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.
12
"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.
13
"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."
Vic debated with himself. "Might work as long as you pointed out the risks of going too fast."
"I'll have you read the article before I send it in. That way, you can make sure I've got it right. Maybe we can get some photographs of you and a couple of the miracle cases you've worked with."
"Photographs of me? Sure."
"And what about your club members? Do any of them fit the profile?"
"Well, we had a guy in here six months ago who-"
"I had in mind somebody who started recently, so I can get pictures of him as he goes through the process."
"Nobody at the moment." Vic looked crestfallen. "Does that mean you won't put me and the club in the article?"
14
"Most of our members are in terrific condition. From time to time, we get remedial cases, but not in the past three weeks."
"We do wonders for people if they give us the chance, but…"
"Not in the past three weeks."
"I might have just the guy," the Nordic-god fitness instructor said.
Cavanaugh concealed his reaction. This was the tenth exercise club he'd visited. Having exhausted Carmel, Pacific Grove, and Monterey, he was now ten miles to the east, in the community of Seaside on Monterey Bay, near the former Fort Ord military facility. Working to seem calm, Cavanaugh poised his pen over his notepad and said, "Really?"
"His name's Joshua Carter. Not Josh. Joshua. He's very particular about that. Came in here"-the instructor thought a moment-"a little under three weeks ago. I remember because he looked so out of condition I doubted he'd stick to the program. But he's been coming here every afternoon since then. I mean every afternoon. Stays four hours. At the start, I thought he was going to kill himself, drop dead on a treadmill or one of the weight machines, but he paces himself, works at a steady rate, doesn't overdo or strain. Afterward, he sits in the sauna and sweats off more pounds."