Long Lost (30 page)

A chill wind strengthened, redolent of approaching rain. At the gaping entrances to the warehouse, a few grizzled faces squinted out.

Cavanaugh took his cell phone from his jacket and pressed the good—for—today—only numbers Duncan had given to him.

As the phone rang on the other end, more grizzled faces squinted from the warehouse, some apprehensive, others assessing.

On the other end, the phone rang a second time.

“Yes?” a man’s trembly voice asked, sounding like he was in an echo chamber.

Cavanaugh supplied his half of the recognition sequence. “I didn’t realize the warehouse was closed.”

“Ten years ago,” came the other half of the sequence, the voice continuing to be unsteady. “Your name is …”

“Cavanaugh. And yours is …”

“Daniel Prescott. Daniel. Not Dan.”

This exchange, too, was part of the sequence.

More haggard faces peered from the warehouse, an army of rags trying to decide if Cavanaugh was an enemy, a benefactor, or a target.

Isolated drops of rain struck the greasy pavement.

“Global Protective Services is supposed to be the best,” the voice said. “I expected a fancier car.”

“One of the reasons we’re the best is we don’t attract attention to ourselves and, more important, to our clients.”

More drops struck the pavement.

“I assume you can see me,” Cavanaugh said. “As you wanted, I came alone.”

“Open the car doors.”

Cavanaugh did.

“Open the trunk.”

Cavanaugh did. The man evidently had a vantage point that allowed him to look into the vehicle.

The dark clouds thickened. A few more drops of rain struck around him.

Cavanaugh heard faint, echoing, metallic noises on the phone. “Hello?” he said into it.

No response.

“Hello?” he asked again.

More faint, echoing, metallic noises.

Thunder rumbled closer.

A few scarecrows of men stepped from the warehouse. Like the others, they were scruffy and beard—stubbled, but the desperation in their eyes contrasted with the blankness and resignation Cavanaugh sensed in the others.

Crack addicts, he assumed, so overdue for a fix they’d try taking on a stranger who was unwise enough to visit hell. “Hey, I came here to help you,” Cavanaugh said into the phone, “not to get soaked.”

More metallic noises.

“I think we both made a mistake.” Cavanaugh shut the trunk and the passenger doors. About to get into the car, he heard the trembly voice say:

“Ahead of you. On the left. You see the door?”

“Yes.”

It was the only door still intact. Closed.

“Come in,” the unsteady voice said.

Cavanaugh got behind the steering wheel.

“I said ‘come in,’ ” the voice told him.

“After I move the vehicle.”

Cavanaugh drove along the weed—choked, cracked—concrete parking area. Near the door, he turned the car in a half circle so it faced the direction from which he’d come. He left sufficient room around it so that, when he returned, he’d be able to see if anyone was trying to hide near it.

“Entering,” Cavanaugh said into his phone.

He shut off the engine, left the car, and locked it via remote control while he sprinted through the drizzle. Movement in his peripheral vision made him glance to his left along the warehouse toward where more crack addicts stepped into the increasing rain and watched him. Wary of what might be behind the door (more predators?), Cavanaugh put his cell phone into his jacket pocket and did something he hadn’t planned: drew his pistol. As he turned the knob, he noted that, although the lock was coated with grit, there was a hint of shininess underneath—the lock was new. But it wasn’t engaged. Pulling the heavy, creaking door open, he ducked inside.

As swiftly as the door’s protesting hinges allowed, Cavanaugh closed it. No longer a silhouette, he shifted toward the deepest shadows and took account of where he was. At the bottom of a dusty concrete stairwell, metal steps led up. Cobwebs dangled from the railing. On the left, a motor rumbled behind an elevator door. The place smelled of must and gave off a chill.

Aiming his pistol toward the stairs and then toward the elevator, Cavanaugh reached behind him to turn the latch on the sturdy lock and secure the door. But before he could touch it, the lock’s bolt rammed home, triggered electronically from a distance.

Cavanaugh concentrated to control his uneasiness. There wasn’t any reason to suspect he was in danger. After all, Duncan had warned him that the potential client, although legitimate, had eccentricities. Prescott’s merely being cautious, Cavanaugh tried to assure himself. Hell, if he’s so nervous about his safety that he feels he needs protection, it’s natural he’ll make sure the door’s locked. He’s the one in danger, not me. Then why am I holding this gun?

