"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."
Cavanaugh somehow managed to keep his hand steady as he wrote on the notepad. All the while, his heart was on overdrive. "Sounds like he'd be perfect for my article."
"Only trouble is, you're a little late for the photographs."
"Late?"
"He's so determined, so strict about his workout and his diet, he looks different from when he came in. I almost didn't recognize him when I returned from a three-day camping trip. I couldn't get over the rate at which he's improving himself. The only 'before' pictures you'll get are ones he might have at his house."
"Well, if he doesn't have any photos, I'm wasting my time. What are his phone number and address so I can ask?" Cavanaugh phrased the question in positive terms that programmed the instructor to act upon it.
"Let's have a look." The instructor pressed keys on a computer keyboard. "Seventy-eight Vista Linda. That's one of those new streets that got built after the city took over the Fort Ord golf course." The instructor wrote down the phone number. "You know, something bothers me here. I've got to be honest."
"Oh?" Tensing, Cavanaugh wondered if the instructor had suddenly suspected he wasn't a magazine writer.
"The more I think about it, Joshua might not be right for your article. He's getting in shape so rapidly, it's not natural. I sometimes wonder if it's not just his determination and his diet and the help we're giving him."
"What do you mean?" Cavanaugh anticipated the answer but made the pretense of a frown.
"Well, I don't want to get you in trouble with your magazine if you write this article and they print it and down the road somebody finds out a lot of the difference Joshua made in his body is due to…"
"Steroids?"
"All that talk about weight lifters and professional football players using them, the steroid scandals in the Olympics, the rumors about some of those women tennis players using them… It gives the fitness industry a bad name. Some people look at me, at all these muscles, and say, 'Sure, if you take steroids, anybody can look like that.' I swear to God I've never taken steroids in my life. They cause heart attacks and strokes. They're the opposite of every health principle that got me into this business."
Steroids would be in keeping with Prescott's biochemical background, Cavanaugh thought. "Did you ask Joshua about it?"
"He was shocked at the question. He swore he had nothing to do with that junk."
"But?" Cavanaugh asked.
"Part of me can't imagine how else he could make such a quick difference in his body."
"When I meet him, if he agrees to help me, I'll make a point of asking him. What's he look like?"
"Around six feet tall. Early forties. Still a little puffy, but not much. He's getting more trim and solid all the time. One of the reasons I didn't recognize him is, while I was away camping, he got his scalp shaved. He's growing a goatee."
The reference made Cavanaugh think of Roberto's goatee, and that, in turn, made him think of Roberto's bashed-in skull.
"Sounds like he's photogenic. Great for the article," Cavanaugh said. With everything in him, he wanted to see Prescott's skull bashed in, but he had to repress his anger. Getting Jamie was all that mattered, but to get her, to force Grace to return her, he had to keep Prescott alive. "What time does he usually come in?"