The Protector

4

The tremble of the phone against Cavanaugh's stomach brought him immediately to consciousness. Years of discipline had trained him to clear sleep's fuzz from his mind and become instantly alert. He felt the phone tremble a second time as he crawled up the hollow's slope, listened for any threatening sounds, and then peered cautiously from beneath the carefully arranged branches. The phone trembled a third time while he sniffed the smoke in the air. But there wasn't any haze, and he concluded that for now he was safe.

Sliding back into the hollow, he holstered his handgun and answered the phone. "Taco Bell." That was another of their codes.

"Good. You're open," Jamie said, completing the sequence. "When you didn't answer right away-"

"Just taking a snooze." With the phone pressed to his ear, he glanced at his watch, the hands of which were close to 4:30. "Where are you?"

"Approaching town. I see the crossroads. You weren't kidding about the fire. The mountain's covered with smoke. There's a roadblock."

"In town?" Cavanaugh hoped that it hadn't been moved lower.

"Yes, in town. A policeman's turning away a couple of cars ahead of me."

"You can make the turn at the crossroads?"

"Yes."

"I'll be waiting."

He broke the connection, put the phone in his jacket, and grabbed the Kevlar vest. After another cautious look past the branches that covered the hollow, he squirmed up into the forest, reached the bushes at its edge, and studied the north-south road. Above it, as Jamie had said, the mountain was covered with smoke. The fire seemed to have headed westward instead of toward town. A helicopter flew over the smoke, dropping water.

When a van with an unflashing emergency light went past, he stayed low, waiting until the noise of its engine receded. Then he peered toward the road again, saw nothing to alarm him, and shifted into a grassy ditch, following it to the culvert. Once inside, he listened for the echo of a car stopping above him.

A minute later, one did stop.

Someone opened a door and shut it. He heard footsteps on pavement and then gravel, someone circling a car, as if checking for a flat tire.

"Where are you?" Jamie asked quietly.

He moved to the culvert's edge. "Look up and down the road. Anybody watching?"

"Not a soul."

"Get back in the car. Wait until I slip into the rear seat. Then drive away."

Cavanaugh listened to Jamie's footsteps returning to the driver's door. His heart pounded faster. The moment he heard her open the driver's door, he left the culvert, rose from the ditch toward the dark Taurus, opened the door, threw in the Kevlar vest, and climbed in after it. Lying flat on the seat, he closed the rear door.

Jamie wore a tan linen jacket. Her glossy dark hair was silhouetted against the windshield. As she put the Taurus into gear, she glanced back. Her green eyes widened at the sight of the dried blood all over him, at his torn clothes, the dirt, the soot, his singed hair, and the duct tape on his shoulder. "Oh Christ," she said.

She made him proud by overcoming her shock, turning forward, and stepping on the accelerator, keeping the vehicle at a speed that was reasonable enough not to attract attention.

"How bad?" Tense, she kept her gaze on the road.

"It looks worse than it is." His words were like stones in his throat.

He saw a flat of bottled water on the floor. Shrink-wrapped plastic covered it. Mouth dry, tongue swollen, he yanked at a tab that allowed him to peel off the plastic.

"Are you"-she took a breath-"shot?"

"Yes." He grabbed a bottle and untwisted its cap.

"Then how could it be worse?"

"It wasn't center of mass. Only my shoulder." Staying low, Cavanaugh dumped water into his mouth, some of it spilling over his lips, then onto his jacket and the seat. His tongue was like a sponge, absorbing it.

Jamie's voice became agitated. "Is that like saying 'It's only a flesh wound'? What is that? Duct tape?"

"Don't leave home without it."

"You patched yourself up like you're a leaky pipe? For God's sake, you could die from infection. I'm taking you to a doctor."

"No," Cavanaugh said quickly. "No doctor."

"But-"

"A doctor would have to report a gunshot wound to the police. I don't want the police involved. I don't want the authorities to know I'm alive."

"Doesn't Protective Services have doctors?"

"Yes."

"Then-"

"I can't let anybody there know I'm alive, either."

"What the hell is going on?"

Cavanaugh gulped more water. He was so parched, he could feel it flow down his throat and into his esophagus. Next to the flat of bottled water, he saw a small Styrofoam cooler. His wounded shoulder aching, he pulled off the cooler's top and looked inside.

"Pastrami on rye," Jamie said. "Potato salad and coleslaw. There're a couple of dill pickles in there, too."

Cavanaugh bit off a chunk of sandwich and chewed it hungrily. With the first swallow, though, he suddenly felt ill. He lay back, staring at the ceiling, which seemed to waver as he felt the smooth vibration of the car.

"You're serious? No doctor?" Jamie asked.

"No doctor."

"Where do you want me to take you?"

"Back to the highway. Head north. Albany's about an hour away. Check us into a motel, one of those places where you can park outside the room."

"Let me guess-nothing fancy, right?"

"On the seedy side. Where it's not unusual to pay cash and people don't like to phone the police."

"I can tell this is going to be charming."

"Did you bring a first-aid kit?"

"Something in your voice made me think I should get a big one. It's with those bags of clothes on the floor."

Cavanaugh sorted among the bags and found a plastic first-aid kit the size of a large phone book. His wound aching more, he pried the kit open and sorted among bandages, ointments, a pair of scissors, finding several two-capsule packets of Tylenol. He tore a couple of packets open and swallowed their contents, downing them with water. Drink slowly, he warned himself.

Don't make yourself sick.

"I've been patient," Jamie said. "I've asked you only once."

"You want to know what's going on."

"Gosh, how did you guess?"

"I've never told you about my assignments."

"That's right." Jamie kept driving. "But this time you will."

"Yes," Cavanaugh said. "If you're going to risk your life to help me, you have a right to know what you're getting into. This time, I'll tell you."