Cavanaugh pulled the phone from his pocket and spoke into it. “Now what?”

His voice echoed.

As if in response, the elevator opened, revealing a brightly lit compartment.

Cavanaugh hated elevators: small sealed boxes that could easily become traps. God knew what might be on the other side when the door reopened.

“Thanks,” he said into the phone, “but I need some exercise. I’ll take the stairs.”

As his eyes adjusted to the shadows, he noticed a small surveillance camera mounted discreetly under the stairs, facing the door. “I was told you wanted to disappear. It seems to me you’ve already done that.”

“Not enough,” the unsteady voice said. This time, it came not from the phone but from a speaker hidden in the wall.

Cavanaugh put away his phone. A vague pungent smell pinched his nostrils, as if something had died nearby. His heartbeat quickened.

No matter how softly he placed his shoes, the metal stairs echoed loudly as he climbed.

He came to a landing and reversed direction, shifting higher. The pungent smell became a little more noticeable. His stomach fidgeted as he faced a solid metal door. Hesitating, he reached for it.

“Not that one,” the voice said from the wall.

Nerves inexplicably more on edge, Cavanaugh climbed higher and came to a door halfway up the stairs.

“Not that one, either,” the voice said. “Incidentally, am I supposed to feel reassured that you’re coming to me with a gun?”

“I don’t know about you, but under the circumstances, it does a world of good for me.”

The voice made a sound that might have been a bitter chuckle.

Heavy rain hit the building, sending vibrations through it.

Cavanaugh reached the top level, where, next to the elevator, a final door awaited him. The door was open, inviting him into a brightly lit corridor, which had a closed door at the other end.

The same as stepping into an elevator, Cava—naugh decided. The pungent smell seemed a little stronger. His muscles tightening, he didn’t understand what was happening to him. A visceral part of him warned him to leave the building. Abruptly, he wondered if he
could leave.
Even though he always carried lockpicks in his jacket’s collar, he had the suspicion that they wouldn’t be enough to open the downstairs door.

Breathing slightly faster, he had to keep telling himself that he wasn’t the one in danger—Prescott was, which explained what Cavanaugh hoped were merely security precautions and not a trap that had been set for him.

He glanced up at a security camera in the corridor he was expected to enter. To hell with it, he thought, annoyed by the nervous moisture on his palms. If Prescott wanted me dead, he could have killed me before now.

Regardless of the insistent pounding of his heart, a strong intuition told Cavanaugh to surrender to the situation. Something else told him to run, which made no sense inasmuch as he had no reason to believe he was in danger. Impatient with himself, he came to a strong decision and holstered his weapon. It’s not going to do me any good in that corridor anyhow.

Entering, he wasn’t surprised that the door swung shut behind him, locking itself loudly.

After the gloom of the stairwell, the lights hurt his eyes, but at least the pungent smell was gone. Managing to feel less on edge, he walked to the door at the end of the corridor, turned the knob, pushed the door open, and found himself in a bright room filled with closed—circuit television monitors and electronic consoles. Across from him, bricks covered a window.

What captured his attention, however, was an overweight fortyish man who stood among the glowing electronic equipment. The man wore wrinkled slacks and an equally wrinkled white shirt that had sweat marks under the arms and clung to his ample stomach. His thick, sandy hair was uncombed. He needed a shave. The skin under his eyes was puffy from lack of sleep. The dark pupils of his eyes were large from tension.

The man aimed a Colt .45 semiautomatic pistol at Cavanaugh. Its barrel wavered.

Cavanaugh had no doubt that if he’d entered the room, carrying his weapon, the man would have fired. Doing his best to keep his breathing steady, he raised his hands in reassuring submission. Despite the big gun that was nervously aimed at him, the uneasiness Cavanaugh had felt coming up the stairs seemed of no importance compared to what this man must be feeling, for, outside of combat, Prescott was the most frightened man Cavanaugh had ever seen.

“Please remember you sent for me,” Cavanaugh said. “I’m here to help you.”

As Prescott continued to aim the Colt, his pupils got larger. The room became more sour with fear.

