Vic cocked his head in interest. They sat across from each other in an office, where shelves supported various fitness trophies and the walls had autographed photographs of Vic with other well-built, incredibly healthy-looking people in skimpy T-shirts: presumably celebrities in their field.
"I'm talking about worst cases," Cavanaugh said, "people who huff and puff crossing a room, who're overweight enough that they look like coronaries ready to happen. An article that shows it doesn't matter what kind of wreck a person is. With the proper motivation, diet, and instruction, that person can get in shape, can dramatically change his or her life in a relatively short time. Not the six months or a year you normally read about. For people in really bad shape, six months or a year is an eternity. They don't want to imagine suffering for months and months. They want quicker results. What's that joke? The trouble with instant gratification is, it takes too long.'"
Vic frowned. "How quick are you talking about?"
"A month. I want to know if it's possible to take a guy who's really overweight, put him on a healthy, lean diet, teach him how to work the machines, watch over him, encourage him, get him coming in here several hours each day, start low and build his stamina, vary his exercises—could he lose a lot of pounds in a month and start to look like you?"
"Like me? In a month? Hell no, not like me."
"But could he look dramatically in better shape?"
"It'd be dangerous."
"So is being a physical wreck," Cavanaugh said. "What I want to write is a before and after kind of article. I want to show that a health club like this can work wonders in a very short time. The hook for the piece is: A person doesn't have to be patient to be fit, as long as there's motivation."
Vic debated with himself. "Might work as long as you pointed out the risks of going too fast."
"I'll have you read the article before I send it in. That way, you can make sure I've got it right. Maybe we can get some photographs of you and a couple of the miracle cases you've worked with."
"Photographs of me? Sure."
"And what about your club members? Do any of them fit the profile?"
"Well, we had a guy in here six months ago who—"
"I had in mind somebody who started recently, so I can get pictures of him as he goes through the process."
"Nobody at the moment." Vic looked crestfallen. "Does that mean you won't put me and the club in the article?"
* * *
14
"Most of our members are in terrific condition. From time to time, we get remedial cases, but not in the past three weeks."
* * *
"We do wonders for people if they give us the chance, but . . ."
* * *
"Not in the past three weeks."
* * *
"I might have just the guy," the Nordic-god fitness instructor said.
Cavanaugh concealed his reaction. This was the tenth exercise club he'd visited. Having exhausted Carmel, Pacific Grove, and Monterey, he was now ten miles to the east, in the community of Seaside on Monterey Bay, near the former Fort Ord military facility. Working to seem calm, Cavanaugh poised his pen over his notepad and said, "Really?"
"His name's Joshua Carter. Not Josh. Joshua. He's very particular about that. Came in here"—the instructor thought a moment—"a little under three weeks ago. I remember because he looked so out of condition I doubted he'd stick to the program. But he's been coming here every afternoon since then. I mean every afternoon. Stays four hours. At the start, I thought he was going to kill himself, drop dead on a treadmill or one of the weight machines, but he paces himself, works at a steady rate, doesn't overdo or strain. Afterward, he sits in the sauna and sweats off more pounds."
Cavanaugh somehow managed to keep his hand steady as he wrote on the notepad. All the while, his heart was on overdrive. "Sounds like he'd be perfect for my article."
"Only trouble is, you're a little late for the photographs."
"Late?"
"He's so determined, so strict about his workout and his diet, he looks different from when he came in. I almost didn't recognize him when I returned from a three-day camping trip. I couldn't get over the rate at which he's improving himself. The only 'before' pictures you'll get are ones he might have at his house."
"Well, if he doesn't have any photos, I'm wasting my time. What are his phone number and address so I can ask?" Cavanaugh phrased the question in positive terms that programmed the instructor to act upon it.
"Let's have a look." The instructor pressed keys on a computer keyboard. "Seventy-eight Vista Linda. That's one of those new streets that got built after the city took over the Fort Ord golf course." The instructor wrote down the phone number. "You know, something bothers me here. I've got to be honest."
