The Sleeping Doll

Chapter 21

Kathryn Dance, TJ beside her, was in Charles Overby's corner office, early-morning rain pelting the windows. Tourists thought the climate in Monterey Bay tended toward frequent overcasts threatening showers. In fact, the area was usually desperate for rain; the gray overhead was nothing more than standard-issue West Coast fog. Today, however, the precipitation was the real thing.

"I need something, Charles."

"What's that?"

"An okay for some expenses."

"For what?"

"We're not making any headway. There're no leads from Capitola, the forensics aren't giving us any answers, no sightings of him…and most important I don't know why he's staying in the area."

"What do you mean, expenses?" Charles Overby was a man of focus.

"I want the three women who were in the Family."

"Arrest them? I thought they were in the clear."

"No, I want to interview them. They lived with him; they've got to know him pretty well."

Oh, if you get your act together, Daniel, there's no reason in the world you couldn't have a family of your own…

It was this line from the police interview tape that had inspired the idea.

A to B to X…

"We want to hold a Family reunion," said cheerful TJ. She knew he'd been partying late but his round face, under the curly red hair, was as fresh as if he'd walked out of a spa.

Overby ignored him. "But why would they want to help us? They'd be sympathetic to him, wouldn't they?"

"No. I've talked to two of them, and they have no sympathy for Pell. The third changed her identity, to put that whole life behind her."

"Why bring them here? Why not interview them where they live?"

"I want them together. It's a gestalt interviewing approach. Their memories would trigger each other's. I was up till two reading about them. Rebecca wasn't with the Family very long-just a few months-but Linda lived with Pell for over a year, and Samantha for two."

"Have you already talked to them?" The question was coy, as if he suspected her of pulling an end run.

"No," Dance said. "I wanted to ask you first."

He seemed satisfied that he wasn't being outmaneuvered. Still, he shook his head. "Airfare, guards, transportation…red tape. I really doubt I could get it through Sacramento. It's too out of the box." He noticed a frayed thread on his cuff and plucked it out. "I'm afraid I have to say no. Utah. I'm sure that's where he's headed now. After the scare at Moss Landing. It'd be crazy for him to stay around. Is the USP surveillance team up and running?"

"Yep," TJ told him.

"Utah'd be good. Real good."

Meaning, Dance understood: They nail him and CBI gets the credit, with no more loss of life in California. USP misses him, it's their flub.

"Charles, I'm sure Utah's a false lead. He's not going to point us there and-"

"Unless," her boss said triumphantly, "it's a double twist. Think about it."

"I did, and it's not Pell's profile. I really want to go forward with my idea."

"I'm not sure…"

A voice from behind her. "Can I ask what that idea is?"

Dance turned to see a man in a dark suit, powder blue shirt and striped blue-and-black tie. Not classically handsome-he had a bit of a belly, prominent ears and, if he were to look down, a double chin would blossom. But he had unwavering, amused brown eyes and a flop of hair, identical brown, that hung over his forehead. His posture and appearance suggested an easy-going nature. He had a faint smile on narrow lips.

Overby asked, "Can I help you?"

Stepping closer, the man offered an FBI identification card. Special Agent Winston Kellogg.

"The babysitter is in the building," TJ said, sotto voce, his hand over his mouth. She ignored him.

"Charles Overby. Thanks for coming, Agent Kellogg."

"Please, call me Win. I'm with the bureau's MVCC."

"That's-"

"Multiple Victims Coercive Crimes Division."

"That's the new term for cults?" Dance asked.

"We used to call it Cult Unit actually. But that wasn't PCP."

TJ frowned. "Drugs?"

"Not a politically correct phrase."

She laughed. "I'm Kathryn Dance."

"TJ Scanlon."

"Thomas Jefferson?"

TJ gave a cryptic smile. Even Dance didn't know his full name. It might even have been just TJ.

Addressing all of the CBI agents, Kellogg offered, "I want to say something up front. Yeah, I'm the Fed. But I don't want to ruffle feathers. I'm here as a consultant-to give you whatever insights I can about how Pell thinks and acts. I'm happy to take the backseat."

Even if he didn't mean it 100 percent, Dance gave him credit for the reassurance. It was unusual in the world of law enforcement egos to hear one of the Washington folk say something like this.

"Appreciate that," Overby said.

Kellogg turned to the CBI chief. "Have to say that was a good call of yours yesterday, checking out the restaurants. I never would've thought of that one."

Overby hesitated, then said, "Actually, I think I told Amy Grabe that Kathryn here came up with that idea."

TJ softly cleared his throat and Dance didn't dare look his way.

"Well, whoever, it was a good idea." He turned to Dance. "And what were you suggesting just now?"

Dance reiterated it.

The FBI agent nodded. "Getting the Family back together. Good. Very good. They've gone through a process of deprogramming by now. Even if they haven't seen therapists, the passage of time alone would take care of any remnants of Stockholm syndrome. I really doubt they'd have any loyalty to him. I think we should pursue it."

There was silence for a moment. Dance wasn't going to bail out Overby, who finally said, "It is a good idea. Absolutely. The only problem is our budget. See, recently we-"

"We'll pay," Kellogg said. Then he shut up and simply stared at Overby.

Dance wanted to laugh.

"You?"

"I'll get a bureau jet to fly them here, if we need one. Sound okay to you?"

The CBI chief, robbed of the only argument he could think of on such short notice, said, "How can we refuse a Christmas present from Uncle Sam? Thanks, amigo."

Dance, Kellogg and TJ were in her office, when Michael O'Neil stepped inside. He shook the FBI agent's hand, and they introduced themselves.

"No more hits on the forensics from Moss Landing," he said, "but we're hopeful about the Pastures of Heaven and vineyards. We've got health department people sampling products too. In case he's adulterated them with acid." He explained to Kellogg about the trace found in the Thunderbird during Pell's escape.

"Any reason why he'd do that?"

"Diversion. Or maybe he just wants to hurt people."

"Physical evidence isn't my expertise, but sounds like a good lead." Dance noted that the FBI agent had been looking aside as O'Neil gave him the details, concentrating hard as he memorized them.

Then Kellogg said, "It might be helpful to give you some insights into the cult mentality. At MVCC we've put together a general profile, and I'm sure some or all of it applies to Pell. I hope it'll help you formulate a strategy."

"Good," O'Neil said. "I don't think we've ever seen anybody quite like this guy."

Dance's initial skepticism about a cult expert's usefulness had faded now that it was clear Pell had an agenda they couldn't identify. She wasn't sure that the killer was, in fact, like any other perp she'd come across.

Kellogg leaned against her desk. "First, like the name of my unit suggests, we consider the members of a cult victims, which they certainly are. But we have to remember that they can be just as dangerous as the leader. Charles Manson wasn't even present at the Tate-La Bianca killings. It was the members who committed the murders.

"Now, in speaking of the leader, I'll tend to say 'he,' but women can be just as effective and as ruthless as men. And often they're more devious.

"So here's the basic profile. A cult leader isn't accountable to any authority except his own. He's always in charge one hundred percent. He dictates how the subjects spend every minute of their time. He'll assign work and keep them occupied, even if it's just busywork. They should never have any free time to think independently.

"A cult leader creates his own morality-which is defined solely as what's good for him and what will perpetuate the cult. External laws are irrelevant. He'll make the subjects believe it's morally right to do what he tells them-or what he suggests. Cult leaders are masters at getting their message across in very subtle ways, so that even if they're caught on a wiretap their comments won't incriminate them specifically. But the subjects understand the shorthand.

"He'll polarize issues and create conflicts based on them versus us, black and white. The cult is right and anyone who's not in the cult is wrong and wants to destroy them.

