David Morrell - The Protector

Considering Jeffers's somber themes of human frailty as opposed to the abiding strength of nature, Cavanaugh was surprised by the humor that Jeffers had put into the tower. Intended as a retreat for Una and a playhouse for his sons, it had a dungeon and a "secret" interior staircase in which the children could hide. From a lookout on top and from several narrow windows, the sea was always in view.

"Una died in 1950, Robin in 1962, she from cancer, he from a variety of ailments," the guide said. "Robin had bad lungs and hardened arteries from smoking, but since he never recovered from Una's death, I've always assumed that what really killed him was a broken heart. She was sixty-six. He was seventy-five. Still too young to go, some would say, and yet what a full life. I don't tell this to the children whose teachers bring them here for tours, but I'll tell you. In their youth, at night, Robin and Una would send their children up to sleep in one of the attic bedrooms. Then they would"-the elderly man hesitated only slightly-"make love in the guest room downstairs before going up to the other attic bedroom. The bed that they made love in is the bed that they each later waited to die in. Their ashes are buried together in that corner of the garden."

On the street, car doors were opened and shut. Cavanaugh looked past the flowers and the wooden fence toward a family getting out of a van.

"Here are some samples of Robin's verses." The guide gave Cavanaugh and Jamie a few photocopies. "If you have any questions…"

"Actually, I do." Cavanaugh glanced toward the approaching family, satisfying himself that the father wasn't Prescott. "But it's not about Robinson Jeffers."

The guide nodded and waited.

"I'm looking for someone. I'm almost certain he came here recently. He's a Robinson Jeffers fanatic."

The guide nodded again, as if it was only reasonable that everyone should be a Robinson Jeffers fanatic.

"His name's Daniel Prescott." Cavanaugh doubted very much that Prescott would use his real name, but there was no harm in trying.

"Doesn't ring any bells."

"He's in his early forties. Around six feet tall. Wears glasses. He has a mustache, but he was thinking about growing it into a beard." Cavanaugh wanted to cover several possibilities.

"Sorry I can't help you," the guide said. "That description could fit a lot of men. I see so many people, they become a blur."

"Sure. He was also pretty overweight. Under a doctor's orders to drop a lot of pounds. Have you seen anybody in his forties who looks as if he lost a good deal of weight recently?"

"How would I know?"

"Loose skin around the face and especially under the chin."

"That doesn't ring any bells, either. But if I do see somebody like that, do you want me to give him a message for you?"

"No," Cavanaugh said. "The truth is, I'm a private detective, and I'm trying to find him."

The guide's eyes widened.

"He's got three wives and twelve kids. When he gets tired of his domestic arrangements, he runs. Changes his name. Doesn't pay child support. A real sleazebag. We think he moved to the Carmel area and plans to start yet another family. Lord knows when he'll abandon his next wife. I've been hired to find him and get him to accept some responsibility for his actions. The joke is, he's a fanatic about Robinson Jeffers, but he never learned a thing about the devotion Jeffers wrote about in his poetry."

The guide looked troubled that anybody could fail to learn the truth about Jeffers's work.

"If this joker comes by, try to notice his license plate number or get a name from him or something," Cavanaugh said. "Don't make him suspicious, though."

"I'll be as subtle as possible."

"And for heaven's sake, don't tell him I'm around."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

"I'll get him," Cavanaugh said.

"I certainly hope so."

Pebble Beach was just to the north. They took a roundabout route through Carmel's sleepy streets, always on the lookout for anyone who even remotely resembled Prescott.

No one did.

At a toll gate, Jamie paid to get onto the area's famous 17-Mile Drive, a picturesque route that bordered the extensive golf course, allowing a view of its greens, ponds, sand traps, and the ocean in the background. Deer roamed freely. Cypresses and Monterey pines flanked multimillion-dollar properties. Cavanaugh ignored it all, watching for Prescott.

At Pebble Beach's lodge, Jamie drove through the entrance and parked in an out-of-the-way spot, from where Cavanaugh could watch guests arriving and departing. Then she went inside, only to come back ten minutes later, looking puzzled.

"What's the matter?" Cavanaugh asked.

"If Prescott had visions of playing golf at Pebble Beach all the time, he was in for a big surprise. Unless you've got influence, you need to make an appointment to play here a year in advance."

"A year?"

"And if you're with a group, it's two years. If you're right and he'd been planning this for a long time, he might have made an appointment quite a while ago, somehow finding a way to keep his controllers from knowing what he'd done."

"A big risk," Cavanaugh said. "And he wouldn't have known his new name back then. He wouldn't have had a credit card to go with it to reserve the appointment."

"So unless he found a way to get influence here, which is hard to do in a couple of weeks," Jamie said, "you can come back in about a year and see if you recognize him."

"I had in mind a little quicker timetable," Cavanaugh said.

"There are at least a dozen golf courses in the area. Some of them might not have as long a waiting list. What did you plan to do? Go from one course to the next? Find a spot near the links and use binoculars to watch the players in case someone who reminds you of Prescott shows up?"

"If that's what it takes."

"A lot of time. Too many chances to miss him. The FBI has enough personnel to watch all the golf courses simultaneously."

"No FBI," Cavanaugh said.

"They also have the resources to run background checks on guests who haven't played here before," Jamie said.

"No FBI," Cavanaugh repeated.

Sheltered by a cypress, Cavanaugh sat at the northeast rim of Carmel's beach, close to where the shore rose to the grass of the Pebble Beach links. He was far enough inland that he blended with the trees and shrubs behind him. The air was balmy, the afternoon sun reflecting so brightly off the water that he had to wear sunglasses.

"All roads lead to Rome?" Jamie asked.

"And everybody in the area ends up going to Carmel's famous beach. As much as the golf courses and 17-Mile Drive, this is the big attraction." Cavanaugh studied the long crescent of white sand. Hundreds of people were on it, reading in beach chairs, splashing in the surf, strolling, jogging, or tossing Fris-bees to dogs. "I can't imagine that Prescott would live in the area and not come down here. At first, he'd be apprehensive about showing himself. He'd probably stay close to wherever he's living. But eventually he'd begin to loosen up. He might even come down here for exercise. Hell, for all I know, he got himself a dog."

"The FBI could check everybody who recently bought property around here," Jamie said.

Cavanaugh continued watching the people on the beach.

"It's just a thought," Jamie said.

"I keep seeing Roberto with his head beaten in… Duncan with his face full of bullet holes… Karen literally scared to death in her wheelchair."

"The government might not be as lenient with Prescott as you think."

Instead of responding, Cavanaugh glanced down at a map of the shops in town. "The big bookstore is in the Carmel Mall. We could keep a watch on the place. Since Prescott likes books, there's a good chance he'd eventually show up there."