David Morrell - The Protector

Given the time frame, that doesn't seem possible, Cavanaugh thought. Something like steroids had to be part of the self-improvement mix, or else… An idea struck him: Had Prescott developed some kind of hormone stimulant?

The man paused a moment, scanning the parking lot and the area around him, before he pulled a dark gym bag from behind the front seat. Was he checking for trouble or simply enjoying his surroundings? His sunglasses prevented Cavanaugh from seeing if Carter glanced warily from side to side as he walked toward the front of the exercise club. But before he opened the door, there was no question that he looked behind him along the street.

Fifty. Fifty-two. Fifty-four. Hands tight on the steering wheel, Cavanaugh drove along Vista Linda, noting the house numbers. The street consisted of elaborately landscaped million-dollar homes with magnificent views of what was called the Bayonet/ Blackhorse Golf Course, a name left over from when Fort Ord had been active.

Sixty. Sixty-two. Sixty-four. Even with the street's proximity to the golf course, Cavanaugh didn't understand why Prescott had chosen to live somewhere in the Monterey peninsula area other than Carmel. Perhaps Prescott was staying away from a spot that he feared might be associated with him. But if he was being extra cautious, why the hell was he wearing a gold watch and driving around in a Porsche?

Seventy. Seventy-two. Cavanaugh planned to learn what he could about the layout of Prescott's house, find a way in, and use the knockout spray Grace had given him to subdue Prescott and arrange to trade him for Jamie. He would no doubt have to bypass a burglar alarm, and it wouldn't be easy getting in without neighbors seeing him, but he didn't have a choice.

Seventy-four. Seventy-eight was just ahead, an imposing, impressive two-story pseudo-Hispanic structure with a tile roof and…

Cavanaugh slowed, staring at the for sale sign on the front lawn.

"Sorry to bother you," Cavanaugh said to the elderly wispy-haired man who answered the door, "but I couldn't help noticing the sign across the street."

From too much sun, the man's leathery brown face had numerous creases. His stern gaze deepened them.

"My dad's a surgeon in Chicago, wants to retire out here," Cavanaugh said. "He's crazy about golf, so I've been driving around, seeing what places are for sale. The house across the street looks perfect, but this is a newly built area, and I'm wondering if there's something wrong with the place that it's being sold so soon."

"That god-awful sign," the man said.

"Excuse me?"

"I told her to put the house on the market privately. What do we want with a sign like that making the neighborhood look junky and Realtors and people who can't afford to live here coming around, gawking, cluttering up the street? No respect. The minute Sam died, his wife couldn't wait to sell the place."

"Sam?"

"Jamison. He and I moved here the same week two years ago. He dropped dead on the golf course yesterday morning, and that damned sign was sticking up in the yard by afternoon."

At the nearest gas station, Cavanaugh rushed to a pay phone. He shoved a phone card into a slot and pressed numbers.

"Rutherford," the deep voice said.

"How are you coming with those lists?" Speaking quickly, Cavanaugh was surprised by how breathless he felt.

"We've got a dozen agents working the phones from Washington. We sent agents from San Francisco and San Jose down to liaise with the agent we've got in the Carmel/Monterey area. But we still haven't been able to contact a lot of the Realtors, and as for the golf courses, I wish I had a dollar for everybody who wants to play there."

"You've got to hurry. Check this license number. It's a California plate and goes with a new Porsche Carrera. White." Cavanaugh dictated the number. "Who owns the car?"

"Are you at…" John recited the location and number of the pay phone Cavanaugh was using.

"Your caller ID system's damned good."

"Damned and good don't go together," the Southern Baptist said. "Stay where you are. I'll contact the California DMV and call you back in ten minutes."

"Make it as quick as you can. I'll be waiting."

The instant Cavanaugh hung up, he hurried to the Taurus and drove away, certain that in a very short while, a police car sent by Rutherford would arrive, looking for him. He went ten blocks and stopped at another gas station with an outside pay phone. Time, having sped by, now dragged agonizingly. Exactly when he was supposed to, he shoved his phone card into a slot and pressed numbers. His hand sweated on the phone's receiver. "What did you find?"

"You were supposed to stay where you were."

"What did you find?"

"The Porsche's leased."

"What?"

"Only for a month. To someone named Joshua Carter. The company he leased it from says he gave his address as seventy-eight Vista Linda in Seaside, California. The local police department's sending an unmarked car to check it out."

Cavanaugh could barely speak. "Tell them to forget it. Carter doesn't live there."

"Doesn't live there? If you knew that, why on earth did you ask me to-"

"I was hoping you'd find a different address."

"This is crazy. I need you at the command center we're setting up. This time, stay where you are."

"Right." Cavanaugh hung up and ran to the Taurus.

Jesus, Prescott's so paranoid, he created a false identity within a false identity, Cavanaugh thought as he watched the exercise club from the Starbucks across the street. The son of a bitch probably did what we told him at the bunker. Checked old newspaper obituaries. Found the name of a child who, if he'd lived, would now be the same age as he was. Knowing that most parents get Social Security numbers for their children at the time they're born, and that some states, California among them, include Social Security numbers on death certificates, he went to the hall of records in the city where the child died and asked for a copy of the death certificate. With the Social Security number from the death certificate, he could get a driver's license and a bank account in the child's name.

Pretending to read a magazine, Cavanaugh sat back from the windows. The instructor had said that Joshua Carter usually stayed four hours. The time was now five o'clock. Presumably, Prescott was using his second false identity to test his surroundings. If his remarkable transformation at the exercise club attracted the wrong attention, he could abandon the easily dispensable Joshua Carter persona and go to ground, relying on the absolutely dependable, irreplaceable identity that Karen had created for him. When he came out of the club, he would revert to that identity and drive to his actual residence.

I can't hope to catch him alone in the club, subdue him, and get him out of there without people trying to stop me, Ca-vanaugh thought. But if I can follow him…

Prescott stepped from the building. Pausing in the sunlight, he stood a little straighter than when he'd gone in. His shoulders looked a little more broad, his chest a little more solid. His cheeks, flushed from exertion, seemed subtly thinner. Whatever chemical he was taking, it worked remarkably in tandem with exercise and a strict diet. He wore sunglasses and the same black loafers, gray slacks, and blue pullover as when he'd gone in. He carried the same dark gym bag as, scalp glistening, he scanned the street and turned to his left toward the club's parking lot. At the Porsche, he again looked around, then got into the car.

The moment Prescott drove from the lot, Cavanaugh hurried outside to where he'd parked the Taurus behind Starbucks. Fifteen seconds later, he followed. That length of time was critical because he'd tested both directions on the street and had concluded that fifteen seconds was a little less than the time it took, at the speed limit, to reach the stop sign at either end. As Cavanaugh emerged from the Starbucks lot, he saw the Porsche reach the intersection on the right. A moment later, Prescott turned left.