Long Lost (31 page)

“Knows how to grab my attention.” Cavanaugh set down the book and continued scanning the place. Videotapes sat next to a small television. Prescott’s taste had no consistency: a Clint Eastwood thriller, an old Troy Donahue—Sandra Dee teenage—romance tearjerker …

“I’ve seen worse places to go to ground.” Ca—vanaugh thought about it. “Homeless people and crack addicts as your cover. Smart. How’d you know about this warehouse? How’d you set up this room?”

“I did it a long time ago,” Prescott said. “Whatever your trouble is, you saw it coming?” “Not the trouble I have.” “Then why did you …” “I always take precautions,” Prescott said. “You’re not making sense.” “In case,” Prescott told him.

“In case of what?” Movement on a TV monitor abruptly caught Cavanaugh’s attention. “Wait a second.”

“What’s wrong?” Prescott spun toward the monitor.

On the screen, a gray image showed a dozen ragged men plodding through the rain, converging on Ca—vanaugh’s car.

“Jesus,” Prescott said.

“Crack addicts are amazing,” Cavanaugh said. “No matter what it is, if it’s left alone, they’ll try to steal it. I once knew a guy who stole forty pounds of dog food from his father so he could buy crack. What’s more amazing, the dealer he went to took the dog food rather than demanding money for the dope. For all I know, the dealer ate it.”

On the screen, drenched with rain, the ragged men tugged at the side—view mirrors or used chunks of metal to pry at the hub caps.

“Have you got a way to hear what’s going on outside?” Cavanaugh asked.

Prescott flipped a switch on a console. Immediately, the sound of rain came through an audio speaker.

Cavanaugh heard the distant scrape of metal as the ragged men worked in the downpour to try to disassemble his car. “Get a job, guys.”

He took the car’s remote control from his jacket pocket. It was more elaborate than was common, equipped with a half dozen buttons.

Prescott looked puzzled as Cavanaugh pressed one of the buttons. Suddenly, the audio speaker filled the room with an ear—torturing siren that came from the Taurus and made the ragged men drop their makeshift burglary tools, fleeing like drenched versions of the scarecrow in
The Wizard of Oz
.

Cavanaugh pressed the button again, and the siren stopped.

“Are you ready to get out of here?” he asked Prescott.

“To?” Prescott looked apprehensive.

“Somewhere safer than this, although Lord knows this place is safe enough. After my team arrives, after we get organized, we’ll get you a new identity and relocate you. But first I need to know what kind of risk level we’re talking about. Why are you so frightened?”