The Protector

4

The gloom and the isolation were so total that the air felt denser and smelled staler. He heard Jamie breathing next to him.

"Who's Dr. Rattigan?" Her voice was unsteady. The complete lack of light caused the echo to seem louder.

Cavanaugh's injuries, plus his fear-weakened muscles, made it hard for him to keep his balance in the darkness. "My guess is somebody with a satchelful of syringes and chemicals to help me remember."

"How hard did he hit you?"

"My smile isn't as winning as it used to be." The joke wasn't much, but Cavanaugh had to try to do something to lift Jamie's spirit. "What about you? Are-"

"I need to… I'm sorry, but I have to…"

Cavanaugh heard Jamie feel her way along a wall and into a room. An urgent tug on a buckle was followed by a zipper being pulled down, slacks being dropped, urine hissing on the floor.

"Sorry," she said. "Sorry."

"For what it's worth…" If he hadn't been determined to rouse her spirits, he wouldn't have admitted that his own pants were wet. "When Edgar kicked me, my bladder let go."

And that's something else he and Grace will pay for, Cavanaugh thought.

Fabric made a brushing sound as Jamie readjusted her clothes. "I don't know if I ever told you. When I was a kid, some friends-if I can call them that-locked me in a closet. I don't like the dark."

"I'm not crazy about it, either."

"I have trouble in places that make me feel closed in."

"Maybe I can make the space seem larger." The luminous dial on Cavanaugh's watch showed the rising motion of his hand as he remembered something in the upper pocket of his jacket.

Scrape.

A match flared.

Jamie's surprised face appeared in the flickering light. "Where'd you get-"

"From when we pretended to be smoking outside John's building."

"One of the few benefits anyone ever got from lighting up," Jamie said.

"Edgar's not half as good at searching people as he thinks he is. He also left us our belts."

"What good are-"

"The spike on the buckle can be a weapon."

Cavanaugh felt heat as the match burned closer to his fingers. His trembling hand made the flame waver. Finally, he had to drop it.

"Step next to me," he said. "Hold my jacket."

The sound of cloth being torn echoed in the darkness.

"What are you doing?" Jamie asked.

"Ripping off my shirtsleeves."

"Why would-"

"To make torches." Cavanaugh tugged at the fabric, which was stronger than he'd expected. Finally, he had both sleeves off. His bare arms felt a chill that radiated from the concrete around him. Quickly, he put his coat back on.

"My turn," Jamie said. She gave him her blazer. The finer material of her blouse made it easier for her and Cavanaugh to tear the sleeves off. She shoved them into a pocket.

"We'll be able to see for a while," Jamie said, "but we still won't be able to get out of here."

"Imagine you're Prescott." Cavanaugh removed his belt and shoved the spike on its buckle through the end of one of his torn-off sleeves. "Suspicious as he is, he wouldn't like feeling closed in any more than we do. That concrete door comes down and-"

"The hydraulics could fail," Jamie said. "Everybody could be trapped and suffocate. Prescott definitely wouldn't like to think about running out of air."

"Right." Cavanaugh struck another match and applied the flame to the end of his sleeve. Like many fabrics, it had been treated with a fire retardant. That wouldn't stop the cloth from catching fire, but it would prevent the fire from spreading quickly, which was what Cavanaugh needed.

He set the sleeve on the floor and pulled it with his belt. That way, he wouldn't risk burning his hand. His buckle clattered along the concrete. Meanwhile, the shimmering light caused Jamie's face to lose a little of its tension.

"A tunnel that goes to Prescott's mansion," she said.

"Exactly."

The buckle continued to clatter as they moved toward the steps leading up to the door. Next to the steps, on the right, the burning sleeve revealed a corridor. They followed the narrow passageway, only to be stopped by a door.

The door was locked.

Cavanaugh folded up his jacket collar and removed his lock-pick tools. He set the belt on the floor, tried to steady his hands, and went to work.

"Can you see to do it?" Jamie asked.

"Most of this is feel." Giving Jamie the lesson he'd promised, hoping to distract her, and distracting himself in the process, Cavanaugh explained what he was doing. Applying torque with the end of one pick, he inserted the second pick into the key slot. The lock was solid and had six pins, each of which he nudged.

In fifteen seconds, despite his trembling fingers, Cavanaugh had disabled the lock.

But when he pulled the door open, the dwindling flames revealed a solid plug of fallen stones and scorched timbers, a sight that made Jamie moan.

"It'll take hours to clean out this much debris, assuming we can do it at all," Cavanaugh said.

The flame weakened.

"Not to mention, the noise we'd make would attract attention on the surface. We'd have a dozen submachine guns pointed at us if we managed to crawl out."

The flame died.

"What are we going to do?" Jamie asked.

Without an answer, Cavanaugh attached another torn sleeve to the buckle and lit it. Hurrying, he led the way back along the tunnel. "What did Grace say about all this? What did she mention they took out of here?"

"The air-conditioning and the heating systems. Maybe we can use the ductwork," Jamie said quickly. "Maybe there's a ventilation shaft that leads to the surface."

They reached the main corridor. At the bottom of the stairs leading up to the concrete door, Cavanaugh glanced toward the ceiling, finding a two-foot-square gap where a ventilation grille had been removed.

Crouching, he interlaced his hands and made them into a stirrup. When Jamie stepped onto them, he straightened, lifting her.

