm going to open this drawer and show you something."

  "Do it slowly."

  Using only the fingertips of his left hand, Cavanaugh pulled out the drawer. "Bras. Panties. I gave up cross-dressing a long time ago."

  "What?" Prescott's cheeks turned red.

  "In the bathroom, you'll find a woman's toilet kit. Hair spray. Lipstick. Facial cream. A dinky razor. I don't want you to have any doubt that I'm traveling with a woman."

  "All right, I'm convinced," Prescott said, uncomfortable. "The question is, Has she been kidnapped?"

  From his shirt pocket, Cavanaugh removed the piece of paper Grace had given him. He went over to the bedside phone, touched 9 for an outside line, touched the button to activate the phone's speaker function, then called the cell phone Grace had said she'd be using.

  Sitting on beds across from each other, he and Prescott, who still had the pistol aimed at Cavanaugh, listened to a buzz.

  A second buzz.

  Just as Cavanaugh started to worry that Grace would be out of touch, a stern female voice answered, "Hello."

  Cavanaugh looked at Prescott, as if to ask, Do you recognize it?

  Prescott's lips became pale.

  The cell phone reception had some static. Good, Cavanaugh thought. She won't notice the slightly hollow sound a speaker phone causes.

  "It's me," Cavanaugh said.

  "I hope you're calling with good news."

  "I've got Prescott."

  "Dead?"

  "I want to hear my wife's voice."

  "I asked you if he's dead."

  "And I said I want to hear my wife's voice."

  Cavanaugh heard more static, then muffled, annoyed voices in the background.

  At once, Grace's sharp voice returned, saying, "Tell him you're okay."

  No response.

  "For Christ's sake, tell him!"

  "I'm"—Jamie's pain-tight voice made Cavanaugh's throat ache in sympathy—"all right."

  "There," Grace intruded. "She's fine. Now what about Prescott?"

  "What the hell have you done to her?"

  "Nothing that I can't make more painful."

  Cavanaugh had a sudden harrowing image of Jamie with blood all over her face.

  "The sooner you get her back, the sooner she gets tender loving care," Grace said in a mocking tone. "Prescott. You said you had good news. Is he dead?"

  "No."

  "Then that isn't good news at all. Why haven't you killed him?"

  Cavanaugh looked at Prescott, silently asking, Do you see? I was telling the truth.

  Prescott's shaved head glinted with sweat.

  "Because I want to make sure I'll get my wife back," Cavanaugh said.

  "You don't trust me to keep my end of the bargain?"

  "Not if I deliver a corpse to you. What motive would you have to give her to me? Now I've got something to trade. When I see my wife, you can see Prescott. When you let my wife go, I'll let him go. After that, you can do whatever you want with him."

  "Damn it, this isn't what we agreed."

  "But it's the way it's going to be."

  The transmition became silent, except for an electronic hiss.

  "I don't like being pressured," Grace said.

  "You ought to feel delighted. You told me you had until tomorrow morning to regain the trust of your controllers. This way, you're ahead of schedule. Just give me my wife, and you can have Prescott. Both our problems are almost over."

  Grace lapsed into silence and finally let out an exhausted, frustrated sigh. "Where do you want to make the exchange?"

  For a third time, Cavanaugh looked at Prescott. On the way to the motel, they'd discussed the logistics of the trade-off if Cavanaugh could convince Prescott he was telling the truth and if Prescott chose to go forward. Prescott, who had spent a lot of time researching the Carmel area, had made the suggestion.

  Cavanaugh now told her, "About fifteen miles south of Carmel on Highway One, there's a road that heads into the mountains. A sign says historic site."

  "Just what I need: culture. What's the historic site?"

  "A stone chapel a hermit built in 1906. He was a banker whose family died in the San Francisco earthquake. Most of the place collapsed a long time ago. Hardly anybody goes there."

  "And how exactly do you know about this place?"

