The Protector

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.