"He won't allow any dissent. He'll take extreme views, outrageous views, and wait for a subject to question him-to test loyalty. Subjects are expected to give everything to him-their time, their money."

Dance recalled the prison conversation, the $9,200. She said, "Sounds like the woman is financing Pell's whole escape."

Kellogg nodded. "They're also expected to make their bodies available. And hand over their children sometimes.

"He'll exercise absolute control over the subjects. They have to give up their pasts. He'll give them new names, something he chooses. He'll tend to pick vulnerable people and play on their insecurities. He looks for loners and makes them abandon their friends and family. They come to see him as a source of support and nurture. He'll threaten to withhold himself from them-and that's his most powerful weapon.

"Okay, I could go on for hours but that gives you a rough idea of Daniel Pell's thought processes." Kellogg lifted his hands. He seemed like a professor. "What does all this mean for us? For one thing, it says something about his vulnerabilities. It's tiring to be a cult leader. You have to monitor your members constantly, look for dissension, eradicate it as soon as you find it. So when external influences exist-like out on the street-they're particularly wary. In their own environments, though, they're more relaxed. And therefore more careless and vulnerable.

"Look at what happened at that restaurant. He was constantly monitoring, because he was in public. If he'd been in his own house, you probably would've gotten him.

"The other implication is this: The accomplice, that woman, will believe Pell is morally right and that he's justified in killing. That means two things: We won't get any help from her, and she's as dangerous as he is. Yes, she's a victim, but that doesn't mean she won't kill you if she has a chance… Well, those are some general thoughts."

Dance glanced at O'Neil. She knew he had the same reaction as hers: impressed with Kellogg's knowledge of his specialty. Maybe, for once, Charles Overby had made a good decision, even if his motive was to cover his ass.

Still, though, thinking of what he'd told them about Pell, she was dismayed at what they were up against. She had firsthand knowledge of the killer's intelligence, but if Kellogg's profile was even partially correct the man seemed a particularly dangerous threat.

Dance thanked Kellogg, and the meeting broke up-O'Neil headed for the hospital to check on Juan Millar, TJ to find a temporary office for the FBI agent.

Dance pulled out her mobile and found Linda Whitfield's phone number in the recent-calls log. She hit redial.

"Oh, Agent Dance. Have you heard anything new?"

"No, I'm afraid not."

"We've been listening to the radio… I heard you almost caught him yesterday."

"That's right."

More muttering. Prayer again, Dance assumed.

"Ms. Whitfield?"

"I'm here."

"I'm going to ask you something and I'd like you to think about it before you answer."

"Go on."

"We'd like you to come here and help us."

"What?" she whispered.

"Daniel Pell is a mystery to us. We're pretty sure he's staying on the Peninsula. But we can't figure out why. Nobody knows him better than you, Samantha and Rebecca. We're hoping you can help us figure it out."

"Are they coming?"

"You're the first one I've called."

A pause. "But what could I possibly do?"

"I want to talk to you about him, see if you can think of anything that suggests what his plans might be, where he might be going."

"But I haven't heard from him in seven or eight years."

"There could be something he said or did back then that'll give us a clue. He's taking a big risk staying here. I'm sure he has a reason."

"Well…"

Dance was familiar with how mental defense processes work. She could imagine the woman's brain frantically looking for-and rejecting or holding on to-reasons why she couldn't do what the agent asked. She wasn't surprised when she heard, "The problem is I'm helping my brother and sister-in-law with their foster children. I can't just up and leave."

Dance remembered that she lived with the couple. She asked if they could handle the children for a day or two. "It won't be any longer than that."

"I don't think they could, no."

The verb "think" has great significance to interrogators. It's a denial flag expression-like "I don't remember" or "probably not." Its meaning: I'm hedging but not flatly saying no. The message to Dance was that the couple could easily handle the children.

"I know it's a lot to ask. But we need your help."

After a pause the woman offered excuse two: "And even if I could get away I don't have any money to travel."

"We'll fly you in a private jet."

"Private?"

"An FBI jet."

"Oh, my."

Dance dealt with excuse three before it was raised: "And you'll be under very tight security. No one will know you're here, and you'll be guarded twenty-four hours a day. Please. Will you help us?"

More silence.

"I'll have to ask."

"Your brother, your supervisor at work? I can give them a call and-"

"No, no, not them. I mean Jesus."

Oh…"Well, okay." After a pause Dance asked, "Could you check with Him pretty soon?"

"I'll call you back, Agent Dance."

They hung up. Dance called Winston Kellogg and let him know they were awaiting divine intervention regarding Whitfield. He seemed amused. "That's one long-distance call." Dance decided she definitely wouldn't let Charles Overby know whose permission was required.

Was this whole thing such a great idea, after all?

She then called Women's Initiatives in San Diego. When Rebecca Sheffield answered, she said, "Hi. It's Kathryn Dance again, in Monterey. I was-"

Rebecca interrupted. "I've been watching the news for the past twenty-four hours. What happened? You almost had him and he got away?"

"I'm afraid so."

Rebecca gave a harsh sigh. "Well, are you catching on now?"

"Catching on?"

"The fire at the courthouse. The fire at the power plant. Twice, arson. See the pattern? He found something that worked. And he did it again."

Exactly what Dance had thought. She didn't defend herself, though, but merely said, "He's not quite like any escapee we've ever seen."

"Well, yeah."

"Ms. Sheffield, there's something-"

"Hold on. First, there's one thing I want to say."

"Go ahead," Dance said uneasily.

"Forgive me, but you people don't have a clue what you're up against. You need to do what I tell people in my seminars. They're about empowerment in business. A lot of women think they can get together with their friends for drinks and dump on their idiotic bosses or their exes or their abusive boyfriends, and, presto, they're cured. Well, it doesn't work like that. You can't stumble around, you can't wing it."

"Well, I appreciate-"

"First, you identify the problem. An example: you're not comfortable dating. Second, identify the facts that are the source of the problem. You were date-raped once. Three, structure a solution. You don't dive into dating and ignore your fears. You don't curl up in a ball and forget men. You make a plan: start out slowly, see men at lunchtime, meet them in public places, only go out with men who aren't physically imposing and who don't invade your personal space, who don't drink, et cetera. You get the picture. Then, slowly, you expand who you see. After two, three months, or six, or a year, you've solved the problem. Structure a plan and stick to it. See what I'm saying?"

"I do, yes."

Dance thought two things: First, the woman's seminars probably drew sell-out crowds. Second, wouldn't want to hang out with Rebecca Sheffield socially. She wondered if the woman was finished.

She wasn't.

"Okay, now I have a seminar today I can't cancel. But if you haven't caught him by tomorrow morning I want to come up there. Maybe there are some things I can remember from eight years ago that'll help. Or is that against some policy or something?"

"No, not at all. It's a good idea."

"All right. Look, I have to go. What were you going to ask me?"

"Nothing important. Let's hope everything works out before then but if not, I'll call and make arrangements to get you here."

"Sounds like a plan," the woman said briskly and hung up.

Chapter 22

In the Sea View Motel, Daniel Pell looked up from Jennie's computer, where he'd been online, and saw the woman easing toward him seductively.

Jennie offered a purr and whispered, "Come on back to bed, baby. Fuck me."

Pell switched screens so she wouldn't see what he was searching for and slipped his arm around her narrow waist.

Men and women exercise power over each other every day. Men have a harder time at first. They have to work their way inside a woman's defenses, build subtle connections, find her likes and dislikes and fears, all of which she tries to keep hidden. It could take weeks or months to get the leash on. But once you had her, you were in charge for as long as you wanted.

Oh, we're like, you know, soul mates…

A woman, on the other hand, had tits and a pussy and all she had to do was get them close to a man-and sometimes not even-and she could get him to do virtually anything. The woman's problem came later. When the sex was over, her control dropped off the radar screen.