"Oh?" Tensing, Cavanaugh wondered if the instructor had suddenly suspected he wasn't a magazine writer.
"The more I think about it, Joshua might not be right for your article. He's getting in shape so rapidly, it's not natural. I sometimes wonder if it's not just his determination and his diet and the help we're giving him."
"What do you mean?" Cavanaugh anticipated the answer but made the pretense of a frown.
"Well, I don't want to get you in trouble with your magazine if you write this article and they print it and down the road somebody finds out a lot of the difference Joshua made in his body is due to ..."
"Steroids?"
"All that talk about weight lifters and professional football players using them, the steroid scandals in the Olympics, the rumors about some of those women tennis players using them . . . It gives the fitness industry a bad name. Some people look at me, at all these muscles, and say, 'Sure, if you take steroids, anybody can look like that.' I swear to God I've never taken steroids in my life. They cause heart attacks and strokes. They're the opposite of every health principle that got me into this business."
Steroids would be in keeping with Prescott's biochemical background, Cavanaugh thought. "Did you ask Joshua about it?"
"He was shocked at the question. He swore he had nothing to do with that junk."
"But?" Cavanaugh asked.
"Part of me can't imagine how else he could make such a quick difference in his body."
"When I meet him, if he agrees to help me, I'll make a point of asking him. What's he look like?"
"Around six feet tall. Early forties. Still a little puffy, but not much. He's getting more trim and solid all the time. One of the reasons I didn't recognize him is, while I was away camping, he got his scalp shaved. He's growing a goatee."
The reference made Cavanaugh think of Roberto's goatee, and that, in turn, made him think of Roberto's bashed-in skull.
"Sounds like he's photogenic. Great for the article," Cavanaugh said. With everything in him, he wanted to see Prescott's skull bashed in, but he had to repress his anger. Getting Jamie was all that mattered, but to get her, to force Grace to return her, he had to keep Prescott alive. "What time does he usually come in?"
"Around one."
Cavanaugh glanced at his watch. Checking so many health clubs had consumed the morning. The time was now 12:35. Time. He didn't have much time. "Joshua must have a night job or something if he's got so many free afternoons."
"Night job? I don't think he's got any job," the instructor said.
"I don't understand."
"He dresses real well. Has a gold watch. A Piaget or something like that. I know it's expensive because when he joined the club, he made a big deal about whether the lockers were secure. Drives a brand-new Porsche. Not a Boxter. A Carrera. Lives on a fancy street. I get the feeling he's got so much money, he doesn't need to work."
A gold watch? Cavanaugh thought. A Porsche? Didn't Prescott remember what 1 told him about keeping a low profile?
"Money? I'm sorry to hear that," Cavanaugh said.
"What do you mean?"
"Rich people are usually concerned about their privacy and don't like to have articles written about them. They're afr
aid it sets them up to be robbed or something. Do me a favor. When Joshua comes in, don't tell him about this conversation. Let me approach him in my own way. Otherwise, I might not be able to persuade him, especially if he thinks you've been talking about him. For that matter, if he suspects you told me he might be using steroids, he could get upset enough to sue you for slander."
"Jesus Christ, sue me?"
"Maybe even sue the club. Rich people are like that. Don't worry. I'll leave you out of it. Just don't talk to him before I do."
"Man, I'm out of this, believe me."
"A Porsche, huh?"
"Yeah."
"If I ever won the lottery, I'd buy one. Red. That's my favorite color."
"Joshua's is white."
* * *
15
At 12:55, a white Porsche drove into the parking lot to the right of the redwood and glass exercise club. Breathing faster, Cavanaugh watched from a Starbucks across the street and scribbled the Porsche's license number on his stenographer's pad. Pretending to enjoy a latte, he sat a careful distance from the coffee shop's windows. He watched the Porsche stop in a parking space near the club. A tall, only somewhat overweight man got out. Even from a distance, it was obvious that the man's black loafers, gray slacks, and blue pullover were designer-expensive. The man's scalp was shaved. He had a goatee. Tan, he wore sunglasses.
