The Protector

by David Morrell

  He instinctively crouched when he heard a propeller-driven airplane drone overhead. No doubt the plane was with the firefighters. Spotters in it would direct the effort to contain the blaze, he assumed. And yet he couldn't stop irrationally worrying that the plane might somehow have a thermal sensor and be another part of the effort to hunt him. Sometimes you've got to have faith, he thought.

  Using the sounds of the vehicles to guide him, he moved lower through the forest. Five minutes later, he heard an approaching helicopter and again crouched before assuring himself that the assault team would never be foolish enough to return to the attack area. This helicopter has to be part of the fire-fighting effort also, he told himself. Perhaps it's going to drop water or fire-retardant chemicals. But even though he was convinced of his logic, he felt naked as he continued through the trees.

  A half-moon provided enough light for him to make his way past murky stumps and evergreen boughs. His goal was the next town along the road, about five miles farther to the east, where a north-south road intersected with one that came west from the New York State Thruway. The latter road continued west to the town he'd just left. It was the route the emergency personnel were using to get to the fire. He was certain the state police would establish a blockade at the town he was approaching. They'd want to prevent civilian traffic from heading into the fire zone. Thus, Jamie wouldn't be able to pick him up unless he found a rendezvous site beyond the blockade.

  Soon, the gray light of dawn allowed him to increase speed. The sun, hazed by smoke, had been up for a couple of hours when he glimpsed a gray clapboard house through the trees. Immediately, he sank to the ground and peered through the bushes. He saw a freshly cultivated vegetable garden, a shed, a small garage painted the same gray as the house. What mostly attracted his attention was a hose on a faucet at the back. If I can just crawl over there and get a drink . . .

  He imagined how cool and sweet the water would taste as it trickled over his lips and down his parched throat.

  He almost weakened and emerged from the bushes. A good thing he didn't, for five seconds later, a slender young woman in work boots, jeans, a sweatshirt, and gloves came out. She would definitely have seen him, reacted to the dried blood all over him, and told the authorities.

  Instead, she frowned toward the smoke in the sky, picked up the hose, and called toward the house, "Hey, Pete, I can't tell if that fire they told us about is headed this way. But since you're determined to defend the old homestead, maybe you'd better put down that beer can, grab the other hose, and give me a hand soaking the roof."

  Too dehydrated to sweat in the day's heat, Cavanaugh crept back deeper into the trees. At a cautious distance, he skirted the house and several others, avoiding the town. At the north-south road, he descended into a culvert. It was cool, sandy, and dry. On the opposite side, he reentered the forest, but now he took strength from the knowledge that he would soon be able to rest. He angled toward the east-west road that came from the main highway, crept to bushes at the edge of it, and peered westward toward the crossroads, seeing that, sure enough, the state police had established a blockade but that it was beyond the crossroads, within the town itself.

  Fine, he thought.

  He returned to the trees near the culvert. When he looked at his watch, he was startled to see that the time was ten minutes past noon. He pulled out his phone, turned it on, and pressed numbers.

  Jamie's phone buzzed only once before she answered, sounding worried. "Yes?"

  "It's me." He kept his voice low.

  "Same here. When you didn't call at noon—"

  "Everything's okay."

  "You're sure?"

  "Things'll be even better when you pick me up." He heard voices in the background. "Where are you?"

  "Buying the car. You'd think a cash offer and no haggling would make it go quickly, but the paperwork went on and on. Finally, they're about to give me the keys."

  He held the phone tighter. "Speaking of cash ..."

  "How much do we need?"

  "At least two thousand in twenties."

  "I'll bring three."

  "Tell the bank clerk you're going to Atlantic City. When you get everything together, head north on the New York State Thruway. About fifty miles past the exit to Kingston, you'll come to a turnoff for a town called Baskerville."

  Cavanaugh had no choice—at this point, he had to mention the name of the town. He assumed that it would be referred to in so many cell-phone messages between emergency personnel that it would never be a word that a scanner would pick to isolate a conversation.

  "Follow the road west," he continued. "In about ten miles, when you get to Baskerville, stop at the crossroads and turn right. A hundred yards outside town, you'll see where a dry streambed follows a culvert under the road. Stop and get out, as if you think one of your tires might be leaking and you need to check them."

  "Crossroads. Turn right. Culvert. Got it. That's where you'll be?"

  "That's where I'll be." He looked up through the trees as another helicopter rumbled overhead. A huge canister, presumably containing water, dangled from its belly. "Unless the forest fire gets worse."

  "Forest fire?" When he didn't answer, Jamie said, "You really know how to have a good time. I'll be there as soon as I can."

  "Call me when you're close. I'll leave my cell phone on."

  "Are you honestly okay?"

  "I will be. Thanks for helping."

  "Thanks for asking. I never expected you would."

