The Protector

11

Fog made the morning like twilight. Arriving at 7:00 a.m., an hour early, he parked a block away from Tor House. He shut off the headlights, the windshield wipers, and the engine, then stepped out into the fog. The car's heater had done little to warm him. Now the chill dampness made him tremble. Wanting to button his sport coat against the cold but needing to keep it open so he could draw his pistol, he forced himself to move. The fog thickened, shadows deepening. The echo of his footsteps made him shift to the side of the road, where fallen pine needles provided a cushion.

As he approached the street on which Tor House was located, he wasn't sure what he hoped to accomplish by arriving early. The fog prevented him from identifying any ambush sites. What am I supposed to do when Grace shows up? he wondered. Shoot? Hope to wound her? Try to force her to tell me where Jamie is? Grace won't let it be that easy, and if this is an ambush, she could just as easily shoot me.

Pausing, trying to assess the shadows of trees, shrubs, and houses before him, Cavanaugh realized that he should have listened to Jamie and not gone after Prescott. Then she wouldn't be missing and he wouldn't be standing here in the fog, as afraid as he'd ever been in his life.

No longer afraid for himself. Afraid for Jamie.

He had difficulty making his legs work. If, in the past weeks, anger had helped him to offset fear, the need to protect Jamie now proved to be an even greater force. During the night, he'd considered doing what Jamie had wanted and asking the FBI for help, but with no time to coordinate a plan, with the risk of a hastily assembled hostage-rescue team giving itself away, there was every chance that Grace would have sensed the danger and not shown up, destroying Cavanaugh's potentially single chance to save Jamie.

As he passed murky trees and spectral homes, shifting closer to where he estimated Tor House was, the fog chilled him to the core, a sensation he would not have thought possible, given the searing heat in his stomach. Because no one lived in Tor House, he was tempted to hide somewhere on the grounds, possibly in Hawk Tower, and hope that the fog would thin in an hour, allowing him to watch Grace's approach.

For all I know, Grace is already hiding on the grounds, he thought. Maybe she's in the tower.

Bup-bup.

The sound made Cavanaugh's heart lurch. He stopped halfway through the fog-shrouded intersection.

Bup-bup.

The sound came closer.

Bup-bup.

Seeing motion in the fog, Cavanaugh drew his pistol.

Bup-bup.

A silhouette appeared at the edge of the fog. The noises stopped.

In the distance, the surf pounded.

"You got here an hour early, huh?" a voice asked. Grace's. "Trying for an advantage. How come I'm not surprised?"

Cavanaugh couldn't speak.

"I'm stepping closer," Grace said. "I'd appreciate it if you don't shoot me again."

Bup-bup.

Grace's tall, trim silhouette emerged from the fog. Again, she had a pseudomilitary look: khaki pants, a matching tuck-in sweater, and a photographer's jacket, the kind with numerous loops and pockets, good for concealing a weapon.

But what Cavanaugh noticed most were the crutches she held under her armpits. The rubber pads on the bottom accounted for the noise he'd heard on the pavement. A cast covered her lower left leg.

"A good thing it's the left one. Otherwise, I'd have trouble driving. Care to autograph the cast? X marks the spot where you shot me?"

Again, Cavanaugh couldn't answer.

"Maybe later," Grace said. "After we finish our business." The fog drifted around her short blond hair, creating the illusion that the fog emanated from it. Her high-cheekboned face might have been attractive if her expression hadn't been so disagreeable.

She frowned at the Beretta in Cavanaugh's hand.

He holstered it.

Somewhere in the fog, a door banged.

"Let's go down to the beach, before we wake the neighbors," Grace said.

She swung her feet forward, set them down, and moved the crutches. One landed slightly later than the other. Bup-bup.

"Shooting me is something I can understand," she said, "but forcing me to watch all those Troy Donahue movies is unforgivable."

Bup-bup.

"I couldn't tell if you were lying that the movie also starred Sandra Dee, so I had to suffer through Donahue's greatest hits. Rome Adventure? With so many terrorist threats against Americans in foreign countries, someone as suspicious as Prescott wouldn't go to Europe. For sure, the tobacco farms in Parrish aren't Prescott's thing, even with all the sex-starved women the movie expects us to believe lurk among the tobacco plants. Palm Springs Weekend? It has the golf course Prescott wants, but because he built his lab in a lush Virginia valley, I couldn't imagine him living in a desert. That left A Summer Place and that amazing beach, which turned out not to be in Maine at all."