  "I've been to Carmel before," Cavanaugh said, lying. "Once, when I drove up from Los Angeles, I saw the turnoff and decided to check it out."

  "And I'm supposed to feel confident meeting you there?"

  "Hey, you're the one who's got help. All I want is to get rid of this son of a bitch and get my wife back. What you do with Prescott up in the hills, with no one to bother you, is your business. I thought you'd appreciate the privacy."

  Another frustrated, weary exhale. Grace's suspicions fought with her need to regain the confidence of her superiors. "When?"

  "An hour."

  "Can't get there by then. Make it two." Grace broke the connection.

  * * *

  23

  Cavanaugh deactivated the phone's speaker function and put the handset onto its cradle. Numb around his mouth, he looked at Prescott and the weapon Prescott aimed at him. "So?"

  Drawing an unsteady breath, Prescott seemed to perform an astonishing act of will, mustering his resources, somehow looking more compact and solid in the process. He studied the numbers on the bedside clock—10:20. "She's lying about needing two hours to get there."

  "That's right."

  "She'll get there as soon as possible," Prescott said. "To set up a trap and make sure you're not setting up one."

  "Right again. I keep telling you: You missed your true profession."

  "There isn't much time," Prescott said.

  "So what are you going to do, keep running, always looking over your shoulder, or end your problems tonight?"

  Prescott stared at him or, rather, stared through him, as if Cavanaugh weren't there, as if Prescott peered at a bleak horizon that consisted of unending days and nights of being hunted.

  At last, he stood. The dark of his goatee contrasted starkly with the pallor of his cheeks. Sweat oozed from his scalp. He looked as if the next two words were the hardest he'd ever spoken. "Let's go."

  * * *

  PART SEVEN

  Threat Elimination

  * * *

  1

  "Take off your shirt. Put this on." Cavanaugh reached under the cover on the Taurus's backseat and pulled out the bullet-resistant vest he'd hidden beneath it. "Your shirt's loose enough that it won't be obvious you're wearing the vest. Then put on your jacket to conceal your pistol."

  The Taurus was parked in a shadowy area at the back of the motel's parking lot. Using the car for concealment, Prescott did what he was told. The brief glimpse that Cavanaugh got of Prescott's reduced stomach and developed chest muscles surprised him.

  When Prescott put on his jacket, Cavanaugh grabbed a roll of duct tape from the rear floor. "Now get in front. While I drive, wrap this around your ankles."

  Prescott looked suspicious.

  "Make it appear secure," Cavanaugh said. "Then use this." Cavanaugh opened the driver's door and picked up the Emerson knife from where Prescott had insisted he put it, along with his pistol, near the car's pedals. With his thumb against the tab on the back of the blade, Cavanaugh flicked the knife open and gave it to Prescott. "Cut the tape on the inside so the force of your legs can break it if you need to."

  Prescott continued looking suspicious.

  "This close to you, don't you think I could have t
aken that pistol from you and killed you?" Cavanaugh asked. "While you're with me, you're safe. Wrap the tape around your ankles; then use this knife. Be careful. The blade's sharp."

  Cavanaugh got into the car, picked up the pistol on the floor, holstered it, and waited for Prescott to join him. Prescott had to muster more resolve before he got in.

  Immediately, Cavanaugh drove two blocks to a brightly lit grocery store he'd noticed when he and Prescott had gone to the motel. open 'til midnight, its neon sign read. He ran in and came back five minutes later with a paper bag, which he emptied on the seat.

  As Cavanaugh drove away, Prescott peered down at four objects: a bottle of colorless corn syrup, a bottle of red food dye, a plastic bowl, and a large plastic spoon. "What are these for?"

  "Stir some of the corn syrup and food dye together in the bowl." Cavanaugh steered toward Highway 1. "For God's sake, why?"

  "Without a professional makeup kit, that's the best way to imitate scabs and drying blood."

  They joined headlights moving south on Highway 1. Despite his impatience, Cavanaugh stayed exactly at the speed limit. The dashboard clock showed 10:40. Needing to be at the rendezvous site as quickly as possible, they'd already lost twenty minutes.