Cavanaugh managed to seem calm as he set down his coffee, concentrating fiercely on the man who called himself Joshua Carter. If this was Prescott, the change was startling. A puffy, awkward, pasty-faced man was becoming something else, reshaping his body. Although he still had more volume to lose, what he had already lost had modified the contour of his cheeks and jawline. His goatee and shaved head altered his profile also, giving him a burly, masculine appearance. In an odd way, he was almost handsome. Beneath his comfortably loose clothing, Cavanaugh sensed, the man was developing strength and power.
Given the time frame, that doesn't seem possible, Cavanaugh thought. Something like steroids had to be part of the self-improvement mix, or else . . . An idea struck him: Had Prescott developed some kind of hormone stimulant?
The man paused a moment, scanning the parking lot and the area around him, before he pulled a dark gym bag from behind the front seat. Was he checking for trouble or simply enjoying his surroundings? His sunglasses prevented Cavanaugh from seeing if Carter glanced warily from side to side as he walked toward the front of the exercise club. But before he opened the door, there was no question that he looked behind him along the street.
* * *
16
Fifty. Fifty-two. Fifty-four. Hands tight on the steering wheel, Cavanaugh drove along Vista Linda, noting the house numbers. The street consisted of elaborately landscaped million-dollar homes with magnificent views of what was called the Bayonet/ Blackhorse Golf Course, a name left over from when Fort Ord had been active.
Sixty. Sixty-two. Sixty-four. Even with the street's proximity to the golf course, Cavanaugh didn't understand why Prescott had chosen to live somewhere in the Monterey peninsula area other than Carmel. Perhaps Prescott was staying away from a spot that he feared might be associated with him. But if he was being extra cautious, why the hell was he wearing a gold watch and driving around in a Porsche?
Seventy. Seventy-two. Cavanaugh planned to learn what he could about the layout of Prescott's house, find a way in, and use the knockout spray Grace had given him to subdue Prescott and arrange to trade him for Jamie. He would no doubt have to bypass a burglar alarm, and it wouldn't be easy getting in without neighbors seeing him, but he didn't have a choice.
Seventy-four. Seventy-eight was just ahead, an imposing, impressive two-story pseudo-Hispanic structure with a tile roof and . . .
Cavanaugh slowed, staring at the for sale sign on the front lawn.
* * *
17
"Sorry to bother you," Cavanaugh said to the elderly wispy-haired man who answered the door, "but I couldn't help noticing the sign across the street."
From too much sun, the man's leathery brown face had numerous creases. His stern gaze deepened them.
"My dad's a surgeon in Chicago, wants to retire out here," Cavanaugh said. "He's crazy about golf, so I've been driving around, seeing what places are for sale. The house across the street looks perfect, but this is a newly built area, and I'm wondering if there's something wrong with the place that it's being sold so soon."
"That god-awful sign," the man said.
"Excuse me?"
"I told her to put the house on the market privately. What do we want with a sign like that making the neighborhood look junky and Realtors and people who can't afford to live here coming around, gawking, cluttering up the street? No respect. The minute Sam died, his wife couldn't wait to sell the place."
"Sam?"
"Jamison. He and I moved here the same week two years ago. He dropped dead on the golf course yesterday morning, and that damned sign was sticking up in the yard by afternoon."
* * *
18
At the nearest gas station, Cavanaugh rushed to a pay phone. He shoved a phone card into a slot and pressed numbers.
"Rutherford," the deep voice said.
"How are you coming with those lists?" Speaking quickly, Cavanaugh was surprised by how breathless he felt.
