David Morrell: The Protector

Cavanaugh stared at the strobe lights mounted in a corner. Their variously colored compact bulbs had been discreetly arranged to look like an abstract artwork and wouldn't have attracted suspicion if seen through a window.

"Is the casualty count still the same?" he asked. "Five dead. Five critically wounded. In stable condition. It looks like they're going to pull through." "Something to be thankful about."

Cavanaugh crossed the living room, heading toward the French doors, then ducked under more yellow crime-scene tape and stepped out onto a flagstone terrace that had shrubs and flowers in pots. Preoccupied, he peered over the waist-high stone wall toward where a forty-foot cliff dropped sharply to the crashing surf. Spray rose toward him.

"We have boats searching for a body in the water, in case Prescott was crazy enough to have tried climbing down there," Rutherford said.

"It's worth checking."

Doing his best to seem casual, Cavanaugh turned from the cliff and glimpsed two more birdhouses mounted under the eaves, one to the extreme right, one to the extreme left. They were angled toward the opposite corners. If miniature TV cameras were in them, as Cavanaugh was certain, their position would have allowed Prescott to see anyone coming around either side of the house.

When Cavanaugh reentered the house, the repairman hammered another sheet of plywood over a broken window. Four detectives headed out the front door. Two FBI agents waited for Rutherford.

"We'll stay and lock up after the electricity's back on and the windows are sealed," Rutherford said.

Cavanaugh nodded.

He checked the office, the bedrooms, and the bathrooms. He went into the garage and inspected the laundry room and the photo-developing room.

All the while, Rutherford followed him.

After Cavanaugh returned to the front of the house and studied it some more, he finally shook his head from side to side.

"See, I told you," Rutherford said.

"At least you can't blame me for trying."

"Right. This is one time I can't blame you."

"I should have stayed at the hospital."

"No, sir. No change," the nurse said.

"May I help you?" the sinewy, mustached gun-store clerk asked. "I need a shotgun." "Any specific kind?" "A Remington 870 twelve-gauge pump."

"Yeah, that's certainly specific. You wouldn't happen to be with law enforcement?"

"No. What makes you ask?"

"Just that most police departments prefer that model. It's also the shotgun of choice for U.S. special operations."

"Is that a fact," Cavanaugh said.

"I need the strongest hacksaw you've got and several blades for it," Cavanaugh told the clerk at the hardware store.

"I need a wet suit," Cavanaugh told the clerk at the diving shop.

"I need an inflatable boat that'll accommodate an outboard motor," Cavanaugh told the clerk at the military-surplus store.

In the motel room, Cavanaugh stared at the makeup kit Jamie had left on the bureau. When he phoned the hospital, he was again told there was no change.

He pulled the mattress off the bed and used clamps that he'd bought in the hardware store to secure the shotgun to the bed frame, stabilizing it so the barrel protruded. Then he picked up the hacksaw and started sawing four inches off the barrel's eighteen-inch length, reducing it to the compactness that many police departments preferred. The effort took him an hour and several blades, but he wasn't conscious of the time passing-he had a great deal to think about.

After another phone call to the hospital ("No change"), Cavanaugh opened two boxes of federal double-aught "tactical" buckshot. He liked that ammunition because the large pellets gave him a compact pattern over a long distance.

To make the pattern even tighter, he thumbed open a new Emerson CQC-7 knife that he'd bought at the gun store and used its blade to cut around the plastic shaft of each shell. He chose a spot about two-thirds down each of them, at the dividing line between the gunpowder and the pellets that would be discharged when the gunpowder was ignited. He had to be careful not to cut so deeply that the plastic cylinder would break in two while he worked on it. At the same time, his cut had to be deep enough that two-thirds of the shell would break away when the shotgun was fired. The blast would thus propel not only the pellets but the plastic shaft in which they were contained. The consequence would be that the pellets would not spread but would remain in a tight clump, causing near-explosive force when they hit their target.

After dark, Cavanaugh drove along Highway 1 to a low bridge located just south of Point Lobos, near the Highlands. The terrain there suited his needs. It was also where Prescott had forced the Taurus into the water. He parked along the side of the road, waited for a break in the passing headlights of traffic, then lugged the collapsed rubber boat down the slope to the water. After using a pressurized canister to inflate the boat, he anchored it to a rock and made two more cautious trips back and forth from the car, bringing the small outboard motor and a buoyant waterproof bag containing his equipment. He had put on his wet suit in the motel room. Now all he had to do was take off the sport coat that disguised what he was wearing. Rubber gloves and diver's boots protected his hands and feet as he pushed off from the rocks. He started the motor and headed out to the moonlit sea, staying a hundred yards offshore, following the contour of the bluffs of the Highlands, the speckled lights of houses guiding him.

When he came abreast of the bluff upon which Prescott's house was positioned, he shut off the motor and switched to a paddle, heading in silently. With the electricity restored, several lights around the outside of Prescott's house provided a beacon. But the waves and the undertow made it difficult to control the boat. Sweating from exertion, he had to alternate between port and starboard as he paddled closer to the cliff.

Then he got so close to the surf pounding the rocks that the boat would crash and overturn if he went any nearer. Spray chilled his face. After putting on the wet suit's rubber hood, along with flippers and a face mask equipped with a snorkel, he gripped the buoyant bag that contained his equipment and eased over the side. For an instant, the water was shockingly cold, nearly robbing him of the ability to move. Then the water seeped into his wet suit and formed a thin layer between the wet suit and his skin. Almost immediately, his body heated the water to its own temperature, so that only his face felt cold. The undertow was frighteningly strong, however. Using all the power in his arms and legs, he struggled through the turbulent waves, tugging his equipment bag via a strong nylon cord looped around his left wrist. A wave lifted him, threatening to smash him against the looming rocks. His heart raced sickeningly fast, making him almost change his mind and thrash back to the boat before the current could carry the boat away.

But he couldn't allow himself to back off, couldn't give in to his fear. If he did, he knew it would be the first of many times when he would give in to it. The surf took him under, lifted him, dropped him. With a mighty exhale, he blew water from his snorkel and stared through his water-beaded face mask. Judging the surf, he worked his legs and his arms, straining to avoid rocks projecting from the ocean. A wave slammed him against the cliff.

If not for the buffer of his wet suit, the granite would have flayed his shoulder. Wincing from the impact, he grabbed for an outcrop, was swept away, then was caught by another wave and again slammed against the cliff; but this time, as he groaned, his gloved hand caught a fissure in the rock. He gripped harder and pawed with his other glove. Finding a higher fissure, he pulled himself up before the next wave struck his legs and almost tugged him off the cliff.