“I knew your one—time—only phone number and the recognition code,” Cavanaugh said. “Only someone from Protective Services could have had that information.”

“You could have forced those details from the person they were sending,” Prescott said. As on the phone, his voice was unsteady, but now Cavanaugh understood that it wasn’t an electronic effect— Prescott’s voice shook because he was afraid.

The door behind Cavanaugh swung shut, its lock ramming electronically home. He managed not to flinch. “I don’t know who or what you feel threatened by, but I hardly think one man coming here would be the smartest way to get at you, not the way you’ve got this place set up. Logic should tell you I’m not a threat.”

“The unexpected is the most brilliant tactic.” Prescott’s grip on the .45 was as unsteady as his voice. “Besides, your logic works against you. If one man isn’t much of a threat, how can one man provide adequate protection?”

“You didn’t say you wanted protection. You said you wanted to disappear.”

Sweat marks spreading under his arms, Prescott studied Cavanaugh warily.

“My initial interviews are always one—on—one,” Cavanaugh said. “I have to ask questions to assess the threat level. Then I decide how much help the job requires.”

“I was told you used to be in Delta Force.” Prescott licked his dry puffy lips.

“That’s right.”

The classic special—operations physique involved strong—looking shoulders that trimmed down to solid, compact hips, upper—body strength being one of the goals of the arduous training.

“Lots of exercise,” Prescott said. “Is that what you think qualifies you to protect somebody?”

Trying to put Prescott at ease, Cavanaugh chuckled. “You want my job stats?”

“If you want to convince me you’re here to help. If you want to work for me.”

“You’ve got this turned around. When I interview potential clients, it’s not because I want to work for them. Most times, I don’t want to work for them.”

“You mean you have to like them?” Prescott asked with distaste.

“Most times, I don’t like them, either,” Cavanaugh said. “But that doesn’t mean they don’t have a right to live. I’m a protector, not a judge. But the man who taught me to do this did set minimum standards. No drug dealers, arms merchants, terrorists, mobsters, child molesters, wife beaters, members of militant hate groups, or anybody else who’s an obvious monster. Are you any of those?”

Prescott had a look of incredulity. “Of course not.”

“Then there’s only one other standard that’ll help me decide if I want to protect you.”

“Which is?”

“Are you willing to be compliant?”

Prescott blinked sweat from his puffy eyes. “What?”

“I can’t protect someone who won’t take orders,” Cavanaugh said. “That’s the paradox of being a protector. Someone hires me. In theory, that person’s the boss. But when it comes to protection, I’m the one who gives the orders. The employer has to react to me as if I’m the boss. Are you willing to be compliant?”

“Anything to keep me alive.”

“You’ll do what I say?”

Prescott thought fearfully and nodded.

“So, okay, here’s your first order: Put that damned gun away before I ram it down your throat.”

Prescott blinked several times, stepping back as if Cavanaugh had slapped him. He held the gun steadier, frowned, and slowly lowered it.

“An excellent start,” Cavanaugh said.

“If you’re not who you say you are, do it right now,” Prescott said. “Kill me. I can’t stand living this way.”

“Relax. Whoever your enemies are, I’m not one of them.” Cavanaugh surveyed the room. To the right, in a corner, past the electronics and the monitors, he saw a cot, a minifridge, a sink, and a small stove. Beyond was a toilet, a showerhead, and a drain. The type of food on a stack of shelves made clear Prescott didn’t worry about being overweight: boxes of macaroni and cheese, cans of ravioli and lasagna, bags of chocolates, candy bars, and potato chips, cases of classic Coke.

“How long have you been here?”

“Three weeks.”

Cavanaugh noticed books on a shelf below the food. Most were nonfiction, on subjects as various as geology and photography. The latter had a naked woman on the cover and seemed to be a sex book. In contrast, one volume was
The Collected Poems of Robinson Jeffers
, with a few books about Jeffers next to it. “You like poetry?” Cavanaugh asked.

“Soothes the soul.” Prescott’s tone was slightly defensive, as if he suspected that Cavanaugh might be mocking him.

Cavanaugh picked up the book and opened it, reading the first lines he came to. ‘I built her a tower when I was young—/Sometime she will die—’.”

Prescott looked more defensive.