"Prescott raised a similar issue."
Jamie looked puzzled.
"After I rescued him from the warehouse, we nearly got trapped at a shopping mall. The team chasing us left a car outside. I managed to sneak up on it and shout to its driver to run away. The driver was too startled to move. I had to shoot through the car's roof before he got his legs to work. Later, Prescott asked me why I hadn't just killed the man."
"And what did you answer?"
"That the man hadn't given me a reason, that I was a protector, not a…"
Jamie didn't need to say anything further to make her point.
"I wonder if Prescott's counting on that," Cavanaugh said bitterly. "He can't be sure I died in the fire at Karen's house. I wonder if the son of a bitch is betting that my personality's essentially defensive, that I won't come after him for betraying me and my friends."
Jamie stayed silent.
"He'll have changed his appearance," Cavanaugh said. "He'll probably wear glasses now. He's had enough time to grow a mustache or a beard. He might even have had some plastic surgery. His heaviness will be hard to disguise, though."
Troubled, Jamie started eating her omelette again.
Cavanaugh glanced at the television behind the counter. A commercial for a weight-losing product showed before and after photographs of a formerly bulky man who was now amazingly thin. He turned toward Jamie. "When I first met Prescott, he had shelves of the most carbohydrate-heavy, calorie-rich foods imaginable. Macaroni and cheese. Lasagna. Ravioli. Potato chips. Candy bars. Chocolates. Classic Coke."
"That would put the pounds on all right."
"Suppose he went on a crash diet."
Jamie looked up.
"It's been almost three weeks since I last saw him," Cavanaugh said. "If he starves himself, if he drinks tons of water to flush his system…"
"A man as determined as Prescott…" Jamie nodded. "It wouldn't be healthy, but I bet he could lose a pound or two a day."
"Jesus," Cavanaugh said, "at that rate, he'd soon be unrecognizable."
"But even with that beard you're trying to grow to disguise your appearance, you'll be very recognizable," Jamie said. "Prescott could blend with a crowd and see you coming."
"Not you, though," Cavanaugh said.
"What do you mean?"
"He doesn't know you're with me. He could look straight at you and not be aware you're hunting him."
"Hunting him is what you're doing," Jamie said.
5
Ocean Avenue was the only Carmel street that went directly from the highway down to the water. Steep and several blocks long, it was separated by a median of shrubs and sheltering trees. Quaint shops and relaxed-looking tourists flanked it.
While Jamie drove, Cavanaugh scanned the people on the sidewalk, wondering if he'd get lucky and see Prescott.
It didn't happen.
At the bottom of the hill, they came to waves pounding a picture-postcard mile-long crescent-shaped beach of amazingly white sand. Sections of bedrock protruded. Cypresses spread fernlike branches. Two surfers in wet suits rode the whitecaps. Dogs frolicked through the waves while their owners strolled behind them. Gulls soared.
But Cavanaugh's attention was focused on the people along the beach, none of whom reminded him of Prescott.
Jamie steered left and followed a scenic road along the water. Rustic homes were enclosed by trees, some of which were Monterey pines, their guidebook said, while others showed the distinctive twisted trunks of wind-contorted live oaks.
Jamie pointed toward an outcrop on the right. "There's the house from A Summer Place."
It still reminded Cavanaugh of the prow of a ship, but the constant crashing of waves had not been kind to it. "Looks deserted," he said, giving it only a moment's notice before continuing to concentrate on people walking along the beach or the side of the road.
Prescott wasn't any of them.
6
They stopped on a quiet, narrow, tree-lined street that hadn't existed when Robinson Jeffers and Una had settled in Carmel.
After walking up a brick driveway, they opened a wooden gate and entered a compound.
Cavanaugh had read so much about the place, about the gaunt-cheeked, lanky Irishman's epic struggle to build it, that he'd expected something on that epic scale. Instead, he was surprised by how intimate it felt. Colorful flowers and shrubs reminded him of an English rural garden. On the left was the forty-foot-high stone structure that Jeffers had called Hawk Tower, with its chimney, staircase, battlement, and turrets. To the right was the low stone house with its gently sloped shingled roof and stone chimney.
A brick walkway led to a door, where an elderly gentleman explained that he worked for the foundation that maintained the property. "Would you care for a tour?" he asked.
"Very much."
"Have you been in an accident?" the white-haired man asked sympathetically, noticing Cavanaugh's face.
"A fall. I'm taking some time off from work, recuperating."
"Carmel is a fine place to do that."
Inside, the rooms that Jeffers had painstakingly built were small and yet somehow spacious. From the weight of the structure, the air felt compressed. A slight chill came off the paneled walls. In the living room, Cavanaugh studied the stone fireplace on the right and the piano in the far corner. Windows provided a view of the ocean.
The guide took them through the guest room, kitchen, and bathroom on the main floor and the two attic bedrooms, one of which Jeffers had used for writing.
"Robin, as we liked to call him, built the house on a small scale," the elderly man explained, "to withstand ocean storms. He and Una had twin sons, and you can imagine how much they all loved one another for them to be able to live happily in such cramped and isolated circumstances. They deliberately didn't have electricity installed until 1949, after they'd lived here thirty years."
Cavanaugh felt a curious tightening in his throat.
"Notice the poetry that Robin etched into this beam," the guide said. "They're not his words, however. They're from one of his favorite works: Spenser's Faerie Queene."
Sleepe after toyle, port after stormie seas, Ease after warre, death after life does greatly please.
Now Cavanaugh felt hollow.
"If you'll follow me to Hawk Tower," the elderly man said.
Considering Jeffers's somber themes of human frailty as opposed to the abiding strength of nature, Cavanaugh was surprised by the humor that Jeffers had put into the tower. Intended as a retreat for Una and a playhouse for his sons, it had a dungeon and a "secret" interior staircase in which the children could hide. From a lookout on top and from several narrow windows, the sea was always in view.
"Una died in 1950, Robin in 1962, she from cancer, he from a variety of ailments," the guide said. "Robin had bad lungs and hardened arteries from smoking, but since he never recovered from Una's death, I've always assumed that what really killed him was a broken heart. She was sixty-six. He was seventy-five. Still too young to go, some would say, and yet what a full life. I don't tell this to the children whose teachers bring them here for tours, but I'll tell you. In their youth, at night, Robin and Una would send their children up to sleep in one of the attic bedrooms. Then they would"-the elderly man hesitated only slightly-"make love in the guest room downstairs before going up to the other attic bedroom. The bed that they made love in is the bed that they each later waited to die in. Their ashes are buried together in that corner of the garden."
On the street, car doors were opened and shut. Cavanaugh looked past the flowers and the wooden fence toward a family getting out of a van.
"Here are some samples of Robin's verses." The guide gave Cavanaugh and Jamie a few photocopies. "If you have any questions…"