She was tall enough that she had no trouble reaching the gap in the ceiling. She eased her head up through it.

"See anything?" Cavanaugh asked.

"I can't fit through it, so I guarantee you can't. Damn it, in the movies, the air-conditioning ducts are always big enough for Andre the Giant."

As Cavanaugh lowered her, the burning sleeve began to dim. Smoke rose. "What else did Grace say? What else did they take out of here?"

"The plumbing fixtures. The lights. The-"

"We know there's electricity." Cavanaugh glanced at the wires protruding from small gaps in the walls. "Otherwise, the system that raises the concrete slab wouldn't work."

"What switch would have activated the door from the inside?" Jamie headed toward wires in a gap to the right of the steps. Plastic caps covered the ends of the wires.

Cavanaugh pulled the caps off and studied the bare tips of the wires. "The switch that was here was the closest to the steps. If I press these wires together, will they make a circuit and cause the door to open?"

In the dimming light, Jamie looked hopeful. Then the spirit in her eyes faded. "There'll be guards outside. They'll see and hear the door move."

"Maybe not. If I only tap these wires together, there'll be sound and movement just for an instant. Maybe not long enough for anybody to notice. At least we'll know if these wires control the door."

"But what good will that do? We'll still be trapped in here." "Until later," Cavanaugh said. "Until we think the timing's better. Then we can open the door all the way."

"Is that before or after Dr. Rattigan fills you full of chemicals to refresh your memory?"

Cavanaugh didn't know what to answer. We've got to try something, he thought.

As he was about to tap the wires together, the door moved seemingly on its own, the hydraulic system droning, the door rising.

Sunlight revealed the silhouettes of Grace, Edgar, and half a dozen armed men.

Cavanaugh stepped on the burning sleeve to extinguish it, then grabbed his belt and pulled Jamie into the shadows of a room. He didn't know what he hoped to accomplish, but anything was better than standing in the open. He removed the matchbook from his pocket and tore off several of the matches, along with a quarter inch of the abrasive paper, putting them in a different pocket. Then he crushed the matchbook inside his fist.

Heavy footsteps indicated that the armed men came down the steps first.

Grace and Edgar followed. "Show yourselves," Grace said. "If you make us search for you, we'll throw flash-bangs into each room."

The threat of ruptured eardrums was enough to persuade Cavanaugh to emerge into the corridor, Jamie coming with him.

"I smell smoke." Grace glanced toward the ashy remnants of the burned sleeve on the floor.

"For light," Cavanaugh said.

"How'd you set fire to the clothing?"

"Matches."

Grace gave Edgar a look of disgust.

There was enough light spilling through the entrance for Cavanaugh to see that the gunmen didn't have the distinctive bulky look that came from wearing Kevlar vests under their shirts. They wore utility belts with two-way radios, Beretta pistols, extra ammunition, and flash-bang canisters.

Cavanaugh shifted his gaze toward Edgar's baggy pants pockets. Something heavy weighed down the right side, presumably one of the pistols that Edgar had taken. The clip on the Emerson knife was secured to the outside of Edgar's other pocket.

"Toss the matches over," Grace said.

Cavanaugh obeyed.

"What did you do, run over them with a car?" Looking disgusted, Grace picked them up, their mutilated appearance making the missing quarter inch of abrasive paper seem normal. "I've got a computer in the car and access to the Internet." Grace gestured with several computer printouts. "Before the good doctor gets here, maybe you'd like to refresh your memory the easy way. Troy Donahue." The sunlight behind Grace allowed her to read from one of the pages. "Tall, blond, blue-eyed teenage heartthrob known for his wooden acting. Peak of popularity-late fifties, early sixties. Major hits: A Summer Place. Susan Slade. Par-rish. Rome Adventure. Palm Springs Weekend.' Do any of those sound familiar?"

"All I saw was the box for the video," Cavanaugh said. "I have no idea what the movie was about. The female costar's name was on the box. Mention some actresses."

Grace frowned at the page. "Connie Stevens. Sandra Dee. Suzanne Pleshette. Stefanie Powers."

"Sandra Dee," Cavanaugh said, knowing he had to keep Grace patient by giving her something. "The one with Sandra Dee."

"A Summer Place." Grace read the plot summary. " 'Love at a resort town in Maine.' Maybe Prescott was planning to go to Maine." She looked at another printout. "Clint Eastwood movies. You said 'thriller'?"

"It definitely wasn't a war movie or a Western."

"Dirty Harry."

"No."

"Magnum Force. The Enforcer. The Dead Pool."

"No."

"The Eiger Sanction. Play Misty for Me. Thunderbolt and Light-foot. Tightrope."

"No." With a rush of emotion, Cavanaugh suddenly remembered the title of the movie. He managed to keep his face blank, concealing his reaction.

"You're starting to annoy me. The Gauntlet. The Rookie. In the Line of Fire."

"No."

"A Perfect World. Absolute Power. True Crime. Blood Work."

"No."

"Definitely annoying me. End of list. End of discussion. The doctor'll be here in thirty minutes. It'll be a pleasure watching him do his magic on you."

Grace turned angrily and left. Edgar and the armed men followed. The concrete door again descended. Again, Cavanaugh savored the last moments of light. Again, total darkness surrounded them.