David Morrell - The Protector

"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.

"This is Rutherford," the deep voice said.

Outside a gas station, Cavanaugh clutched a pay phone. "Do you still hate Chinese food?"

Rutherford hesitated only a moment. "That was quite a war zone you left us."

"Self-defense."

"You'd be a lot more convincing if you'd stuck around to explain what happened. Do you have any idea how many agents are looking for you, how many laws you've broken? I don't suppose you'd like to tell me where you've been."

"Be glad to, since your caller ID system will tell you anyhow. Carmel."

"Nice to have the leisure for a vacation." Rutherford's voice thickened with sarcasm. "Someday, I'll take one"-several voices spoke chaotically in the background-"when I'm not up to my ears helping investigate Prescott and his lab. The Justice Department thinks it's identified Prescott's military controllers, but with the lab destroyed and Prescott missing, there's no way to connect them with the lab or to prove it was manufacturing an unsanctioned biochemical weapon. The same goes for proving the weapon was tested illegally on civilians and military personnel."

"Maybe I can help get the proof," Cavanaugh said.

"Earlier in the week, you had the chance to stick around and do that, but you bugged out."

"I've had a change of heart." He gripped the phone with such force that his fingers ached.

"How do you explain this miraculous turnaround?"

"My wife's missing." Trying to keep his voice steady, Cavanaugh explained what had happened to Jamie and what he needed to do to get her back. "Will you work with me on finding Prescott and using him as bait?"

"Work with you? Hey, you wouldn't include us before, so why should we include you now?"

"Because that's what it'll take for me to tell you where to look."

"In Carmel? I already figured that much."

"I can give you a lot more focus than that, but listen to me, if this isn't done right, she'll be killed."

The voices in the background, presumably an office, were all Cavanaugh heard for several moments as Rutherford thought about it.

"So what's the right way?" Rutherford finally asked.

"Check all the golf courses in the Carmel/Monterey area. Get the name of every golfer who contacted them within the past three weeks to make an appointment to play."

"But that could be thousands."

"Then talk to all the Realtors in this area. Get the names of everybody who bought or leased property around here in the past three weeks. If Prescott leased, he might have done it through someone other than a Realtor, but we've got to start somewhere. Compare those names to the golf lists. Look for the common denominators."

Rutherford became briefly silent again. "A lot of people to talk to. This'll take time."

"I don't have time. This afternoon, John. I'll call you back this afternoon." He almost slammed the phone's handset down in helplessness. As he ran toward the car, he couldn't help thinking that phoning Rutherford was exactly what Jamie had wanted him to do in the first place.

"Bob Bannister." Cavanaugh extended his right hand in greeting.

"Vic McQueen." The instructor put a lot of manly sincerity and strength into his handshake.

Cavanaugh let Vic crush his fingers for a few seconds and then withdrew them. "I write for a new fitness magazine called Our Bodies, Our Health. It's based in Los Angeles, but thanks to E-mail and the Internet, I didn't have to move from around here."

Vic nodded in sympathy with anyone who might have been forced to leave the clean air of the Carmel Valley for the smog of LA.

"My editors are pretty wild about an idea I suggested," Cavanaugh said. "I want to write an article about how quickly people can get into shape if they're really determined."

Vic cocked his head in interest. They sat across from each other in an office, where shelves supported various fitness trophies and the walls had autographed photographs of Vic with other well-built, incredibly healthy-looking people in skimpy T-shirts: presumably celebrities in their field.

"I'm talking about worst cases," Cavanaugh said, "people who huff and puff crossing a room, who're overweight enough that they look like coronaries ready to happen. An article that shows it doesn't matter what kind of wreck a person is. With the proper motivation, diet, and instruction, that person can get in shape, can dramatically change his or her life in a relatively short time. Not the six months or a year you normally read about. For people in really bad shape, six months or a year is an eternity. They don't want to imagine suffering for months and months. They want quicker results. What's that joke? The trouble with instant gratification is, it takes too long.'"

Vic frowned. "How quick are you talking about?"

"A month. I want to know if it's possible to take a guy who's really overweight, put him on a healthy, lean diet, teach him how to work the machines, watch over him, encourage him, get him coming in here several hours each day, start low and build his stamina, vary his exercises-could he lose a lot of pounds in a month and start to look like you?"

"Like me? In a month? Hell no, not like me."

"But could he look dramatically in better shape?"

"It'd be dangerous."

"So is being a physical wreck," Cavanaugh said. "What I want to write is a before and after kind of article. I want to show that a health club like this can work wonders in a very short time. The hook for the piece is: A person doesn't have to be patient to be fit, as long as there's motivation."