The Protector

5

Ocean Avenue was the only Carmel street that went directly from the highway down to the water. Steep and several blocks long, it was separated by a median of shrubs and sheltering trees. Quaint shops and relaxed-looking tourists flanked it.

While Jamie drove, Cavanaugh scanned the people on the sidewalk, wondering if he'd get lucky and see Prescott.

It didn't happen.

At the bottom of the hill, they came to waves pounding a picture-postcard mile-long crescent-shaped beach of amazingly white sand. Sections of bedrock protruded. Cypresses spread fernlike branches. Two surfers in wet suits rode the whitecaps. Dogs frolicked through the waves while their owners strolled behind them. Gulls soared.

But Cavanaugh's attention was focused on the people along the beach, none of whom reminded him of Prescott.

Jamie steered left and followed a scenic road along the water. Rustic homes were enclosed by trees, some of which were Monterey pines, their guidebook said, while others showed the distinctive twisted trunks of wind-contorted live oaks.

Jamie pointed toward an outcrop on the right. "There's the house from A Summer Place."

It still reminded Cavanaugh of the prow of a ship, but the constant crashing of waves had not been kind to it. "Looks deserted," he said, giving it only a moment's notice before continuing to concentrate on people walking along the beach or the side of the road.

Prescott wasn't any of them.