The fog parted enough to reveal that Cavanaugh and Grace had reached the scenic drive above the surf. Cold sweat beaded Cavanaugh's face.

"But to find that out," Grace said, "I had to watch every Clint Eastwood thriller I could get my hands on. As much as I enjoy watching Clint shoot bad guys, a steady diet of it can be a little much after a couple of days. I'm not sure I'll ever be able to make myself go to another movie of his. That's something else I blame you for."

"Where did you spot us?"

"I concentrated on Prescott's interest in golf. I knew sooner or later you'd look for him where every golfer dreams of playing: Pebble Beach. Yesterday, you showed up there."

Cavanaugh didn't respond for a moment.

The surf kept pounding.

"Shit," he said.

"Then I waited for my chance."

"How did you manage to subdue Jennifer?"

"Spare me the disinformation. The ID in her purse says her real name is Jamie. I called in a favor from a friend. My only friend, I might add. Thanks to you, the Justice Department is investigating Prescott's lab and everybody associated with it. At the moment, my controllers would prefer that Prescott and I both didn't exist. My friend gave Jamie a touch of this." Grace showed Cavanaugh a small spray container. It was sealed in a plastic bag. "The guy behind the counter seemed relieved that we got Jamie out of there. Fainting isn't the best advertisement for an exercise club. My crutches added sympathy. Nobody suspects that a woman with crutches is anything but a victim."

It seemed to Cavanaugh that his heart pounded louder than the surf. "Is Jamie safe?"

"As much as can be expected. But whether she's going to be depends on you. Have you had enough time to think about how much you miss her? Are you ready to do what you're told?"

Temples throbbing, Cavanaugh waited for her to explain.

"I need Prescott," she said. "It's the only way to keep my controllers from considering me a liability. If I can get him, if I can complete my assignment and deliver proof that he's dead, they might trust me again, enough that they'll let me disappear on my terms, rather than theirs."

Cavanaugh felt sick.

"You're going to get him for me," Grace said.

"You followed us around the area. Isn't it obvious I don't know where he is? Damn it, I don't have any better idea of where he is than you do."

"But you've got two good legs, and because of you, I don't. If you want Jamie back, find him," Grace said. "Find him by this time tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?"

"That's how much time you've got. That's how much time I've got. If the situation with Prescott isn't settled by tomorrow, my controllers will be so panicked, so distrustful of me, I'll never be able to regain their confidence. Find him. Here's my cell-phone number." Grace handed Cavanaugh a piece of paper.

"You want me to bring him to you?"

"Bring him to me? Hell no. I want you to kill him, then show me the body."

Cavanaugh couldn't help thinking that setting out to kill Prescott was what had caused this mess.

"Here," Grace said. "Maybe this'll help."

She gave him the sealed plastic bag containing the spray container that had made Jamie faint.

"It lasts a couple of hours," she said. "The chemical works via skin contact. Be sure you wear a latex glove when you administer it." As Cavanaugh put the bag in his jacket pocket, she added, "If I don't hear from you by this time tomorrow morning, the next thing you'll get from me will be Jamie's corpse."

They stared at each other.

The surf roared.

Grace stepped into the gloom.

As the sound of her crutches receded, the fog became colder. Shaking, Cavanaugh wanted to follow her, in the hope that she'd lead him to where Jamie was being held. But trying to follow Grace on foot would be useless once she got in her car and drove away. Even if he managed to identify the make of the car and get a license number, he didn't have a way to trace it. Moreover, he had to assume that Grace might have rented a car and would never be associated with it again. The alternative was to hurry to the Taurus and drive back to this street on the unlikely chance that Grace would not yet have reached her car. But in the fog, he'd be forced to use his headlights. She was bound to see them.

If she felt he was a threat, she might decide to cut her losses, kill Jamie, and do her best to disappear.

No, he thought. I have to find Prescott.

And then? he wondered. Can I depend on Grace to keep her word and let Jamie go?

Bup-bup. The sound of the crutches became fainter. In the fog, the dim headlights of an indistinct car swept past him on the scenic drive. The car's engine became a murmur as the vehicle stopped. A door was opened and then slammed shut. The sound of the car receded into the distance.

He raced up the fog-choked street toward where he'd left the Taurus. Kill Prescott? he thought. No way. I've got to keep him alive. That's my only hope of getting Jamie back.

But first, God help me, I need to find him.