  Prescott finished stirring the mixture and reached into his jacket, pulling out a gray metal tube. Cavanaugh tensed. "Is that..."

  "The hormone?" Prescott nodded. "You were right. I didn't use it on you at the beach because the breeze would have blown it away from you. If I twist the cap, there's a safety delay of twenty seconds. Then the pressurized contents are released." "You plan to use it at the rendezvous?"

  "Position us so the wind's at our backs."

  "Suppose that's not possible. If I get a whiff of that stuff, I won't be able to help you. Or what if Grace and her partner react the way the Rangers did in Florida? Instead of running, they might fire in panic. Jamie might get shot."

  Prescott didn't respond.

  "No," Cavanaugh said.

  "But—"

  "Put it on the seat."

  Prescott stared at him.

  "Do it," Cavanaugh said. "Leave it there."

  Prescott put the tube on the seat.

  "Because of that stuff, for the first time I understand what fear is," Cavanaugh said. "Is there a neutralizer?" He hoped the question seemed casual.

  "Of course. Otherwise, even with the safety delay, the weapon might affect whoever triggers it."

  "The antidote doesn't take away fear?"

  "Only the fear the hormone causes."

  "I want you to give it to me," Cavanaugh said.

  "I can't."

  "Why?"

  "I don't have the antidote with me," Prescott said. "But even if I could give it to you, it wouldn't make a difference right now."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "You'd still be afraid for your wife. Once you love somebody, you start fearing something might happen to that person. Fortunately, that's one fear I've managed to avoid. Now you'll get to find out."

  "Find out?"

  "What it takes to be brave."

  * * *

  2

  They passed Carmel, moving farther south, the headlights of traffic dwindling until there were only occasional vehicles as they reached the mostly unpopulated area around Point Lobos.

  Soon, through the shadows of trees, Cavanaugh saw the lights of isolated houses. "What's this place?"

  "Carmel Highlands. It's a small community of houses on a bluff above the ocean."

  Cavanaugh saw a road on the right leading into it. Headlights piercing the shadows, he steered onto the road and parked among the trees.

  He shut off the headlights. "I couldn't do this earlier because there was too much traffic. A policeman might have seen your face and stopped us."

  Cavanaugh took the plastic spoon, dug it into the mixture in the bowl, and smeared the red-tinted corn syrup across the left side of Prescott's mouth, onto his left cheek and temple, and like a gash across his shaved skull. Exposed to the air, the mixture had started to coagulate, making Prescott look as if blood had thickened on his face.

  When Cavanaugh switched the headlights back on, the glow from the dashboard allowed him to study the effect. "It looks like you belong in the emergency ward."

  "But I can smell the corn syrup."

  "By the time you're close enough to Grace for her to smell it, she'll be dead."

  "I have to be sure."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Do it for real."

  "I don't know what you're—"

  "Cut me," Prescott said.

  "What?"

  "My scalp. Scalp wounds are terrific bleeders. The coppery smell will disguise the corn syrup."

  "Jesus," Cavanaugh said.

  "Do it." Prescott flinched as Cavanaugh raised the Emerson knife.

  Cavanaugh could only imagine the control Prescott needed in order to remain still while he cut a two-inch slit across the top of Prescott's forehead.

  Blood streamed.

  Cavanaugh wiped the side of the knife over Prescott's face and the drying mixture.

  Prescott now looked like the living dead.

  "Hold out your hands," Cavanaugh said.

  The hands shook as Cavanaugh twisted duct tape around Prescott's wrists. Inserting the Emerson knife between Prescott's wrists, Cavanaugh carefully cut the inside of the tape in front and back. He made the tape look intact from a distance but weakened it so that Prescott would have no trouble snapping it.

  "Okay?" Cavanaugh asked.

  Prescott tested the tape on his wrists, almost pulling it apart. His breathing trembled when he inhaled. "Okay."

