David Morrell: The Protector

He glanced up at a security camera in the corridor he was expected to enter. To hell with it, he thought, annoyed by the nervous moisture on his palms. If Prescott wanted me dead, he could have killed me before now. Regardless of the insistent pounding of his heart, a strong intuition told Cavanaugh to surrender to the situation. Something else told him to run, which made no sense, inasmuch as he didn't have a reason to believe he was in danger.

Impatient with himself, he came to a firm decision and holstered his weapon. It's not going to do me any good in that corridor anyhow.

Entering, he wasn't surprised that the door swung shut behind him, locking loudly.

After the gloom of the stairwell, the lights hurt his eyes, but at least the pungent smell was gone. Managing to feel less on edge, he walked to the door at the end of the corridor, turned the knob, pushed the door open, and found himself in a bright room filled with closed-circuit television monitors and electronic consoles. Across from him, bricks covered a window.

What captured his attention, however, was an overweight man in his forties who stood among the glowing equipment. The man wore wrinkled slacks and an equally wrinkled white shirt that had sweat marks and clung to his ample stomach. His thick sandy hair was uncombed. He needed a shave. The skin under his eyes was puffy from lack of sleep. The dark pupils of his eyes were large from tension.

The man aimed a Colt.45 semiautomatic pistol at him. Its barrel wavered.

Cavanaugh had no doubt that if he had still been holding his pistol when he'd entered, the man would have fired. Doing his best to keep his breathing steady, he raised his hands in reassuring submission. Despite the big gun that was nervously aimed at him, the uneasiness Cavanaugh had felt coming up the stairs seemed of no importance compared to what this man must be feeling, for, outside of combat, Prescott was the most frightened man Cavanaugh had ever seen.

"Please remember you sent for me," Cavanaugh said. "I'm here to help you."

As Prescott continued to aim the Colt, his pupils got larger. The room became more sour with fear.

"I knew your one-time-only phone number and the recognition code," Cavanaugh said. "Only someone from Protective Services could have had that information."

"You could have forced those details from the person they were sending," Prescott said. As on the phone, his voice was unsteady, but now Cavanaugh understood that it wasn't an electronic effect-Prescott's voice shook because he was afraid.

The door behind Cavanaugh swung shut, its lock ramming electronically home. He managed not to flinch. "I don't know who or what you feel threatened by, but I hardly think one man coming here would be the smartest way to get at you, not the way you've got this place set up. Logic should tell you I'm not a threat."

"The unexpected is the most brilliant tactic." Prescott's grip on the.45 was as unsteady as his voice. "Besides, your logic works against you. If one man isn't much of a threat, how can one man provide adequate protection?"

"You didn't say you wanted protection. You said you wanted to disappear."

Sweat marks spreading under his arms, Prescott studied Cavanaugh warily.

"My initial interviews are always one-on-one," Cavanaugh said. "I have to ask questions to assess the threat level. Then I decide how much help the job requires."

"I was told you used to be in Delta Force." Prescott licked his dry, fleshy lips.

"That's right."

The classic special-operations physique involved muscular shoulders that trimmed down to solid, compact hips, upper-body strength being one of the goals of the arduous training.

"Lots of exercise," Prescott said. "Is that what you think qualifies you to protect somebody?"

Trying to put Prescott at ease, Cavanaugh chuckled. "You want my job stats?"

"If you want to convince me you're here to help. If you want to work for me."

"You've got this turned around. When I interview potential clients, it's not because I want to work for them. Sometimes, I don't want to work for them."

"You mean you have to like them?" Prescott asked with distaste.

"Sometimes, I don't like them, either," Cavanaugh said. "But that doesn't mean they don't have a right to live. I'm a protector, not a judge. With exceptions. No drug traffickers. No child abusers. Nobody who's an obvious monster. Are you a monster?"

Prescott had a look of incredulity. "Of course not."

"Then there's only one other standard that'll help me decide if I want to protect you."

"Which is?"

"Are you willing to be compliant?"

Prescott blinked sweat from his eyes. "What?"

"I can't protect someone who won't take orders," Cavanaugh said. "That's the paradox of being a protector. Someone hires me. In theory, that person's the boss. But when it comes to protection, I'm the one who gives the orders. The employer has to react to me as if I'm the boss. Are you willing to be compliant?"

"Anything to keep me alive."

"You'll do what I say?"

Prescott thought and then fearfully nodded.

"So, okay, here's your first order: Put that damned gun away before I ram it down your throat."

Prescott blinked several times, stepping back as if Cavanaugh had slapped him. He held the gun steadier, frowned, and slowly lowered it.

"An excellent start," Cavanaugh said.

"If you're not who you say you are, do it right now," Prescott said. "Kill me. I can't stand living this way."

"Relax. Whoever your enemies are, I'm not one of them."

Cavanaugh surveyed the room. To the right, in a corner, past the electronics and the monitors, he saw a cot, a minifridge, a sink, and a small stove. Beyond was a toilet, a showerhead, and a drain. The type of food on the shelves made clear that Prescott didn't worry about being overweight: boxes of macaroni and cheese, cans of ravioli and lasagna, bags of chocolates, candy bars, and potato chips, cases of classic Coke. "How long have you been here?"

"Three weeks."

Cavanaugh noticed books on a shelf below the food. Most were nonfiction, on subjects as various as geology and photography. One had a photo of a naked woman on the cover and seemed to be a sex book. In contrast, another volume was The Collected Poems of Robinson Jeffers, with a few books about Jeffers next to it. "You like poetry?" Cavanaugh asked.

"Soothes the soul." Prescott's tone was slightly defensive, as if he suspected that Cavanaugh might be mocking him.

Cavanaugh picked up the book and opened it, reading the first lines he came to. " 'I built her a tower when I was young- Sometime she will die.'"

Prescott looked more defensive.

"Knows how to grab my attention." Cavanaugh set down the book and continued scanning the place. Videotapes sat next to a small television. Prescott's taste had no consistency: a Clint Eastwood thriller, an old Troy Donahue-Sandra Dee teenage-romance tearjerker…

"I've seen worse places to go to ground." Cavanaugh thought about it. "Homeless people and crack addicts as your cover. Smart. How'd you know about this warehouse? How'd you set up this room?"

"I did it a year ago," Prescott said. "Whatever your trouble is, you saw it coming?" "Not this particular trouble." "Then why did you…" "I always take precautions," Prescott said. "You're not making sense." "In case," Prescott told him.

"In case of what?" Movement on a TV monitor abruptly caught Cavanaugh's attention. "Wait a second."

"What's wrong?" Prescott spun toward the monitor.

On the screen, a gray image showed a dozen ragged men plodding through the rain, converging on the Taurus.

"Jesus," Prescott said.

"Crack addicts are amazing," Cavanaugh said. "No matter what it is, if it's left alone, they'll try to steal it. I once knew a guy who stole forty pounds of dog food from his father so he could buy crack. What's more amazing, his drug dealer took the dog food, rather than demanding money. For all I know, the drug dealer ate it."