The Protector

by David Morrell

  Where the gravel road continued, there wasn't any dust cloud. Grace must have turned right or left onto the pavement, but an equal number of dusty tire tracks went each way and made it impossible to follow her trail. "Pick a direction," Cavanaugh said. "Left," Jamie said.

  Checking for oncoming traffic, Cavanaugh skidded left onto the pavement and pressed hard on the gas pedal, urging the Taurus up to a hundred. Trees and fields became a blur. Cresting a hill, he was forced to reduce speed so he wouldn't be caught by surprise if Grace tried to ambush him on the other side. At the bottom of the hill, he stopped at another intersection. Here, the road was paved in all four directions.

  "Pick a direction."

  "Left again," Jamie said.

  "Any particular reason?"

  "Not much."

  "Then left we go."

  At the next paved intersection, with the Explorer nowhere in view, Cavanaugh stopped at the side of the road. His hands were so tight on the steering wheel that it took him a few moments to unclench them.

  Sweating, he stared straight ahead. Next to him, Jamie trembled, just as he trembled.

  "You did good back there," he finally said.

  Jamie's voice was hoarse. "Thanks."

  "Kept cool." He felt sick. "Didn't panic."

  "Wanted to."

  "I know the feeling." Sweating more, Cavanaugh kept staring straight ahead. "A neat trick, using the flash-bangs."

  "I was so furious. I just told myself I wasn't going to die down there."

  "Anger's a good motivator." Cavanaugh's hand shook as he wiped his grit-covered mouth. "Especially when it comes to dealing with fear."

  "1 brought you a present," Jamie said.

  "Oh?" Dazed, Cavanaugh glanced down. Next to the Sig Sauer she'd placed on the seat was an equipment belt that she must have removed from one of the dead men in the corridor. The belt had a holstered Beretta and an extra magazine filled with ammunition.

  "Thoughtful."

  "The way to my loved one's heart. Who has the other Sig? Grace?"

  "Probably," Cavanaugh said. "And the car keys. And my cell phone. And my wallet, with the ID Karen made for me."

  "Reach under the seat."

  Puzzled, Cavanaugh did what he was told and held up Jamie's purse. "I'll be damned."

  The purse's zipper remained closed. Jamie checked inside. "Doesn't look like they got to it yet. I still have my wallet and cell phone."

  Behind them, the sound of the helicopter descended into the valley.

  Jamie glanced in that direction. "Can't be reinforcements for Grace. Otherwise, she wouldn't have run."

  Cavanaugh nodded. "I'm betting it's John and a team from the Bureau."

  Jamie looked relieved. "Then let's hurry back and tell them what we know."

  Cavanaugh didn't move.

  "What's the matter? If we don't go back, they'll issue arrest warrants for us," Jamie said. "Hell, they probably want to arrest us as it is. We took Kline away from John, and now Kline's dead. So are all those men back there. And the doctor. We've got to explain what happened."

  "Can't go back."

  "What?"

  "Can't trust the FBI. Somebody there worked for Kline. Somebody informed against John. If I tell what I know, I might be helping the wrong people get their hands on Prescott."

  "But John'll find the informant."

  "How long will that take, and what if he doesn't? I need the antidote. For that matter, even if John does find the informant, even if it is safe to tell the FBI what I know, that doesn't solve anything, either. Prescott won't be punished."

  "I don't understand."

  "The government would protect him. Sure, they'd be appalled by the illegal research. Prescott's controllers would be quietly and severely punished. But not Prescott. Since the weapon exists and the damage has been done, the Defense Department would want to know everything about it, just to have it as an option. In the name of national security, they'd hide him some place comfortable, where they'd have access to his information. Prescott would get a new identity, a new life, everything he wanted in the first place."

  Jamie stared at him.

  "What's the matter?" he asked.

  "When we first started this, people were after you," Jamie said. "They wanted to kill you. I figured that if I helped you find whoever was hunting you, we could get free of it all. We could go back to Wyoming. We could have our lives back."

  "Believe me, that's exactly what I want. With everything in me, I want to go back to the way things used to be."