  * * *

  3

  Cavanaugh put the phone in his jacket. Having finally accomplished everything that needed to be done, he glanced around the forest. Finding a depression in the ground, he covered it with dead branches, satisfied himself that the camouflage looked natural, and crawled beneath the branches into the shadowy hollow. There, amid the not-unpleasant smell of earth, he leaned back against the slope. He had a temporary sense of relief. Now all I have to do is wait for Jamie, he thought.

  Despite the shade of the branches spread over him, the day became warmer. Conscious of how awkward the Kevlar vest felt, he removed it. Only then did he become aware of the shrapnel embedded in it: fragments from one of the fire extinguishers that had exploded.

  He frowned at the shrapnel for almost a minute. Then he tested the duct tape on his wound, which throbbed where his shoulder met his neck. The thick silver strips continued to provide a tight seal, no blood escaping. The swelling made it painful for him to turn his neck.

  He stretched his legs, or tried to—no sooner had he extended his legs than they retracted, bending toward him. Here it comes, he thought. It was happening much sooner than he anticipated. As long as he'd been in motion, working to get away from the fire, making arrangements with Jamie, finding a safe haven, his adrenaline had been his friend, fueling his weary body, spurring him on.

  But now that he had nothing to do for the next few hours, adrenaline no longer served a purpose. It made him jittery. Not only did it cause his knees to bend toward him but it also made his arms want to fold over his chest. Already he felt the urge to yawn, partly because he lacked sleep, but mostly because his muscles needed to release tension. You want the high of action, you pay the price, he thought.

  He hugged himself and shivered. Waiting for his body to still itself, he assumed something like a fetal position, which was fitting, because he often thought of adrenaline withdrawal as a preparation for rebirth, and birth couldn't happen without pain.

  His eyelids felt heavy. Close to drowsing, he adjusted his cell phone so that it would vibrate instead of ring. He placed it under his jacket, then withdrew his handgun and held it in one of his crossed hands. Finally, all preparations complete, he drifted into sleep.

  * * *

  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."

  * * *

  5

  The Albany motel, called the Day's End Inn, was on a side street five blocks off the highway, in a cut-rate district away from the Holiday Inns and Best Westerns. Two bars, a transmission-repair shop, and a hamburger joint were typical of the adjacent buildings. With the lowering sun casting shadows, the transmission shop was closed. A few men got out of pickup trucks and went into one of the bars. Otherwise, there was hardly anybody on the street.

  En route, Cavanaugh had used some of the bottled water to rinse blood and soot from his face. He'd put on the sport coat, jeans, and pullover that Jamie had bought for him, concealing the duct tape on his shoulder. A baseball cap that Jamie had thought to include covered his singed hair, allowing him to sit up without attracting attention. He studied the drab street while Jamie went into the office to rent a room.

  Holding a key attached to a large yellow plastic cube, she returned to the car.

  "You paid cash?" he asked.

  "Yes. I told the clerk our credit card had been stolen." "As good an explanation as any."

  "He's probably used to couples paying cash. Maybe he thinks we're having an affair." Jamie drove off the street, heading toward the back of the motel. "I understand why you don't want me to use a credit card. No paper trail. But in theory, no one knows about me, right?"

  "In theory," Cavanaugh said. "I never told anybody at Protective Services, not even Duncan." In a flash of memory, Cavanaugh saw Duncan's mutilated face. His grief and rage intensified.

  Jamie parked near a Dumpster at the next-to-last unit. "Then aren't you being more careful th
an necessary?" She shook her head. "I know what you're going to say. There's no such thing as being too careful."

  Despite how he felt, he managed a smile. Jamie got out of the car, went over to the motel unit's door, and unlocked it.

  Simultaneously, Cavanaugh opened the car's rear door, picked up several packages, which would distract anybody glancing in his direction—people love looking at packages—and walked as steadily as he could into the shadowy unit.

  Two regular beds had faded covers. A table had scratches. A small television was bolted to the wall. The carpet was thin. The mirror over the bureau had a crack in one corner. "You said you wanted seedy," Jamie said. The room smelled faintly of cigarette smoke. "There weren't any nonsmoking units," Jamie said. "It's fine." Cavanaugh set the packages on a table, eased onto the bed, and sank back, closing his eyes, hoping for the unsteadiness in his head to lessen. "A good place to hide. You did great."

  "I'll get the water and the rest of the stuff from the car." After Jamie finished, she shut the door and locked it.

  On the bed, keeping his eyes closed, Cavanaugh sensed her studying him.

  "Should I leave the lights off?" she asked. "Yes."

  "What can I do for you?" "Bring me more water. Give me more Tylenol." "Is the wound infected?"

  He swallowed the capsules and the water. "I guess"—he man-| aged to rouse himself—"we'd better find out."