  Cavanaugh reversed direction and returned to Highway 1, continuing south. On the right, the moon cast a glow over the ocean. On the left, there were only occasional lights in the mountains. Except for the Taurus, the road was deserted.

  "Around the next turn," Prescott said, his voice strained.

  "You know this area fairly well."

  "When I started losing weight, I avoided crowds until my appearance was sufficiently changed. I spent a lot of time hiking around here."

  As Cavanaugh rounded the curve, the Taurus's headlights revealed the historic site marker. He steered to the left onto a bumpy dirt lane that went up through murky trees.

  The lane reached a moonlit meadow, then zigzagged up through more trees. A few times, furrows in the lane caused the Taurus's underside to bump across stones and dirt. Overhead, branches blocked the moonlit sky. Bushes scraped the car.

  "Soon there'll be another meadow," Prescott said. "The chapel's built against a slope on the opposite side. Not that there's much to see." Prescott's breathing was more rapid and strident. "Except for a little tower with a cross on top, everything's collapsed."

  "Count to three slowly as you inhale."

  "What?"

  "Hold your breath for three counts. Then exhale for three counts. Keep doing that. It'll help. Now slump down before they see you. Pretend you're unconscious."

  Pale even in the darkness, Prescott obeyed.

  Cavanaugh listened to the exaggerated, measured pattern of Prescott's breathing. Simultaneously, he felt each jounce of the car along the lane as if it were the lurching of his heart. He turned a sharp corner and emerged from the dark trees into another meadow, this one illuminated not only by moonlight but also by the sudden glare of headlights where Prescott had said the chapel would be.

  "Damn it, she's here ahead of us," Cavanaugh said.

  * * *

  3

  He didn't slow, didn't react as if he was alarmed, just kept following the lane, heading toward the headlights. "Ready?" he asked Prescott on the floor.

  "It's a little late to say I want to back out."

  "Five minutes from now, you'll be safe. I'll have my wife, and you'll be free."

  "That trick with the future tense did wonders for me when you were rescuing me from the warehouse," Prescott said. "Yes. Five minutes from now, you'll h
ave your wife, and I'll be free."

  Hearing Prescott say it, Cavanaugh felt some of the magic of the words. "Let's see if you're as good an actor as you are a biochemist."

  "And let's see"—Prescott held his breath for three beats—"if you're as good a protector as you promised to be."

  The Taurus came closer to the headlights. Grace stood on crutches next to a car whose popularity and hence ability to blend made it a favorite among security specialists: a Mercury Sable. Behind the vehicle, the cross on the chapel's tower caught the glare of Cavanaugh's headlights. Collapsed walls lay below it.

  He stopped eighty feet from Grace's car, out of practical nighttime pistol range. There was always the chance that she had someone with a rifle hiding among the trees, but the shooter would need a night-vision scope to aim properly, and Cavanaugh doubted that Grace could have gotten that sort of sophisticated equipment this late and so quickly. Besides, the glare of both sets of headlights would interfere with most night-vision equipment, which worked by magnifying the illumination from the moon and the stars and which would be overpowered by the headlights—in effect, blinding a sniper.

  Cavanaugh left the engine idling and the headlights on as he got out. The night was cold, exaggerating the already-cold feeling in his chest.

  Squinting from the lights, trying to keep his voice steady, he called to Grace, "You got here early." It reminded him of the start of their conversation at fog-enshrouded Tor House that morning. His voice echoed off the surrounding wooded slopes.

  "You don't sound surprised any more than I'm surprised that you tried to get here early," Grace said. "Open all your car doors."

  Cavanaugh did. The only reason for Grace to tell him to open the doors was for someone among the trees at the side to be able to see if anyone was hiding in the car, he knew. It made him worry that he'd miscalculated, that a sniper was indeed concealed on a slope and that the night-vision scope the sniper had was one of the few sophisticated enough, based on heat detection, rather than light magnification, not to be compromised by the headlights.