  "Then why can't we?"

  "Karen. Duncan. Chad. Tracy. Roberto. They won't be Prescott's last victims. He's paranoid enough that he'll kill again and again if he thinks anybody's looking at him wrong, if he fears his safety's being threatened. He has to be stopped."

  Both of them were silent now. The only sound was a pickup truck clattering through the intersection ahead.

  "You're going to need plausible deniability," he finally said.

  "What?"

  "We didn't take Kline. I did. I forced you to go along with me. That's your story. Play the victim."

  "You think anybody's going to believe that?" Jamie asked.

  "Make

  them believe it. Get yourself out of this." "You're telling me ..."

  "Go back."

  "Split

  up?" Jamie asked. "You almost got killed because of me. I can't let you risk your life anymore."

  "I'm here because I want to be."

  "But I can't go after Prescott and worry about you."

  "I've handled myself very well."

  "Yes," Cavanaugh said. "You have."

  "I'm staying."

  Cavanaugh peered down at his unsteady hands. Another pickup truck clattered through the intersection.

  He nodded.

  "So what does that nod mean? Where does that leave us?" Jamie asked.

  "Somewhere near West Virginia."

  "Not funny."

  "I've run out of jokes." Cavanaugh studied her grimy arms and blouse, then pressed the trunk-release button. Their suitcases were back there. "We'd better put on some fresh clothes."

  "You're going to need more than fresh clothes."

  Jamie's intense gaze made him look down at himself. He was covered with soot from head to foot. His pants were in rags. His chest was a chaos of scratches. Blood and sweat mingled with the soot.

  "We've still got some bottled water in the backseat. I'll wash my face, then put on a cap, a shirt, and pants to hide the rest of this until we reach a motel."

  "You reek of cordite," Jamie said.

  "Some people think it's sexy."

  * * *

  PART SIX

  Threat Reprisal

  * * *

  1

  The motel on the outskirts of Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, was two hours north, far enough that if Rutherford ordered a search for them, it wasn't likely to be successful, especially since Rutherford didn't know Jamie's name or the kind of car they drove.

  Harrisburg, the state capital, had another advantage. It was large enough to have numerous video-rental stores. The Clint Eastwood movie, whose title Cavanaugh had remembered but kept secret when Grace had read the list of Eastwood thrillers, wasn't hard to find. But the Troy Donahue/Sandra Dee film was another matter. After Cavanaugh and Jamie checked into the motel, they needed to visit almost every one of Harrisburg's video stores before they got their hands on a tape of A Summer Place.

  "Star-crossed lovers at a resort town in Maine." Jamie read from the back of the VHS box after they returned to the motel.

  Cavanaugh put the tape into a player that they'd rented. "Prescott isn't exactly a romantic kind of guy, so there's got to be another reason he thinks this movie's important."

  "Maybe Grace was right. Maybe he wanted to move to Maine," Jamie said.

  The tape was so old and worn that it colors were faded and its image had speckles. Obviously intended for a wide screen, the panoramic scenery looked cramped when trimm
ed to fit a standard-size TV It didn't help that the screen was only twenty inches.

  "Music's not bad," Jamie said.

  "That's about all that isn't."

  While adults had affairs, Donahue and Dee were warned that their own love was forbidden. Richard Egan acted almost as woodenly as Donahue. Ponderous scenes were punctuated by waves pounding a gorgeous pine-rimmed beach.

  "Interesting house."

  In the movie, a low, sleek modernistic house occupied a rocky point in a bay. Made of stone, the structure resembled the prow of a ship as waves crashed against its base.

  "Reminds me of houses by Frank Lloyd Wright," Jamie said.

  Amid soaring music and scenery-chewing performances, the film mercifully ended.

  Cavanaugh pressed the rewind button. "Maine."

  "And now for our second feature ..." Jamie picked up Play Misty for Me and read what was on the back of the box. " 'Female stalker pursues disc jockey. Clint Eastwood's directorial debut. Filmed in his hometown of Carmel.'" She studied the picture on the front of the box. "Jessica Walter and a knife. Good. Slasher movies are my favorite."