Jennie Marston had been in charge a few times since the escape, no question about it: in the front seat of the T-bird, in bed with her trussed up by the stockings, and-more leisurely and much better-on the floor with some accessories that greatly appealed to Daniel Pell. (Jennie, of course, didn't care for that particular brand of sex but her reluctant acquiescence was a lot more exciting than if she'd really been turned on.)

The spell she'd woven was now subdued, though. But a teacher never lets his student know he's inattentive. Pell grinned and looked over her body as if he were sorely tempted. He sighed. "I wish I could, lovely. But you tired me out. Anyway, I need you to run an errand for me."

"Me?"

"Yep. Now that they know I'm here, I need you to do it by yourself." The news stories were reporting that he was probably still in the vicinity. He had to be much more careful.

"Oh, all right. But I'd rather fuck you." A little pout. She was probably one of those women who thought the expression worked with men. It didn't, and he'd teach her so at some point. But there were more important lessons to be learned at the moment.

He said, "Now, go cut your hair."

"My hair."

"Yeah. And dye it. The people at the restaurant saw you. I bought some brown dye for you. At the Mexican store." He pulled a box out of the bag.

"Oh. I thought that was for you."

She smiled awkwardly, gripping a dozen strands, fingers twining them.

Daniel Pell had no agenda with the haircut other than making it more difficult to recognize her. He understood, though, that there was something more, another issue. Jennie's hair was like the precious pink blouse, and he was instantly intrigued. He remembered her sitting in the T-bird when he'd first seen her in the Whole Foods parking lot, proudly brushing away.

Ah, the information we give away…

She didn't want to cut it. In fact, she really didn't want to. Long hair meant something to her. He supposed she'd let it grow at some point as protection from her vicious self-image. Some emblem of pathetic triumph over her flat chest and bumpy nose.

Jennie remained on the bed. After a moment she said, "Sweetheart, I mean, I'll cut it, sure. Whatever you want." Another pause. "Of course, I was thinking: Wouldn't it be better if we left now? After what happened at the restaurant? I couldn't stand it if anything happened to you… Let's just get another car and go to Anaheim! We'll have a nice life. I promise. I'll make you happy. I'll support us. You can stay home until they forget about you."

"That sounds wonderful, lovely. But we can't leave yet."

"Oh."

She wanted an explanation. Pell said only, "Now go cut it." He added in a whisper, "Cut it short. Real short."

He handed her scissors. Her hands trembled as she took them.

"Okay." Jennie walked into the small bathroom, clicked on all the lights. From her training at the Hair Cuttery she used to work in, or because she was stalling, she spent some moments pinning the strands up before cutting them. She stared into the mirror, fondling the scissors uneasily. She closed the door partway.

Pell moved to a spot on the bed where he could see her clearly. Despite his protests earlier, he found his face growing flushed, and the bubble starting to build inside him.

Go ahead, lovely, do it!

Tears streaking down her cheeks, she lifted a clump of hair and began to cut. Breathing deeply, then cutting. She wiped her face, then cut again.

Pell was leaning forward, staring.

He tugged his pants down, then his underwear. He gripped himself hard, and every time a handful of blond hair cascaded to the floor, he stroked.

Jennie wasn't proceeding very quickly. She was trying to get it right. And she had to pause often to catch her breath from the crying, and wipe the tears.

Pell was wholly focused on her.

His breathing came faster and faster. Cut it, lovely. Cut it!

Once or twice he came close to finishing but he managed to slow down just in time.

He was, after all, the king of control.

Monterey Bay Hospital is a beautiful place, located off a winding stretch of Highway 68-a multiple-personality route that piggybacks on expressways and commercial roads and even village streets, from Pacific Grove through Monterey and on to Salinas. The road is one of the main arteries of John Steinbeck country.

Kathryn Dance knew the hospital well. She'd delivered her son and daughter here. She'd held her father's hand after the bypass surgery in the cardiac ward and she'd sat beside a fellow CBI agent as he struggled to survive three gunshot wounds in the chest.

She'd identified her husband's body in the MBH morgue.

The facility was in the piney hills approaching Pacific Grove. The low, rambling buildings were landscaped with gardens, and a forest surrounded the grounds; patients might awaken from surgery to find, outside their windows, hummingbirds hovering or deer gazing at them in narrow-eyed curiosity.

The portion of the Critical Care Unit, where Juan Millar was presently being tended to, however, had no view. Nor was there any patient-pleasing decor, just matter-of-fact posters of phone numbers and procedures incomprehensible to lay people, and stacks of functional medical equipment. He was in a small glass-walled room, sealed off to minimize the risk of infection.

Dance now joined Michael O'Neil outside the room. Her shoulder brushed his. She felt an urge to take his arm. Didn't.

She stared at the injured detective, recalling his shy smile in Sandy Sandoval's office.

Crime scene boys love their toys… I heard that somewhere.

"He say anything since you've been here?" she asked.

"No. Been out the whole time."

Looking at the injuries, the bandages, Dance decided out was better. Much better.

They returned to the CCU waiting area, where some of Millar's family sat-his parents and an aunt and two uncles, if she'd gotten the introductions right. She doled out her heartfelt sympathy to the grim-faced family.

"Katie."

Dance turned to see a solid woman with short gray hair and large glasses. She wore a colorful overblouse, from which dangled one badge identifying her as E. Dance, RN, and another indicating that she was attached to the cardiac care unit.

"Hey, Mom."

O'Neil and Edie Dance smiled at each other.

"No change?" Dance asked.

"Not really."

"Has he said anything?"

"Nothing intelligible. Did you see our burn specialist, Dr. Olson?"

"No," her daughter replied. "Just got here. What's the word?"

"He's been awake a few more times. He moved a little, which surprised us. But he's on a morphine drip, so doped up he didn't make any sense when the nurse asked him some questions." Her eyes strayed to the patient in the glass-enclosed room. "I haven't seen an official prognosis, but there's hardly any skin under those bandages. I've never seen a burn case like that."

"It's that bad?"

"I'm afraid so. What's the situation with Pell?"

"Not many leads. He's in the area. We don't know why."

"You still want to have Dad's party tonight?" Edie asked.

"Sure. The kids're looking forward to it. I might have to do a hit-and-run, depending. But I still want to have it."

"You'll be there, Michael?"

"Plan to. Depending."

"I understand. Hope it works out, though."

Edie Dance's pager beeped. She glanced at it. "I've got to get to Cardiac. If I see Dr. Olson I'll ask him to stop by and brief you."

Her mother left. Dance glanced at O'Neil, who nodded. He showed a badge to the Critical Care nurse and she helped them both into gowns and masks. The two officers stepped inside. O'Neil stood while Dance pulled up a chair and scooted forward. "Juan, it's Kathryn. Can you hear me? Michael's here too."

"Hey, partner."

"Juan?"

Though the right eye, the uncovered one, didn't open, it seemed to Dance that the lid fluttered slightly.

"Can you hear me?"

Another flutter.

O'Neil said in a low comforting voice, "Juan, I know you're hurting. We're going to make sure you have the best treatment in the country."

Dance said, "We want this guy. We want him bad. He's in the area. He's still here."

The man's head moved.

"We need to know if you saw or heard anything that'll help us. We don't know what he's up to."

Another gesture of the head. It was subtle but Dance saw the swaddled chin move slightly.

"Did you see something? Nod if you saw or heard something."

Now, no motion.

"Juan," she began, "did you-"

"Hey!" a male voice shouted from the doorway. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

Her first thought was that the man was a doctor and that her mother would be in trouble for letting Dance into the room unsupervised. But the speaker was a young, sturdy Latino man in a business suit. Juan's brother.