"We've got a dozen agents working the phones from Washington. We sent agents from San Francisco and San Jose down to liaise with the agent we've got in the Carmel/Monterey area. But we still haven't been able to contact a lot of the Realtors, and as for the golf courses, I wish I had a dollar for everybody who wants to play there."
"You've got to hurry. Check this license number. It's a California plate and goes with a new Porsche Carrera. White." Cavanaugh dictated the number. "Who owns the car?"
"Are you at..." John recited the location and number of the pay phone Cavanaugh was using.
"Your caller ID system's damned good."
"Damned
and good don't go together," the Southern Baptist said. "Stay where you are. I'll contact the California DMV and call you back in ten minutes." "Make it as quick as you can. I'll be waiting."
The instant Cavanaugh hung up, he hurried to the Taurus and drove away, certain that in a very short while, a police car sent by Rutherford would arrive, looking for him. He went ten blocks and stopped at another gas station with an outside pay phone. Time, having sped by, now dragged agonizingly. Exactly when he was supposed to, he shoved his phone card into a slot and pressed numbers. His hand sweated on the phone's receiver. "What did you find?"
"You were supposed to stay where you were."
"What did you find?"
"The Porsche's leased."
"What?"
"Only for a month. To someone named Joshua Carter. The company he leased it from says he gave his address as seventy-eight Vista Linda in Seaside, California. The local police department's sending an unmarked car to check it out."
Cavanaugh could barely speak. "Tell them to forget it. Carter doesn't live there."
"Doesn't live there? If you knew that, why on earth did you ask me to—"
"I was hoping you'd find a different address."
"This is crazy. I need you at the command center we're setting up. This time, stay where you are."
"Right." Cavanaugh hung up and ran to the Taurus.
* * *
19
Jesus, Prescott's so paranoid, he created a false identity within a false identity, Cavanaugh thought as he watched the exercise club from the Starbucks across the street. The son of a bitch probably did what we told him at the bunker. Checked old newspaper obituaries. Found the name of a child who, if he'd lived, would now be the same age as he was. Knowing that most parents get Social Security numbers for their children at the time they're born, and that some states, California among them, include Social Security numbers on death certificates, he went to the hall of records in the city where the child died and asked for a copy of the death certificate. With
the Social Security number from the death certificate, he could get a driver's license and a bank account in the child's name.
Pretending to read a magazine, Cavanaugh sat back from the windows. The instructor had said that Joshua Carter usually stayed four hours. The time was now five o'clock. Presumably, Prescott was using his second false identity to test his surroundings. If his remarkable transformation at the exercise club attracted the wrong attention, he could abandon the easily dispensable Joshua Carter persona and go to ground, relying on the absolutely dependable, irreplaceable identity that Karen had created for him. When he came out of the club, he would revert to that identity and drive to his actual residence.
I can't hope to catch him alone in the club, subdue him, and get him out of there without people trying to stop me, Ca-vanaugh thought. But if I can follow him . . .
Prescott stepped from the building. Pausing in the sunlight, he stood a little straighter than when he'd gone in. His shoulders looked a little more broad, his chest a little more solid. His cheeks, flushed from exertion, seemed subtly thinner. Whatever chemical he was taking, it worked remarkably in tandem with exercise and a strict diet. He wore sunglasses and the same black loafers, gray slacks, and blue pullover as when he'd gone in. He carried the same dark gym bag as, scalp glistening, he scanned the street and turned to his left toward the club's parking lot. At the Porsche, he again looked around, then got into the car.
The moment Prescott drove from the lot, Cavanaugh hurried outside to where he'd parked the Taurus behind Starbucks. Fifteen seconds later, he followed. That length of time was critical because he'd tested both directions on the street and had concluded that fifteen seconds was a little less than the time it took, at the speed limit, to reach the stop sign at either end. As Cavanaugh emerged from the Starbucks lot, he saw the Porsche reach the intersection on the right. A moment later, Prescott turned left.