  "Actually, it's fairly well made. I saw it so long ago, I barely remember a thing about it, but I do recall thinking Eastwood did a decent job. It's nice and tense."

  "Can't have enough tension," Jamie said.

  "California. Maine. Prescott certainly had trouble making up his mind."

  "Well, pop in this beauty," Jamie said, "and let's see why Prescott likes it so much."

  The movie began with a long overhead helicopter shot that moved along a rugged coastline with waves smashing against rocks and windblown pine trees hugging the bluffs.

  Thirty seconds into it, Cavanaugh and Jamie both leaned forward from where they sat on the bed.

  "Holy shit," Cavanaugh said. "A Summer Place was supposed to take place in Maine, but it was actually filmed in—"

  "Carmel," Jamie said.

  They watched raptly as Clint Eastwood drove his sports car along the craggy coast. He and his girlfriend later took long walks along a beach.

  "That's the same beach that's in A Summer Place," Jamie said. "The curved shape of the bay's so distinctive, I can't imagine there's another like it."

  "Look for the Frank Lloyd Wright house," Cavanaugh said.

  It never showed up, but that didn't matter. By the time the movie was over, Cavanaugh and Jamie were convinced. Play Misty for Me and A Summer Place had used the same location.

  "What else did you notice when you first met him? You mentioned books," Jamie said.

  "About photography—one looked like some kind of sex book. And geology. And Robinson Jeffers."

  * * *

  2

  The Harrisburg library had a dark curved glass exterior and a spacious reference area with numerous computer stations. Cavanaugh and Jamie roamed the stacks, bringing various volumes to a table in an out-of-the-way area.

  "Listen to this," Jamie whispered. "The bay at Carmel-by-the-Sea, as the town's really called, is at the tip of a huge underwater gorge that rivals the Grand Canyon. Geologists are fascinated by the place."

  "That explains one of the books," Cavanaugh said.

  "Also, the town's famous for its writers, artists, and photographers." Despite the emphasized word, Jamie managed to keep her voice low. "Ansel Adams lived there. So did Edward Wes-ton."

  "I know who Adams is, but who's—"

  "You said you thought the photography book Prescott had was pornographic."

  "It had a kind of sexy name and a nude on the cover."

  "Passion?"

  "What?"

  "Could the book have been called Forms of Passion? Take a look."

  Jamie slid the book across. The photographer's name was Edward Weston. The cover had been removed, but when Ca-vanaugh flipped through the pages, he came to the most beautiful nude he'd ever seen.

  "This was on the cover," he said.

  A slender young woman sat with her head bowed, her forehead resting on an upraised knee. She was naked and yet no private part was exposed. Her sensuous pose reminded Cavanaugh of an earlier photograph of a pepper that looked like two people making love. Another page showed a magnificent seashell with the same erotic contours.

  "Passion." Cavanaugh stared at the photos. "For everything."

  Then Cavanaugh came to landscapes of what the book said was Point Lobos, near Carmel. Page after page showed the same beautifully rugged seacoast that had been in A Summer Place and Play Misty for Me.

  "Is there any doubt Prescott was crazy about this area?" Jamie asked.

  A librarian going by didn't seem to notice Cavanaugh's bruised face, but she did give Jamie a stare for talking.

  Looking apologetic, Jamie peered down at the books. As soon as the librarian was gone, she whispered, "You said Prescott had an interest in golf. Pebble Beach is one of the most famous golf courses in the world—it's slightly north of Carmel. You said he had a gourmet's taste for food. According to this, Carmel has more great restaurants per block than just about anywhere. To nail down the connection, all we need to do is figure out how Robinson Jeffers fits in."

  "I've already done that." Cavanaugh slid his notes across to her. "Jeffers and his wife, Una, visited Carmel in 1914 and were so struck by the area that they stayed there the rest of their lives. Jeffers bought land, hauled chunks of granite from the beach, and spent years building a stone house and a forty-foot tower. He called the place Tor House after some rock formations in England. He and Una died there."