"Julio," O'Neil said.

The nurse ran up. "No, no, please close the door! You can't be inside without a mask."

He waved a stiff arm at her and continued speaking to Dance. "He's in that condition and you're questioning him?"

"I'm Kathryn Dance with the CBI. Your brother might know something helpful about the man who caused this."

"Well, he's not going to be very fucking helpful if you kill him."

"I'll call security if you don't close the door this minute," the nurse snapped.

Julio held his ground. Dance and O'Neil stepped out of the room and into the hallway, closing the door behind them. They took off the gowns and masks.

In the corridor the brother got right into her face. "I can't believe it. You have no respect-"

"Julio," Millar's father said, stepping toward his son. His stocky wife, her jet black hair disheveled, joined him.

Julio ignored everyone but Dance. "That's all you care about, right? He tells you what you want to know and then he can die?"

She remained calm, recognizing a young man out of control. She didn't take his anger personally. "We're very anxious to catch the man who did this to him."

"Son, please! You're embarrassing us." His mother touched his arm.

"Embarrassing you?" he mocked. Then turned to Dance again. "I asked around. I talked to some people. Oh, I know what happened. You sent him down into the fire."

"I'm sorry?"

"You sent him downstairs at the courthouse to the fire."

She felt O'Neil stiffening but he restrained himself. He knew Dance wouldn't let other people fight her battles. She leaned closer to Julio. "You're upset, we're all upset. Why don't we-"

"You picked him. Not Mikey here. Not one of your CBI people. The one Chicano cop-and you sent him."

"Julio," his father said sternly. "Don't say that."

"You want to know something about my brother? Hm? Do you know he wanted to get into CBI? But they didn't let him in. Because of who he was."

This was absurd. There was a high percentage of Latinos in all California law enforcement agencies, including the CBI. Her best friend in the bureau, Major Crimes agent Connie Ramirez, had more decorations than any agent in the history of the west-central office.

But his anger wasn't about ethnic representation in state government, of course. It was about fear for his brother's life. Dance had a lot of experience with anger; like denial and depression, it was one of the stress response states exhibited by deceitful subjects. When somebody's throwing a tantrum, the best approach is simply to let him tire himself out. Intense rage can be sustained only for a short period.

"He wasn't good enough to get a job with you, but he was good enough to send to get burned up."

"Julio, please," his mother implored. "He's just upset. Don't listen to him."

"Don't do that, Mama! You let them get away with shit every time you say things like that."

Tears slipped down the woman's powdered cheeks, leaving fleshy trails.

The young man turned back to Dance. "It was Latino Boy you sent, it was the chulo."

"That's enough," his father barked, taking his son's arm.

The young man pulled away. "I'm calling the papers. I'm going to call KHSP. They'll get a reporter here and they'll find out what you did. It'll be on all the news."

"Julio-" O'Neil began.

"No, you be quiet, you Judas. You two worked together. And you let her sacrifice him." He pulled out his mobile phone. "I'm calling them. Now. You're going to be so fucked."

Dance said, "Can I talk to you for a moment, just us?"

"Oh, now you're scared."

The agent stepped aside.

Ready for battle, Julio faced her, holding the phone like a knife, and leaned into Dance's personal proxemic zone.

Fine with her. She didn't move an inch, looked into his eyes. "I'm very sorry for your brother, and I know how upsetting this is to you. But I won't be threatened."

The man gave a bitter laugh. "You're just like-"

"Listen to me," she said calmly. "We don't know for sure what happened but we do know that a prisoner disarmed your brother. He had the suspect at gunpoint, then he lost control of his weapon and of the situation."

"You're saying it was his fault?" Julio asked, eyes wide.

"Yes. That's exactly what I'm saying. Not my fault, not Michael's fault. Your brother's. It didn't make him a bad cop. But he was at fault. And if you turn this into a public issue, that fact is going to come out in the press."

"You threatening me?"

"I'm telling you that I won't have this investigation jeopardized."

"Oh, you don't know what you're doing, lady." He turned and stormed down the corridor.

Dance watched him, trying to calm down. She breathed deeply. Then joined the others.

"I'm so sorry about that," Mr. Millar said, his arm around his wife's shoulders.

"He's upset," Dance said.

"Please, don't listen to him. He says things first and regrets them later."

Dance didn't think that the young man would be regretting a single word. But she also knew he wasn't going to be calling reporters anytime soon.

The mother said to O'Neil, "And Juan's always saying such nice things about you. He doesn't blame you or anybody. I know he doesn't."

"Julio loves his brother," O'Neil reassured them. "He's just concerned about him."

Dr. Olson arrived. The slight, placid man briefed the officers and the Millars. The news was pretty much the same. They were still trying to stabilize the patient. As soon as the dangers from shock and sepsis were under control he'd be sent to a major burn and rehab center. It was very serious, the doctor admitted. He couldn't say one way or the other if he'd survive but they were doing everything they could.

"Has he said anything about the attack?" O'Neil asked.

The doctor looked over the monitor with still eyes. "He's said a few words but nothing coherent."

The parents continued their effusive apologies for their younger son's behavior. Dance spent a few minutes reassuring them, then she and O'Neil said good-bye and headed outside.

The detective was jiggling his car keys.

A kinesics expert knows that it's impossible to keep strong feelings hidden. Charles Darwin wrote, "Repressed emotion almost always comes to the surface in some form of body motion." Usually it's revealed as hand or finger gestures or tapping feet-we may easily control our words, glances and facial expressions but we exercise far less conscious mastery over our extremities.

Michael O'Neil was wholly unaware that he was playing with his keys.

She said, "He's got the best doctors in the area here. And Mom'll keep an eye on him. You know her. She'll manhandle the chief of the department into his room if she thinks he needs special attention."

A stoic smile. Michael O'Neil was good at that.

"They can do pretty miraculous things," she said. Not having any idea what doctors could or couldn't do. She and O'Neil had had a number of occasions on which to reassure each other over the past few years, mostly professionally, sometimes personally, like her husband's death or O'Neil's father's deteriorating mental state.

Neither of them did a very good job expressing sympathy or comfort; platitudes seemed to diminish the relationship. Usually the other's simple presence worked much better.

"Let's hope."

As they approached the exit she took a call from FBI Agent Winston Kellogg, in his temporary quarters at CBI. Dance paused and O'Neil continued on into the lot. She told Kellogg about Millar. And she learned from him that a canvass by the FBI in Bakersfield had located no witnesses who'd seen anybody break into Pell's aunt's toolshed or garage to steal the hammer. As for the wallet bearing the initials R.H., found in the well with the hammer, the federal forensic experts were unable to trace it to a recent buyer.

"And, Kathryn, I've got the jet tanked up in Oakland, if Linda Whitfield gets the okay from on high. One other thing? That third woman?"

"Samantha McCoy?"

"Right. Have you called her?"

At that moment Dance happened to look across the parking lot.

She saw Michael O'Neil pausing, as a tall, attractive blonde approached him. The woman smiled at O'Neil, slipped her arms around him and kissed him. He kissed her back.

"Kathryn," Kellogg said. "You there?"

"What?"

"Samantha McCoy?"

"Sorry." Dance looked away from O'Neil and the blonde. "No. I'm driving up to San Jose now. If she's gone to this much trouble to keep her identity quiet I want to see her in person. I think it'll take more than a phone call to convince her to help us out."

She disconnected and walked up to O'Neil and the woman he was embracing.

"Kathryn."

"Anne, good to see you," Dance said to Michael O'Neil's wife. The women smiled, then asked about each other's children.

Anne O'Neil nodded toward the hospital. "I came to see Juan. Mike said he's not doing well."

"No. It's pretty bad. He's unconscious now. But his parents are there. They'd be glad for some company, I'm sure."

