As he hoped, there wasn't another exit. Returning to where Prescott had entered, Cavanaugh drove into the garage and wound his way all through the dusky, exhaust-smelling lower level, but he didn't see the Porsche. Continuing to the second level, he found it in an area marked compact only, along with other small cars, next to a door that led into the office complex.

The location forced Cavanaugh to reconsider his strategy. In an ideal situation, the Porsche would have been away from a door and parked among larger vehicles, preferably SUVs, behind which Cavanaugh could have concealed the Taurus and taken cover, rushing Prescott when he approached the sports car.

Now Cavanaugh was going to have to park a distance away. He considered hiding in a dark corner near the Porsche, charging Prescott before he could get in the car. An alternative was to use the Emerson knife to cut chunks from the seat covers that hid Cavanaugh's bloodstains. If he shoved the chunks into the Porsche's exhaust pipes, the engine wouldn't be able to function. When Prescott got out to see what was wrong, he'd be so distraded that Cavanaugh would have a better chance of rushing him.

But would Prescott be distracted? Cavanaugh wondered. Or would the car's sudden failure make Prescott wary? If Prescott had a pistol, if there was a gunfight… I can't risk killing him, Cavanaugh thought.

Then he realized that the best way to do this was to spray some of the knockout chemical on the Porsche's door handle. When Prescott touched it and collapsed, Cavanaugh could hurry over, Pick him up as if Prescott were drunk, and get him into the Tau-rus.

Cavanaugh put on latex gloves that he'd purchased during the day. He took the spray container from the plastic bag, got out of the car, and put his hands behind his back to prevent departing office workers from noticing the gloves. Thirty seconds later, he was back behind the steering wheel. After returning the container to its bag, he cautiously removed the gloves, careful to touch them only on their interior.

The Taurus was in a shadowy area. Office workers entering the garage didn't notice him. The sounds of car doors being opened and shut echoed throughout the garage. Vehicles pulled out of spaces and descended to the lower level. Fewer and fewer cars re-mained. By six o'clock, the Porsche was the only car against the wall next to the door, and the Taurus was one of only a handful across from it.

Cavanaugh moved the Taurus to a farther section of the garage, blending with the remaining vehicles.

Six-thirty. A few more office workers departed. Seven.

When eight o'clock came and the only vehicles in the area were the Porsche and the Taurus, Cavanaugh had a premonition.

20

"Somebody's got a brand-new Porsche up there," he told the kid with a ring in his nose who was in charge of the parking garage's exit booth.

"Yeah, cool, huh?"

"Is this place safe enough for a car that expensive?"

"Somebody like me's always on duty. Nobody's tried to steal it so far."

"So far?"

"The guy who owns it pays by the month. Weird, though."

"What do you mean?"

"The guy never takes the Porsche out except in the afternoon. Half-past twelve or so, he leaves. A little after five, he comes back."

And walks away via the office building, Cavanaugh realized. Then he watches from down the street to see if anybody followed him.

21

He spotted me. I've got to assume the bastard spotted me. Cavanaugh drove from the garage, which he now realized was the dividing line between Joshua Carter and whatever identity Karen had created for him. As Cavanaugh headed back to Del Monte Avenue, he was absolutely convinced that Prescott had another vehicle near the garage, something that didn't attract attention, that blended in, the way Cavanaugh had taught him. Cavanaugh took care not to glance at his rearview mirror. He couldn't risk doing even the slightest thing that might make Prescott realize Cavanaugh hoped he was being followed. As sparks seemed to shoot through his nervous system, he turned left and headed deeper into the historic part of Monterey. Soon, he discovered he was on Cannery Row, where boutiques and cafes had replaced the fish factories from John Steinbeck's day, but he paid no attention. To his right, the sun was low over the ocean. He paid no attention to that, either.

Follow me, Cavanaugh kept hoping. Follow me.

He tried to imagine what was going through Prescott's mind. One temptation would be to flee the Carmel/Monterey area as quickly as possible. But to the best of Prescott's knowledge, only his Joshua Carter persona had been uncovered. If Prescott concluded that Cavanaugh was acting on his own, which Cavanaugh seemed to be doing, would Prescott decide to protect the false identity Karen had created for him by eliminating the threat to it, by going after Cavanaugh? It all depended on how much Prescott enjoyed his new life, on how much he hated to abandon it. Would he run, or would he protect the identity for which he'd already killed five people?

Cavanaugh drove as steadily as possible, making no attempt at evasion tactics. Cannery Row dead-ended, forcing him to make a left turn and then a right, but otherwise he continued in a direct fashion, following the edge of the ocean on his right. The sun sank, casting crimson over the whitecaps. Never once did Cavanaugh look in his rearview mirror. Never once did he give an indication that he hoped he was being followed. He passed several scenic stopping places and finally chose one that had few vehicles. Steering from the road, he parked in an isolated area, got out of the car, and crossed the pavement, heading toward the numerous boulders along the ocean.

There, he did something that he realized with surprise could be considered brave, although he didn't think that the act was anything remotely to be proud of. As he despondently reminded himself, if he'd listened to Jamie and gone home to Jackson Hole with her, he wouldn't need to deny all his protective instincts now. He selected two low boulders that were close enough to each other for him to sit on one while he propped his shoes on the other. With his back to the parking lot, he placed his hands on his knees and waited.

The sunset gleamed across the water. He felt a cool breeze, spray from the waves hitting the boulders in front of him. But all he paid attention to was the sound of a vehicle pulling off the road and stopping in the parking area behind him.

The engine remained on. A car door was opened and then closed. Despite the pounding of the surf, Cavanaugh heard footsteps crossing the pavement. Shoes crunched on pebbles as someone approached the boulder he sat on.

The footsteps halted behind his back.

Fear insisted on a fight-or-flight response. As Cavanaugh maintained his defenseless position, his central nervous system was on overdrive, speeding, pulsing, demanding more oxygen and an even more urgent flow of blood.

"How did you find me?" Prescott's voice shook, just as it had the first time Cavanaugh had heard it.

"A Summer Place and Play Misty for Me." Cavanaugh's palms sweated.

For several moments, the only sound came from the surf and the idling engine. "Observant."

"And you're a quick learner. In another life, you could have been an operator." Appeal to his pride, Cavanaugh thought.

"Do you always speak highly of people you want to kill?"

"I don't want to kill you anymore." Cavanaugh stared straight ahead toward the sunset-tinted ocean.

"Is that supposed to persuade me not to kill you?"

"You didn't come here to do that. Otherwise, you'd have pulled the trigger by now."