20
"Somebody's got a brand-new Porsche up there," he told the kid with a ring in his nose who was in charge of the parking garage's exit booth.
"Yeah, cool, huh?"
"Is this place safe enough for a car that expensive?"
"Somebody like me's always on duty. Nobody's tried to steal it so far."
"So far?"
"The guy who owns it pays by the month. Weird, though."
"What do you mean?"
"The guy never takes the Porsche out except in the afternoon. Half-past twelve or so, he leaves. A little after five, he comes back."
And walks away via the office building, Cavanaugh realized. Then he watches from down the street to see if anybody followed him.
21
He spotted me. I've got to assume the bastard spotted me. Cavanaugh drove from the garage, which he now realized was the dividing line between Joshua Carter and whatever identity Karen had created for him. As Cavanaugh headed back to Del Monte Avenue, he was absolutely convinced that Prescott had another vehicle near the garage, something that didn't attract attention, that blended in, the way Cavanaugh had taught him. Cavanaugh took care not to glance at his rearview mirror. He couldn't risk doing even the slightest thing that might make Prescott realize Cavanaugh hoped he was being followed. As sparks seemed to shoot through his nervous system, he turned left and headed deeper into the historic part of Monterey. Soon, he discovered he was on Cannery Row, where boutiques and cafes had replaced the fish factories from John Steinbeck's day, but he paid no attention. To his right, the sun was low over the ocean. He paid no attention to that, either.
Follow me, Cavanaugh kept hoping. Follow me.
He tried to imagine what was going through Prescott's mind. One temptation would be to flee the Carmel/Monterey area as quickly as possible. But to the best of Prescott's knowledge, only his Joshua Carter persona had been uncovered. If Prescott concluded that Cavanaugh was acting on his own, which Cavanaugh seemed to be doing, would Prescott decide to protect the false identity Karen had created for him by eliminating the threat to it, by going after Cavanaugh? It all depended on how much Prescott enjoyed his new life, on how much he hated to abandon it. Would he run, or would he protect the identity for which he'd already killed five people?
Cavanaugh drove as steadily as possible, making no attempt at evasion tactics. Cannery Row dead-ended, forcing him to make a left turn and then a right, but otherwise he continued in a direct fashion, following the edge of the ocean on his right. The sun sank, casting crimson over the whitecaps. Never once did Cavanaugh look in his rearview mirror. Never once did he give an indication that he hoped he was being followed. He passed several scenic stopping places and finally chose one that had few vehicles. Steering from the road, he parked in an isolated area, got out of the car, and crossed the pavement, heading toward the numerous boulders along the ocean.
There, he did something that he realized with surprise could be considered brave, although he didn't think that the act was anything remotely to be proud of. As he despondently reminded himself, if he'd listened to Jamie and gone home to Jackson Hole with her, he wouldn't need to deny all his protective instincts now. He selected two low boulders that were close enough to each other for him to sit on one while he propped his shoes on the other. With his back to the parking lot, he placed his hands on his knees and waited.
The sunset gleamed across the water. He felt a cool breeze, spray from the waves hitting the boulders in front of him. But all he paid attention to was the sound of a vehicle pulling off the road and stopping in the parking area behind him.
The engine remained on. A car door was opened and then closed. Despite the pounding of the surf, Cavanaugh heard footsteps crossing the pavement. Shoes crunched on pebbles as someone approached the boulder he sat on.
The footsteps halted behind his back.
Fear insisted on a fight-or-flight response. As Cavanaugh maintained his defenseless position, his central nervous system was on overdrive, speeding, pulsing, demanding more oxygen and an even more urgent flow of blood.
"How did you find me?" Prescott's voice shook, just as it had the first time Cavanaugh had heard it.
"A Summer Place and Play Misty for Me." Cavanaugh's palms sweated.
For several moments, the only sound came from the surf and the idling engine. "Observant."
"And you're a quick learner. In another life, you could have been an operator." Appeal to his pride, Cavanaugh thought.
"Do you always speak highly of people you want to kill?"
"I don't want to kill you anymore." Cavanaugh stared straight ahead toward the sunset-tinted ocean.
"Is that supposed to persuade me not to kill you?"
"You didn't come here to do that. Otherwise, you'd have pulled the trigger by now."
"Then why did I come here?"
"To talk to me." Cavanaugh struggled to control his breathing.
Again, the only sounds were the surf and the idling engine.
"Keep your hands on your knees. Keep looking at the water," Prescott said.
As the breeze strengthened, Cavanaugh heard footsteps on pebbles. To his right, a solid-looking figure appeared in his peripheral vision, coming around to a boulder a careful distance from him. Prescott had a jacket over his hands, concealing what Cavanaugh assumed was a handgun. "You seem to be alone."
"You had plenty of time to watch the garage. You know I was the only person keeping tabs on the Porsche."
"What did you put on the car's handle?"
"You had that good a look at me?"
"I hid small video cameras at the top of various support beams in the garage. They're tiny. Battery-powered. Barely noticeable. The Internet's crammed with advertising for them: 'Check up on your baby-sitter. See your neighbor's teenaged daughter sunbathing.' I watched the images on monitors in a van on the garage's lower level."
"Then you're aware I don't have help."
"What did you put on the car's handle?"
"A knockout chemical that works on skin contact."
"Why are you doing this alone? Why didn't you tell the government where you'd found me?"
"Because the government would make a deal with you, in exchange for your testimony against the military officials who hired you to develop the hormone."
"You learned about that?"
"I assume the only reason you're not using it on me now is that the breeze coming ashore would carry it away before it did anything to me."
"Who told you about it?"
"A man who called himself Kline. He led the team that tried to kidnap you."
"I know who Kline is." Prescott's voice hardened.
"You don't need to worry about him anymore. He's dead."
"Because of you?"
"No. A woman I call Grace was responsible for that."
"Grace?"
"Five feet ten. Blue eyes. Short blond hair. Looks like she goes to the gym a lot. Could be attractive if she weren't so disagreeable."
"1 know Grace also. Her real name's Alicia."
"Seems too feminine for her."
"If you're a female trained in an experimental special-ops program, I suspect you lose some of your femininity."
The sun was almost gone. As shadows turned to dusk, Cavanaugh understood why Prescott had left his car's engine idling. The headlights were on, glaring at them. Prescott wanted to avoid depleting the car's battery.
"She's the one who gave me the knockout chemical I put on your door handle."
"I'm pleased you said that."
"Oh?"
"I doubt your skills extend to laboratories and formulas. Someone must have given you the knockout chemical. It goes against your claim to be working alone."