David Morrell - The Protector

"And afterward? If we're successful, if you get your wife back, you won't do anything to harm me?"

"That's right," Cavanaugh said.

"In spite of what I did to your team? That's one hell of a leap of faith. Give me a reason to believe you."

"I'll give you the best reason in the world," Cavanaugh said. "My word."

For the first time, Cavanaugh took his gaze away from the dark horizon. In the glare of the headlights, he turned and looked squarely at Prescott, at the almost unrecognizable mannish features, the pronounced cheeks and jaw, the goatee, the shaved head, and the developed shoulders.

"I give you my word. Help me get my wife back, and you'll never have anything to fear from me."

"Your word?" Prescott made it sound like a brand-new concept.

"And my love for my wife."

"How do I know this wife even exists? How can I be sure this isn't some trick?"

"I could have shot you in the parking lot outside the exercise club. I kept you alive because we need each other."

Prescott's dark eyes reacted.

"But if that's not good enough, will you believe Grace?" Cavanaugh asked. "The phone at the motel where I'm staying has a speaker function. When I call Grace and you hear her voice, when she talks about my wife, will you believe me then?"

His handgun aimed beneath the jacket in his hands, Prescott followed Cavanaugh into the motel room, then told him to lock the door and close the curtains. Cavanaugh moved carefully, keeping his hands away from his sides, even though he had left his pistol and his Emerson knife in the Taurus, as Prescott had instructed.

With the curtains closed, Prescott put his jacket on a chair, revealing that he'd followed Cavanaugh's example, even to the extent that his pistol was the same kind he'd seen Cavanaugh carrying: a Sig Sauer 225.

"This is how we met," Cavanaugh said, "with you pointing a handgun at me."

The pupils of Prescott's eyes were as huge and dark as they'd been at the warehouse.

"Remember the conversation we had about adrenaline?" Cavanaugh asked.

Prescott nodded, drawing his tongue along his lips. "At the bunker."

"I told you that someone who masters adrenaline, who prefers the 'fight' option, can't be called brave. But someone like you, who somehow functions in spite of being afraid, who wants to run away but instead faces his threats head-on, is brave."

"Don't flatter me. All I want is to be free of my enemies."

Cavanaugh pointed toward the bureau. "I'm going to open this drawer and show you something."

"Do it slowly."

Using only the fingertips of his left hand, Cavanaugh pulled out the drawer. "Bras. Panties. I gave up cross-dressing a long time ago."

"What?" Prescott's cheeks turned red.

"In the bathroom, you'll find a woman's toilet kit. Hair spray. Lipstick. Facial cream. A dinky razor. I don't want you to have any doubt that I'm traveling with a woman."

"All right, I'm convinced," Prescott said, uncomfortable. "The question is, Has she been kidnapped?"

From his shirt pocket, Cavanaugh removed the piece of paper Grace had given him. He went over to the bedside phone, touched 9 for an outside line, touched the button to activate the phone's speaker function, then called the cell phone Grace had said she'd be using.

Sitting on beds across from each other, he and Prescott, who still had the pistol aimed at Cavanaugh, listened to a buzz.

A second buzz.

Just as Cavanaugh started to worry that Grace would be out of touch, a stern female voice answered, "Hello."

Cavanaugh looked at Prescott, as if to ask, Do you recognize it?

Prescott's lips became pale.

The cell phone reception had some static. Good, Cavanaugh thought. She won't notice the slightly hollow sound a speaker phone causes.

"It's me," Cavanaugh said.

"I hope you're calling with good news."

"I've got Prescott."

"Dead?"

"I want to hear my wife's voice."

"I asked you if he's dead."

"And I said I want to hear my wife's voice."

Cavanaugh heard more static, then muffled, annoyed voices in the background.

At once, Grace's sharp voice returned, saying, "Tell him you're okay."

No response.

"For Christ's sake, tell him!"

"I'm"-Jamie's pain-tight voice made Cavanaugh's throat ache in sympathy-"all right."

"There," Grace intruded. "She's fine. Now what about Prescott?"

"What the hell have you done to her?"

"Nothing that I can't make more painful."

Cavanaugh had a sudden harrowing image of Jamie with blood all over her face.

"The sooner you get her back, the sooner she gets tender loving care," Grace said in a mocking tone. "Prescott. You said you had good news. Is he dead?"

"No."

"Then that isn't good news at all. Why haven't you killed him?"

Cavanaugh looked at Prescott, silently asking, Do you see? I was telling the truth.

Prescott's shaved head glinted with sweat.

"Because I want to make sure I'll get my wife back," Cavanaugh said.

"You don't trust me to keep my end of the bargain?"

"Not if I deliver a corpse to you. What motive would you have to give her to me? Now I've got something to trade. When I see my wife, you can see Prescott. When you let my wife go, I'll let him go. After that, you can do whatever you want with him."

"Damn it, this isn't what we agreed."

"But it's the way it's going to be."

The transmition became silent, except for an electronic hiss.

"I don't like being pressured," Grace said.

"You ought to feel delighted. You told me you had until tomorrow morning to regain the trust of your controllers. This way, you're ahead of schedule. Just give me my wife, and you can have Prescott. Both our problems are almost over."

Grace lapsed into silence and finally let out an exhausted, frustrated sigh. "Where do you want to make the exchange?"

For a third time, Cavanaugh looked at Prescott. On the way to the motel, they'd discussed the logistics of the trade-off if Cavanaugh could convince Prescott he was telling the truth and if Prescott chose to go forward. Prescott, who had spent a lot of time researching the Carmel area, had made the suggestion.

Cavanaugh now told her, "About fifteen miles south of Carmel on Highway One, there's a road that heads into the mountains. A sign says historic site."

"Just what I need: culture. What's the historic site?"

"A stone chapel a hermit built in 1906. He was a banker whose family died in the San Francisco earthquake. Most of the place collapsed a long time ago. Hardly anybody goes there."

"And how exactly do you know about this place?"

"I've been to Carmel before," Cavanaugh said, lying. "Once, when I drove up from Los Angeles, I saw the turnoff and decided to check it out."

"And I'm supposed to feel confident meeting you there?"

"Hey, you're the one who's got help. All I want is to get rid of this son of a bitch and get my wife back. What you do with Prescott up in the hills, with no one to bother you, is your business. I thought you'd appreciate the privacy."

Another frustrated, weary exhale. Grace's suspicions fought with her need to regain the confidence of her superiors. "When?"

"An hour."

"Can't get there by then. Make it two." Grace broke the connection.

Cavanaugh deactivated the phone's speaker function and put the handset onto its cradle. Numb around his mouth, he looked at Prescott and the weapon Prescott aimed at him. "So?"

Drawing an unsteady breath, Prescott seemed to perform an astonishing act of will, mustering his resources, somehow looking more compact and solid in the process. He studied the numbers on the bedside clock-10:20. "She's lying about needing two hours to get there."