  Cavanaugh showed her a book of Jeffers's poems, drawing attention to two lines.

  I built her a tower when I was young— Sometime she will die—

  "Prescott and I discussed those lines about the tower when I first met him, but I had no idea what they referred to," Cavanaugh said.

  "Now you do."

  "Now I do."

  * * *

  3

  They drove. Because of increased security at airports due to terrorist threats, Cavanaugh was leery about trying to get to Carmel by air. At the numerous checkpoints, he would have had to show a picture ID, but Edgar had taken the fake driver's license and credit cards that Karen had created for him. Moreover, Rutherford and the FBI presumably had an alert out for persons resembling Jamie and him. Everything considered—the ease of traveling with weapons was another factor—driving had a lot to recommend it.

  Plus, it gave Cavanaugh a further chance to heal. To passing drivers, the Taurus seemed just another car on the road with an ordinary couple inside, although injuries to the man's face indicated that he had recently been in some sort of accident. Those injuries probably explained why the man was letting his beard grow.

  Interstate 80 took them through Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, and Iowa.

  In Nebraska, studying the flat open countryside, Cavanaugh said, "Reminds me of Oklahoma."

  "Oh?"

  "I spent a couple of years there as a kid."

  Curious, Jamie glanced at him.

  "My father had the bad luck to drill oil wells after the boom was over."

  He hesitated.

  "I had a dog. Nothing fancy. A mutt. About the size of a miniature collie."

  Jamie studied him, waiting for him to continue.

  "My dad and mom and I moved around a lot while my dad looked for work. Sometimes the only job he could get was the most dangerous. Once, when I was a kid, I saw him put out an oil-well fire. He wore a suit that made him look like an astronaut. He used a bulldozer and dynamite. Afterward, he got drunk. He did that a lot. He came home that night and argued with my mom. When I tried to keep him from hitting her, he hit me. Then my dog starting barking, so my dad showed everybody who was boss and kicked the dog to death."

  The only sounds became the drone of the engine and the hum of the tires.

  "My mom left him after that," Cavanaugh said. "It took a lot of courage for her to face up to his anger. She and I were even poorer than when we'd been with him. But somehow she made do, found a decen
t man, even managed to send me to pretty good schools. I think my mom and my stepfather expected I'd be a lawyer or something. But I had too much anger in me. I wanted to get even for all the beat-up moms and kicked-to-death dogs in the world, so I joined the Army and went through special-operations training. I had plenty of chances to put terrorists and other bullies out of business. But I realized I eventually had to plan ahead. There's not much a special-ops soldier can do with his skills in civilian life. Become a mercenary, work for the CIA, join law enforcement, or get into private security. When one of my former Delta Force instructors offered me a job as a protector, I jumped at it. I guess it's not hard to understand why. I've got a thing about victims. I'm still trying to help my mother. I'm still trying to protect my dog."

  Jamie finally spoke. "That's the longest I've ever heard you talk about your past. In fact, it's one of the few times you've ever talked about your past."

  "Prescott pretended to be a victim and turned out to be a bully. Because of him, now I'm afraid of bullies. I won't let him get away with it."

  Driving through Wyoming, neither of them commented when they passed an exit that would have taken them north to the Teton Range, to Jackson Hole and their home.

  * * *

  4

  After four days, Interstate 80 brought them to San Francisco. They followed the Pacific Coast Highway south to Carmel and spent the night in a motel. But Cavanaugh had trouble sleeping, too preoccupied with what needed to be done.

  "Where do you want to look first?" Jamie asked the next morning over a ham and cheese omelette in the motel's diner.

  Cavanaugh had only coffee. "How can you eat so much and stay so thin?"

  "I've got a high metabolism. Besides, when I'm worried, I need to eat."

  "We're safe for the moment."

  "That's not what I mean." They were at a corner table, their backs to a wall. The nearest tables were empty. A television droned behind the counter. Even so, she lowered her voice. "You're not being hunted any longer. This isn't following orders in combat. This isn't self-defense. It isn't protecting a client. You're the hunter now. If you get what you want, I'm worried about how it'll change you."