Anne had a small Leica camera slung over her shoulder. Thanks to the landscape photographer Ansel Adams and the f64 Club, Northern and Central California made up one of the great photography meccas in the world. Anne ran a gallery in Carmel that sold collectible photographs, "collectible" generally defined as those taken by photographers no longer among the living: Adams, Alfred Stieglitz, Edward Weston, Imogen Cunningham, Henri Cartier-Bresson. Anne was also a stringer for several newspapers, including big dailies in San Jose and San Francisco.

Dance said, "Michael told you about the party tonight? My father's birthday."

"He did. I think we can make it."

Anne kissed her husband again and headed into the hospital. "See you later, honey."

"'Bye, dear."

Dance nodded good-bye and climbed into her car, tossing the Coach purse onto the passenger seat. She stopped at Shell for gas, coffee and a cake doughnut and headed onto Highway 1 north, getting a beautiful view of Monterey Bay. She noted that she was driving past the campus of Cal State at Monterey Bay, on the site of the former Fort Ord (probably the only college in the country overlooking a restricted area filled with unexploded ordnance). A large banner announced what seemed to be a major computer conference this weekend. The school, she recalled, was the recipient of much of the hardware and software in William Croyton's estate. She reflected that if computer experts were still doing research based on the man's contributions from eight years ago, he must've been a true genius. The programs that Wes and Maggie used seemed to be outdated in a year or two tops. How many brilliant innovations had Daniel Pell denied the world by killing Croyton?

Dance flipped through her notebook and found the number of Samantha McCoy's employer, called and asked to be connected, ready to hang up if she answered. But the receptionist said she was working at home that day. Dance disconnected and had TJ text-message her Mapquest directions to the woman's house.

A few minutes later the phone rang, just as she hit play on the CD. She glanced at the screen.

Coincidentally, the Fairfield Four resumed their gospel singing as Dance said hello to Linda Whitfield, who was calling from her church office.

"Amazing grace, how sweet the sound…"

"Agent Dance-"

"Call me Kathryn. Please."

"…that saved a wretch like me…"

"I just wanted you to know. I'll be there in the morning to help you, if you still want me."

"Yes, I'd love for you to come. Somebody from my office will call about the arrangements. Thank you so much."

"…I once was lost, but now am found…"

A hesitation. Then she said in a formal voice, "You're welcome."

Two out of three. Dance wondered if the reunion might work after all.

Chapter 23

Sitting in front of the open window of the Sea View Motel, Daniel Pell typed awkwardly on the computer keyboard.

He'd managed some access to computers at the Q and at Capitola, but he hadn't had time to sit down and really get to know how they worked. He'd been pounding away on Jennie's portable all morning. Ads, news, porn…it was astonishing.

But even more seductive than the sex was his ability to get information, to find things about people. Pell had ignored the smut and been hard at work. First he'd read everything he could on Jennie-recipes, emails, her bookmarked pages, making sure she was essentially who she claimed to be (she was). Then he searched for some people from his past-important to find them-but he didn't have much luck. He then tried tax records, deeds offices, vital statistics. But you needed a credit card for almost everything, he learned. And credit cards, like cell phones, left obvious trails.

Then he had a brainstorm and searched through the archives of the local newspapers and TV stations. That proved much more helpful. He jotted information, a lot of it.

Among the names on his list was "Kathryn Dance."

He enjoyed doodling a funereal frame around it.

The search didn't give him all the information he needed, but it was a start.

Always aware of his surroundings, he noticed a black Toyota Camry pull into the lot and pause outside the window. He gripped the gun. Then he smiled as the car parked exactly seven spaces away.

She climbed out.

That's my girl.

Holding fast…

She walked inside.

"You did it, lovely." Pell glanced at the Camry. "Looks nice."

She kissed him fast. Her hands were shaking. And she couldn't control her excitement. "It went great! It really did, sweetie. At first he was kind of freaked and I didn't think he was going to do it. He didn't like the thing about the license plates but I did everything you told me and he agreed."

"Good for you, lovely."

Jennie had used some of her cash-she'd withdrawn $9,200 to pay for the escape and tide them over for the time being-to buy a car from a man who lived in Marina. It would be too risky to have it registered in her real name so she'd persuaded him to leave his own plates on it. She'd told him that her car had broken down in Modesto and she'd have the plates in a day or two. She'd swap them and mail his back. This was illegal and really stupid. No man would ever do that for some other guy, even one paying cash. But Pell had sent Jennie to handle it-a woman in tight jeans, a half-buttoned blouse and red bra on fine display. (Had it been a woman selling the car, Pell would have dressed her down, lost the makeup, given her four kids, a dead soldier for a husband and a pink breast cancer ribbon. You can never be too obvious, he'd learned.)

"Nice. Oh, can I have the car keys?"

She handed them over. "Here's what else you wanted." Jennie set two shopping bags on the bed. Pell looked through them and nodded approvingly.

She got a soda from the minifridge. "Honey, can I ask you something?"

His natural reluctance to answer questions-at least truthfully-surfaced again. But he smiled. "You can, anything."

"Last night, when you were sleeping, you said something. You were talking about God."

"God. What'd I say?"

"I couldn't tell. But it was definitely 'God.'"

Pell's head turned slowly toward her. He noticed his heart rate increase. He found his foot tapping, which he stopped.

"You were really freaking out. I was going to wake you up but that's not good. I read that somewhere. Reader's Digest. Or Health. I don't know. When somebody's having a bad dream, you should never wake them up. And you said, like, 'Fuck no.'"

"I said that?"

Jennie nodded. "Which was weird. 'Cause you never swear."

That was true. People who used obscenities had much less power than people who didn't.

"What was your dream about?" she asked.

"I don't remember."

"Wonder why you were dreaming about God."

For a moment he felt a curious urge to tell her about his father. Then: What the hell're you thinking of?

"No clue."

"I'm kinda into religion," she said uncertainly. "A little. More spiritual stuff than Jesus, you know."

"Well, about Jesus, I don't think he was the son of God or anything, but I'll tell you, I respect Him. He could get anybody to do whatever He wanted. I mean, even now, you just mention the name and, bang, people'll hop to in a big way. That's power. But all those religions, the organized ones, you give up too much to belong to them. You can't think the way you want to. They control you."

Pell glanced at her blouse, the bra… The swelling began again, the or something high-pressure center growing in his belly.

He tried to ignore it and looked back at the notes he'd taken from his online searches and the map. Jennie clearly wanted to ask what he had in mind but couldn't bring herself to. She'd be hoping he was looking for routes out of town, roads that would lead ultimately to Orange County.

"I've got a few things to take care of, baby. I'll need you to give me a ride."

"Sure, just say when."

He was studying the map carefully, and he looked up to see that she'd stepped away.

Jennie returned a moment later, carrying a few things, which she'd gotten from a bag in the closet. She set these on the bed in front of him, then knelt on the floor. It was like a dog bringing her master a ball, ready to play.

Pell hesitated. But then he reminded himself that it's okay to give up a little control from time to time, depending on the circumstances.

He reached for her but she lay down and rolled over on her belly all by herself.

There are two routes to San Jose from Monterey. You can take Highway 1, which winds along the coast through Santa Cruz, then cut over on vertigo-inducing Highway 17, through artsy Los Gatos, where you can buy crafts and crystals and incense and tie-dyed Janis Joplin dresses (and, okay, Roberto Cavalli and D amp;G).

Or you can just take the Highway 156 cutoff to the 101 and, if you've got government tags, burn however much gas you want to get up to the city in an hour.

Kathryn Dance chose the second.

Gospel was gone and she was listening to Latin music-the Mexican singer Julieta Venegas. Her soulful "Verdad" was pounding from the speakers.

