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.
23
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."
"That's right."
"She'll get there as soon as possible," Prescott said. "To set up a trap and make sure you're not setting up one."
"Right again. I keep telling you: You missed your true profession."
"There isn't much time," Prescott said.
"So what are you going to do, keep running, always looking over your shoulder, or end your problems tonight?"
Prescott stared at him or, rather, stared through him, as if Cavanaugh weren't there, as if Prescott peered at a bleak horizon that consisted of unending days and nights of being hunted.
At last, he stood. The dark of his goatee contrasted starkly with the pallor of his cheeks. Sweat oozed from his scalp. He looked as if the next two words were the hardest he'd ever spoken. "Let's go."
PART SEVEN. Threat Elimination
1
"Take off your shirt. Put this on." Cavanaugh reached under the cover on the Taurus's backseat and pulled out the bullet-resistant vest he'd hidden beneath it. "Your shirt's loose enough that it won't be obvious you're wearing the vest. Then put on your jacket to conceal your pistol."
The Taurus was parked in a shadowy area at the back of the motel's parking lot. Using the car for concealment, Prescott did what he was told. The brief glimpse that Cavanaugh got of Prescott's reduced stomach and developed chest muscles surprised him.
When Prescott put on his jacket, Cavanaugh grabbed a roll of duct tape from the rear floor. "Now get in front. While I drive, wrap this around your ankles."
Prescott looked suspicious.
"Make it appear secure," Cavanaugh said. "Then use this." Cavanaugh opened the driver's door and picked up the Emerson knife from where Prescott had insisted he put it, along with his pistol, near the car's pedals. With his thumb against the tab on the back of the blade, Cavanaugh flicked the knife open and gave it to Prescott. "Cut the tape on the inside so the force of your legs can break it if you need to."
Prescott continued looking suspicious.
"This close to you, don't you think I could have taken that pistol from you and killed you?" Cavanaugh asked. "While you're with me, you're safe. Wrap the tape around your ankles; then use this knife. Be careful. The blade's sharp."
Cavanaugh got into the car, picked up the pistol on the floor, holstered it, and waited for Prescott to join him. Prescott had to muster more resolve before he got in.
Immediately, Cavanaugh drove two blocks to a brightly lit grocery store he'd noticed when he and Prescott had gone to the motel. open 'til midnight, its neon sign read. He ran in and came back five minutes later with a paper bag, which he emptied on the seat.
As Cavanaugh drove away, Prescott peered down at four objects: a bottle of colorless corn syrup, a bottle of red food dye, a plastic bowl, and a large plastic spoon. "What are these for?"
"Stir some of the corn syrup and food dye together in the bowl." Cavanaugh steered toward Highway 1. "For God's sake, why?"