Cavanaugh sat in a corner of a blindingly bright room in Intensive Care. Across from him, Jamie lay unconscious, her face pale, EKG electrodes attached to her chest, a hospital gown and a sheet covering her, an IV tube leading into her left arm, a respirator tube going down her throat. Behind her, pulse, blood pressure, and heart monitors flashed and beeped.
One of her surgeons, a slender Hispanic, turned from examining her. "She's remarkably strong."
"Yes," Cavanaugh said.
"I'll know more in twelve hours, but her vitals are encouraging. We've got reason to be optimistic."
Staring at Jamie, Cavanaugh nodded.
"She'll have you to thank," the surgeon said. "She probably would have died before she got to the hospital if you hadn't stopped the bleeding with duct tape."
"No," Cavanaugh said. "She doesn't have anything to thank me for at all."
The doctor looked curious.
"If I'd listened to her," Cavanaugh said, "she never would have gotten shot."
The heart monitor beeped.
"Can I stay in here?" Cavanaugh asked.
"Normally, we don't allow…"
Cavanaugh looked at him.
"Yes," the surgeon told him.
"The lights," Cavanaugh said, squinting from their brightness. "Can you put something over her eyelids?"
"As soon as we're finished in here, we'll dim the room."
"What about for now?"
"I'll have a nurse bring a washcloth."
"Thank you."
Thirty seconds later, Cavanaugh was alone with her.
The respirator hissed, wheezed, and thumped, Jamie's chest going up and down.
"I'm sorry," Cavanaugh told her.
His muscles ached. His eyes felt as if sand scratched them. Closing his lids to shield his eyes from the stark overhead lights, he leaned back in the plastic chair and managed a fitful sleep, even when nurses came in to check Jamie and replace her IV **ch**10
Around two in the afternoon, Cavanaugh drove a borrowed unmarked police car along Highway 1 and stopped at the side of the road just before the Carmel Highlands turnoff that would eventually lead to Prescott's street. He got out of the car and stayed close to the trees at the side of the road as he walked toward the turnoff. The afternoon was pleasant, with a gorgeous sky, but Cavanaugh paid attention only to the high branches on the trees just in from the turnoff. He approached them slowly from an oblique angle, craning his neck, taking off his sunglasses to get a better look at the trees.
When he didn't see what he wanted, he raised binoculars and scanned the branches. Continuing to remain carefully to the side, he paid particular attention to where the branches met the trunks. After ten minutes, a high Monterey pine-on the left, about forty feet in from the turnoff-became the sole object of his concentration. He focused the binoculars on a gap in the branches and nodded.