The Taurus was doing ninety as she zipped through Gilroy, the garlic capital of the world. Not far away was Castroville (ditto, artichokes) and Watsonville, with its sweeping pelt of berry fields and mushroom farms. She liked these towns and had no patience for detractors who laughed at the idea of crowning an artichoke queen or standing in line for the petting tanks at Monterey's own Squid Festival. After all, these chicer-than-thou urbanites were the ones who paid obscene prices for olive oil and balsamic vinegar to cook those very artichokes and calamari rings in.

These burgs were homey and honest and filled with history. And they were also her turf, falling within the west-central region of the CBI.

She saw a sign luring tourists to a vineyard in Morgan Hill, and had a thought.

Dance called Michael O'Neil.

"Hey," he said.

"I was thinking about the acid they found in the Thunderbird at Moss Landing. Any word?"

"Peter's techs've been working on it but they still don't have any specific leads."

"How many bodies we have searching the orchards and vineyards?"

"About fifteen CHP, five of our people, some Salinas uniforms. They haven't found anything."

"I've got an idea. What is the acid exactly?"

"Hold on."

Eyes slipping between the road and the pad of paper resting on her knee, she jotted the incomprehensible terms as he spelled them.

"So kinesics isn't enough? You have to master forensics too?"

"A wise woman knows her limitations. I'll call you in a bit."

Dance then hit speed dial. She listened to a phone ring two thousand miles away.

A click as it answered. "Amelia Sachs."

"Hi, it's Kathryn."

"How're you doing?"

"Well, been better."

"Can imagine. We've been following the case. How's that officer? The one who was burned?"

Dance was surprised that Lincoln Rhyme, the well-known forensic scientist in New York City, and Amelia Sachs, his partner and a detective with the NYPD, had been following the story of Pell's escape.

"Not too good, I'm afraid."

"We were talking about Pell. Lincoln remembers the original case. In ninety-nine. When he killed that family. Are you making headway?"

"Not much. He's smart. Too smart."

"That's what we're gathering from the news. So, how are the kids?"

"Fine. We're still waiting for that visit. My parents too. They want to meet you both."

Sachs gave a laugh. "I'll get him out there soon. It's a…let's say challenge."

Lincoln Rhyme didn't like to travel. This wasn't owing to the problems associated with his disability (he was a quadriplegic). He simply didn't like to travel.

Dance had met Rhyme and Sachs last year when she'd been teaching a course in the New York area and had been tapped to help them on a case. They'd stayed in touch. She and Sachs in particular had grown close. Women in the tough business of policing tend to do that.

"Any word on our other friend?" Sachs asked.

This reference was to the perp they'd been after in New York last year. The man had eluded them and vanished, possibly to California. Dance had opened a CBI file but then the trail grew cold and it was possible that the perp was now out of the country.

"I'm afraid not. Our office in L.A.'s still following up on the leads. I'm calling about something else. Is Lincoln available?"

"Hold on a minute. He's right here."

There was a click and Rhyme's voice popped into her phone.

"Kathryn."

Rhyme was not the sort for chitchat, but he spent a few minutes conversing-nothing about her personal life or the children, of course. His interest was the cases she was working. Lincoln Rhyme was a scientist, with very little patience for the "people" side of policing, as he put it. Yet, on their recent case together, he'd grown to understand and value kinesics (though being quick to point out that it was based on scientific methodology and not, he said contemptuously, gut feeling). He said, "Wish you were here. I've got a witness we'd love for you to grill on a multiple homicide case. You can use a rubber hose if you want."

She could picture him in his red motorized wheelchair, staring at a large flat screen hooked up to a microscope or computer. He loved evidence the same way she loved interrogation.

"Wish I could. But I've got my hands full."

"So I hear. Who's doing the lab work?"

"Peter Bennington."

"Oh, sure. I know him. Cut his teeth in L.A. Took a seminar of mine. Good man."

"Got a question about the Pell situation."

"Sure. Go ahead."

"We've got some evidence that might lead to what he's up to-maybe tainting food-or where he's hiding. But either one's taking a lot of manpower to check out. I have to know if it makes sense to keep them committed. We could really use them elsewhere."

"What's the evidence?"

"I'll do the best I can with the pronunciation." Eyes shifting between the road and her notebook. "Carboxylic acid, ethanol and malic acid, amino acid and glucose."

"Give me a minute."

She heard his conversation with Amelia Sachs, who apparently went online into one of Rhyme's own databases. She could hear the words clearly; unlike most callers, the criminalist was unable to hold his hand over the phone when speaking to someone else in the room.

"Okay, hold on, I'm scrolling through some things now…"

"You can call me back," Dance said. She hadn't expected an answer immediately.

"No…just hold on… Where was the substance found?"

"On the floor of Pell's car."

"Hm. Car." Silence for a moment, then Rhyme was muttering to himself.

Finally he asked, "Any chance that Pell had just eaten in a restaurant? A seafood restaurant or a British pub?"

She laughed out loud. "Seafood, yes. How on earth did you know?"

"The acid's vinegar-malt vinegar specifically, because the amino acids and glucose indicate caramel coloring. My database tells me it's common in British cooking, pub food and seafood. Thom? You remember him? He helped me with that entry."

Rhyme's caregiver was also quite a cook. Last December he'd served her a boeuf bourguignon that was the best she'd ever had.

"Sorry it doesn't lead to his front door," the criminalist said.

"No, no, that's fine, Lincoln. I can pull the troops off the areas we had them searching. Send them to where they'll be better used."

"Call anytime. That's one perp I wouldn't mind a piece of."

They said good-bye.

Dance disconnected, called O'Neil, and told him it was likely that the acid had come from Jack's restaurant and wouldn't lead them to Pell or his mission here. It was probably better for the officers to search for the killer according to their original plan.

She hung up and continued her drive north on the familiar highway, which would take her to San Francisco, where the eight-lane Highway 101 eventually funneled into just another city street, Van Ness. Now, eighty miles north of Monterey. Dance turned west and made her way into the sprawl of San Jose, a city that stood as the antithesis of Los Angeles narcissism in the old Burt Bacharach/Hal David tune "Do You Know the Way to San Jose?" Nowadays, of course, thanks to Silicon Valley, San Jose flexed an ego of its own.

Mapquest led her through a maze of large developments until she came to one filled with nearly identical houses; if the symmetrically planted trees had been saplings when they'd gone in, Dance estimated the neighborhood was about twenty-five years old. Modest, nondescript, small-still, each house would sell for well over a million dollars.

She found the house she sought and passed it by, parking across the street a block away. She walked back to the address, where a red Jeep and a dark blue Acura sat in the driveway and a big plastic tricycle rested on the lawn. Dance could see lights inside the house. She walked to the front porch. Rang the bell. Her cover story was prepared in case Samantha McCoy's husband or children answered the door. It seemed unlikely that the woman had kept her past a secret from her spouse, but it would be better to start out on the assumption that she had. Dance needed the woman's cooperation and didn't want to alienate her.

The door opened and she found herself looking at a slim woman with a narrow, pretty face, resembling the actress Cate Blanchett. She wore chic, blue-framed glasses and had curly brown hair. She stood in the doorway, head thrust forward, bony hand gripping the doorjamb.

"Yes?"

"Mrs. Starkey?"

"That's right." The face was very different from that in the pictures of Samantha McCoy eight years ago; she'd had extensive cosmetic surgery. But her eyes told Dance instantly that there was no doubt of her identity. Not their appearance, but the flash of horror, then dismay.

The agent said quietly, "I'm Kathryn Dance. California Bureau of Investigation." The woman's glance at the ID, discreetly held low, was so fast that she couldn't possibly have read a word on it.

From inside, a man's voice called, "Who is it, honey?"

