This much was certain: Grace had followed him, had taken her chance to grab Jamie, and was probably following Cavanaugh now. Inhaling sharply, he realized that while he'd been away from the Taurus, Grace might have planted a location transmitter in the car, making it easy for her to follow at a distance. Cavanaugh immediately stopped at a gas station and checked the obvious hiding places in and under the car. He used a pay phone to call information and get the numbers for Radio Shack stores in the area. One-to the north, in Monterey-was open until nine o'clock, he discovered. After asking directions about how to get there, he drove the seven miles along Highway 1 as fast as he could without breaking the speed limit. Using an FM receiver that he purchased at the store, he walked around the Taurus several times, slowly changing stations, waiting to hear the beep… beep… beep of the location transmitter. It would be set to one of the unused FM bands in the area. On Grace's end, the loudness or softness of the signal would tell her if Cavanaugh was near or far. But if Grace had managed to get something more sophisticated, something that used ultrasonic transmissions, Cavanaugh couldn't hope to find a comparably sophisticated device at Radio Shack to detect it.
After an hour in which he failed to discover a transmitter, he got back in the Taurus and resumed his evasive driving, frequently checking his rearview mirror to see if any headlights took the same direction he did. At last, fatigue and frustration wore him down. He returned to the motel room that he and Jamie had rented. Grace might use chemicals to make Jamie tell her the name of the place, but as much as Cavanaugh was tempted to spend the night somewhere else, he couldn't let himself. If Jamie escaped, she would phone the room or return to it, looking for him. He kept the lights out, wedged the bureau against the door, and sat on the floor in the corner next to the front window, his knees drawn to his chest, his pistol in his hand, not daring to sleep, ready to shoot if anybody crashed through.
11
Fog made the morning like twilight. Arriving at 7:00 a.m., an hour early, he parked a block away from Tor House. He shut off the headlights, the windshield wipers, and the engine, then stepped out into the fog. The car's heater had done little to warm him. Now the chill dampness made him tremble. Wanting to button his sport coat against the cold but needing to keep it open so he could draw his pistol, he forced himself to move. The fog thickened, shadows deepening. The echo of his footsteps made him shift to the side of the road, where fallen pine needles provided a cushion.
As he approached the street on which Tor House was located, he wasn't sure what he hoped to accomplish by arriving early. The fog prevented him from identifying any ambush sites. What am I supposed to do when Grace shows up? he wondered. Shoot? Hope to wound her? Try to force her to tell me where Jamie is? Grace won't let it be that easy, and if this is an ambush, she could just as easily shoot me.
Pausing, trying to assess the shadows of trees, shrubs, and houses before him, Cavanaugh realized that he should have listened to Jamie and not gone after Prescott. Then she wouldn't be missing and he wouldn't be standing here in the fog, as afraid as he'd ever been in his life.
No longer afraid for himself. Afraid for Jamie.
He had difficulty making his legs work. If, in the past weeks, anger had helped him to offset fear, the need to protect Jamie now proved to be an even greater force. During the night, he'd considered doing what Jamie had wanted and asking the FBI for help, but with no time to coordinate a plan, with the risk of a hastily assembled hostage-rescue team giving itself away, there was every chance that Grace would have sensed the danger and not shown up, destroying Cavanaugh's potentially single chance to save Jamie.
As he passed murky trees and spectral homes, shifting closer to where he estimated Tor House was, the fog chilled him to the core, a sensation he would not have thought possible, given the searing heat in his stomach. Because no one lived in Tor House, he was tempted to hide somewhere on the grounds, possibly in Hawk Tower, and hope that the fog would thin in an hour, allowing him to watch Grace's approach.
For all I know, Grace is already hiding on the grounds, he thought. Maybe she's in the tower.
Bup-bup.
The sound made Cavanaugh's heart lurch. He stopped halfway through the fog-shrouded intersection.
Bup-bup.
The sound came closer.
Bup-bup.
Seeing motion in the fog, Cavanaugh drew his pistol.
Bup-bup.
A silhouette appeared at the edge of the fog. The noises stopped.
In the distance, the surf pounded.
"You got here an hour early, huh?" a voice asked. Grace's. "Trying for an advantage. How come I'm not surprised?"
Cavanaugh couldn't speak.
"I'm stepping closer," Grace said. "I'd appreciate it if you don't shoot me again."
Bup-bup.
Grace's tall, trim silhouette emerged from the fog. Again, she had a pseudomilitary look: khaki pants, a matching tuck-in sweater, and a photographer's jacket, the kind with numerous loops and pockets, good for concealing a weapon.
But what Cavanaugh noticed most were the crutches she held under her armpits. The rubber pads on the bottom accounted for the noise he'd heard on the pavement. A cast covered her lower left leg.
"A good thing it's the left one. Otherwise, I'd have trouble driving. Care to autograph the cast? X marks the spot where you shot me?"
Again, Cavanaugh couldn't answer.
"Maybe later," Grace said. "After we finish our business." The fog drifted around her short blond hair, creating the illusion that the fog emanated from it. Her high-cheekboned face might have been attractive if her expression hadn't been so disagreeable.
She frowned at the Beretta in Cavanaugh's hand.
He holstered it.
Somewhere in the fog, a door banged.
"Let's go down to the beach, before we wake the neighbors," Grace said.
She swung her feet forward, set them down, and moved the crutches. One landed slightly later than the other. Bup-bup.
"Shooting me is something I can understand," she said, "but forcing me to watch all those Troy Donahue movies is unforgivable."
Bup-bup.
"I couldn't tell if you were lying that the movie also starred Sandra Dee, so I had to suffer through Donahue's greatest hits. Rome Adventure? With so many terrorist threats against Americans in foreign countries, someone as suspicious as Prescott wouldn't go to Europe. For sure, the tobacco farms in Parrish aren't Prescott's thing, even with all the sex-starved women the movie expects us to believe lurk among the tobacco plants. Palm Springs Weekend? It has the golf course Prescott wants, but because he built his lab in a lush Virginia valley, I couldn't imagine him living in a desert. That left A Summer Place and that amazing beach, which turned out not to be in Maine at all."
The fog parted enough to reveal that Cavanaugh and Grace had reached the scenic drive above the surf. Cold sweat beaded Cavanaugh's face.
"But to find that out," Grace said, "I had to watch every Clint Eastwood thriller I could get my hands on. As much as I enjoy watching Clint shoot bad guys, a steady diet of it can be a little much after a couple of days. I'm not sure I'll ever be able to make myself go to another movie of his. That's something else I blame you for."
"Where did you spot us?"
"I concentrated on Prescott's interest in golf. I knew sooner or later you'd look for him where every golfer dreams of playing: Pebble Beach. Yesterday, you showed up there."