Samantha's eyes firmly fixed on Dance's, she replied, "That woman from up the street. The one I met at Safeway I told you about."

Which answered the question about how secret her past was.

She also thought: Smooth. Good liars are always prepared with credible answers, and they know the person they're lying to. Samantha's response told Dance that her husband had a bad memory of casual conversation and that Samantha had thought out every likely situation in which she'd need to lie.

The woman stepped outside, closed the door behind her and they walked halfway to the street. Without the softening filter of the screen door, Dance could see how haggard the woman looked. Her eyes were red and the crescents beneath them were dark, her facial skin dry, lips cracked. A fingernail was torn. It seemed she'd gotten no sleep. Dance understood why she was "working at home" today.

A glance back at the house. Then she turned to Dance and, with imploring eyes, whispered, "I had nothing to do with it, I swear. I heard he had somebody helping him, a woman. I saw that on the news, but-"

"No, no, that's not what I'm here about. I checked you out. You work for that publisher on Figueroa. You were there all day yesterday."

Alarm. "Did you-"

"Nobody knows. I called about delivering a package."

"That…Toni said somebody tried to deliver something, they were asking about me. That was you." The woman rubbed her face then crossed her arms. Gestures of negation. She was steeped in stress.

"That was your husband?" Dance asked.

She nodded.

"He doesn't know?"

"He doesn't even suspect."

Amazing, Dance reflected. "Does anyone know?"

"A few of the clerks at the courthouse, where I changed my name. My parole officer."

"What about friends and family?"

"My mother's dead. My father couldn't care less about me. They didn't have anything to do with me before I met Pell. After the Croyton murders, they stopped returning my phone calls. And my old friends? Some stayed in touch for a while but being associated with somebody like Daniel Pell? Let's just say they found excuses to disappear from my life as fast as they could. Everybody I know now I met after I became Sarah." A glance back at the house, then she turned her uneasy eyes to Dance. "What do you want?" A whisper.

"I'm sure you're watching the news. We haven't found Pell yet. But he's staying in the Monterey area. And we don't know why. Rebecca and Linda are coming to help us."

"They are?" She seemed astonished.

"And I'd like you to come down there too."

"Me?" Her jaw trembled. "No, no, I couldn't. Oh, please…" Her voice started to break.

Dance could see the fringes of hysteria. She said quickly, "Don't worry. I'm not going to ruin your life. I'm not going to say anything about you. I'm just asking for help. We can't figure him out. You might know some things-"

"I don't know anything. Really. Daniel Pell's not like a husband or brother or friend. He's a monster. He used us. That's all. I lived with him for two years and I still couldn't begin to tell you what was going on in his mind. You have to believe me. I swear."

Classic denial flags, signaling not deception but the stress from a past she couldn't confront.

"You'll be completely protected, if that's what-"

"No. I'm sorry. I wish I could. You have to understand, I've created a whole new life for myself. But it's taken so much work…and it's so fragile."

One look at the face, the horrified eyes, the trembling jaw, told Dance that there was no chance of her agreeing.

"I understand."

"I'm sorry. I just can't do it."

Samantha turned and walked to the house. At the door, she looked back and gave a big smile.

Has she changed her mind? Dance was momentarily hopeful.

Then the woman waved. "'Bye!" she called. "Good seeing you again."

Samantha McCoy and her lie walked back into the house. The door closed.

Chapter 24

"Did you hear about that?" Susan Pemberton asked César Gutierrez, sitting across from her in the hotel bar, as she poured sugar into her latte. She was gesturing toward a TV from which an anchorman was reading news above a local phone number.

Escapee Hotline.

"Wouldn't it be Escaper?" Gutierrez asked.

Susan blinked. "I don't know."

The businessman continued, "I didn't mean to be light about it. It's terrible. He killed two people, I heard." The handsome Latino sprinkled cinnamon into his cappuccino, then sipped, spilling a bit of spice on his slacks. "Oh, look at that. I'm such a klutz." He laughed. "You can't take me anywhere."

He wiped at the stain, which only made it worse. "Oh, well."

This was a business meeting. Susan, who worked for an event-planning company, was going to put together an anniversary party for his parents-but, being currently single, the thirty-nine-year-old woman automatically sized him up from a personal perspective, noting he was only a few years older than she and wore no wedding ring.

They'd disposed of the details of the party-cash bar, chicken and fish, open wine, fifteen minutes to exchange new vows and then dancing to a DJ. And now they were chatting over coffee before she went back to the office to work up an estimate.

"You'd think they would've got him by now." Then Gutierrez glanced outside, frowning.

"Something wrong?" Susan asked.

"It sounds funny, I know. But just as I was getting here I saw this car pull up. And somebody who looked a little like him, Pell, got out." He nodded at the TV.

"Who? The killer?"

He nodded. "And there was a woman driving."

The TV announcer had just repeated that his accomplice was a young woman.

"Where did he go?"

"I wasn't paying attention. I think toward the parking garage by the bank."

She looked toward the place.

Then the businessman gave a smile. "But that's crazy. He's not going to be here." He nodded past where they were looking. "What's that banner? I saw it before."

"Oh, the concert on Friday. Part of a John Steinbeck celebration. You read him?"

The businessman said, "Oh, sure. East of Eden. The Long Valley. You ever been to King City? I love it there. Steinbeck's grandfather had a ranch."

She touched her palm reverently to her chest. "Grapes of Wrath…the best book ever written."

"And there's a concert on Friday, you were saying? What kind of music?"

"Jazz. You know, because of the Monterey Jazz Festival. It's my favorite."

"I love it too," Gutierrez said. "I go to the festival whenever I can."

"Really?" Susan resisted an urge to touch his arm.

"Maybe we'll run into each other at the next one."

Susan said, "I worry…Well, I just wish more people would listen to music like that. Real music. I don't think kids are interested."

"Here's to that." Gutierrez tapped his cup to hers. "My ex…she lets our son listen to rap. Some of those lyrics? Disgusting. And he's only twelve years old."

"It's not music," Susan announced. Thinking: So. He has an ex. Good. She'd vowed never to date anyone over forty who hadn't been married.

He hesitated and asked, "You think you might be there? At the concert?"

"Yeah, I will."

"Well, I don't know your situation, but if you were going to go, you want to hook up there?"

"Oh, César, that'd be fun."

Hooking up…

Nowadays that was as good as a formal invitation.

Gutierrez stretched. He said he wanted to get on the road. Then he added he'd enjoyed meeting her and, without hesitating, gave her the holy trinity of phone numbers: work, home and mobile. He picked up his briefcase and they started for the door together. She noticed, though, that he was pausing, his eyes, through dark-framed glasses, examining the lobby. He frowned again, brushing uneasily at his moustache.

"Something wrong?"

"I think it's that guy," he whispered. "The one I saw before. There, you see him? He was here, in the hotel. Looking our way."

The lobby was filled with tropical plants. She had a vague image of someone turning and walking out of the door.

"Daniel Pell?"

"It couldn't be. It's stupid… Just, you know, the power of suggestion or something."

They walked to the door, stopped. Gutierrez looked out. "He's gone."

"Think we should tell somebody at the desk?"

"I'll give the police a call. I'm probably wrong but what can it hurt?" He pulled out his cell phone and dialed 911. He spoke for a few minutes, then disconnected. "They said they'd send somebody to check it out. Didn't sound real enthusiastic. Of course, they're probably getting a hundred calls an hour. I can walk you to your car, if you want."

"Wouldn't mind that." She wasn't so much worried about the escapee; she just liked the idea of spending more time with Gutierrez.

They walked along the main street in downtown Alvarado. Now it was the home of restaurants, tourist shops and coffeehouses-a lot different from the Wild West avenue it was a hundred years ago, when soldiers and Cannery Row workers drank, hung out in the brothels and occasionally shot it out in the middle of the street.

As Gutierrez and Susan walked along, their conversation was subdued and they both looked around them. She realized the streets were unusually deserted. Was that because of the escape? Now she began to feel uneasy.

Her office was next to a construction site a block from Alvarado. There were piles of building materials here; if Pell had come this way, she reflected, he could easily be hiding behind them, waiting. She slowed.

"That's your car?" Gutierrez asked.

She nodded.

"Something wrong?"

Susan gave a grimace and an embarrassed laugh. She told him she was worried about Pell hiding in the building supplies.

He smiled. "Even if he was here he wouldn't attack two of us together. Come on."

"César, wait," she said, reaching into her purse. She handed him a small, red cylinder. "Here."

"What's this?"

"Pepper spray. Just in case."

"I think we'll be okay. But how does it work?" Then he laughed. "Don't want to spray myself."

"All you have to do is point it and push there. It's ready to go."

They continued to the car and by the time they got there, Susan was feeling foolish. No crazed killers were lurking behind the piles of bricks. She wondered if her skittishness had lost her points in the potential date department. She didn't think so. Gutierrez seemed to enjoy the role of gallant gentleman.

She unlocked the doors.

"I better give this back to you," he said, holding out the spray.

Susan reached for it.

But Gutierrez lunged fast, grabbed her hair and jerked her head back fiercely. He shoved the nozzle of the canister into her mouth, open in a stifled scream.

He pushed the button.

Agony, reflected Daniel Pell, is perhaps the fastest way to control somebody.

Still in his apparently effective disguise as a Latino businessman, he was driving Susan Pemberton's car to a deserted location near the ocean, south of Carmel.

Agony…Hurt them bad, give them a little time to recover, then threaten to hurt them again. Experts say torture isn't efficient. That's wrong. It isn't elegant. It isn't tidy. But it works real well.

The spray up Susan Pemberton's mouth and nose had been only a second in duration but from her muffled scream and thrashing limbs he knew the pain was nearly unbearable. He let her recover. Brandished the spray in front of her panicked, watering eyes. And immediately got from her exactly what he wanted.

He hadn't planned on the spray, of course; he had duct tape and a knife in the briefcase. But he'd decided to change his plans when the woman, to his amusement, handed the canister to him-well, to his alter ego César Gutierrez.

Daniel Pell had things to do in public and, with his picture running every half-hour on local television, he had to become someone else. After she'd wheedled the Toyota out of a gullible seller with an interest in a woman's cleavage, Jennie Marston had bought cloth dye and instant-tan cream, which he'd mixed into a recipe for a bath that would darken his skin. He dyed his hair and eyebrows black and used Skin-Bond and hair clippings to make a realistic moustache. Nothing he could do about the eyes. If there were contact lenses that made blue brown, he didn't know where to find them. But the glasses-cheap tinted reading glasses with dark frames-would distract from the color.

Earlier in the day Pell had called the Brock Company and gotten Susan Pemberton, who'd agreed to meet about planning an anniversary party. He dressed in a cheap suit Jennie'd bought in Mervyns and met the events planner at the Doubletree, where he got to work, doing what Daniel Pell did best.

Oh, it had been nice! Playing Susan like a fish was a luxurious high, even better than watching Jennie cut her hair or discard blouses or wince when he used the coat hanger on her narrow butt.

He now replayed the techniques: finding a common fear (the escaped killer) and common passions (John Steinbeck and jazz, which he knew little about, but he was a good bluffer); playing the sex game (her glance at his bare ring finger and stoic smile when he'd mentioned children told him all about Susan Pemberton's romantic life); doing something silly and laughing about it (the spilled cinnamon); arousing her sympathy (his bitch of an ex-wife ruining his son); being a decent person (the party for his beloved parents, his chivalry in walking her to the car); belying suspicion (the fake call to 911).

Little by little gaining trust-and therefore gaining control.

What a total high it was to practice his art once again in the real world!

Pell found the turnoff. It led through a dense grove of trees, toward the ocean. Jennie had spent the Saturday before the escape doing some reconnaissance for him and had discovered this deserted place. He continued along the sand-swept road, passing a sign that declared the property private. He beached Susan's car in sand at the end of the road, well out of sight of the highway. Climbing out, he heard the surf crash over an old pier not far away. The sun was low and spectacular.

He didn't have to wait long. Jennie was early. He was happy to see that; people who arrive early are in your control. Always be wary of those who make you wait.

She parked, climbed out and walked to him. "Honey, I hope you didn't have to wait long." She hungrily closed her mouth around his, gripping his face in both her hands. Desperate.

Pell came up for air.

She laughed. "It's hard to get used to you like this. I mean, I knew it was you, but still, I did a double take, you know. But it's like me and my short hair-it'll grow back and you'll be white again."

"Come here." He took her hand and sat on a low sand dune, pulled her down next to him.

"Aren't we leaving?" she asked.

"Not quite yet."

A nod at the Lexus. "Whose car is that? I thought your friend was going to drop you off."

He said nothing. They looked west at the Pacific Ocean. The sun was a pale disk just approaching the horizon, growing more fiery by the minute.

She'd be thinking: Does he want to talk, does he want to fuck me? What's going on?

Uncertainty…Pell let it run up. She'd be noticing that he wasn't smiling.

Concern flowed in like high tide. He felt the tension in her hand and arm.

Finally he asked, "How much do you love me?"

She didn't hesitate, though Pell noted something cautious in her response. "As big as that sun."

"Looks small from here."

"I mean as big as the sun really is. No, as big as the universe," she added quickly, as if trying to correct a wrong answer in class.

Pell was quiet.

"What's the matter, Daniel?"

"I have a problem. And I don't know what to do about it."

She tensed. "A problem, sweetheart?"

So it's "sweetie" when she's happy, "sweetheart" when she's troubled. Good to know. He filed that away.

"That meeting I had?" He'd told her only that he was going to meet someone about a "business thing."

"Uh-huh."

"Something went wrong. I had all the plans made. This woman was going to pay me back a lot of money I'd loaned her. But she lied to me."

"What happened?"

Pell was looking Jennie right in the eye. He reflected quickly that the only person who'd ever caught him lying was Kathryn Dance. But thinking of her was a distraction so he put her out of his mind. "She had her own plans, it turned out. She was going to use me. And you too."

"Me? She knows me?"

"Not your name. But from the news she knows we're together. She wanted me to leave you."

"Why?"

"So she and I could be together. She wanted to go away with me."

"This was somebody you used to know?"

"That's right."

"Oh." Jennie fell silent.

Jealousy…

"I told her no, of course. There's no way I'd even think about that."

An attempted purr. It didn't work.

Sweetheart…

"And Susan got mad. She said she was going to the police. She'd turn us both in." Pell's face contorted with pain. "I tried to talk her out of it. But she wouldn't listen."

"What happened?"

He glanced at the car. "I brought her here. I didn't have any choice. She was trying to call the police."

Alarmed, Jennie looked up and didn't see anybody in the car.

"In the trunk."

"Oh, God. Is she-"

"No," Pell answered slowly, "she's okay. She's tied up. That's the problem. I don't know what to do now."

"She still wants to turn you in?"

"Can you believe it?" he asked breathlessly. "I begged her. But she's not right in the head. Like your husband, remember? He kept hurting you even though he knew he'd get arrested. Susan's the same. She can't control herself." He sighed angrily. "I was fair to her. And she cheated me. She spent all the money. I was going to pay you back with it. For the car. For everything you've done."

"You don't have to worry about the money, sweetheart. I want to spend it on us."

"No, I'm going to pay you back." Never, ever let a woman know you want her for her money. And never, ever be in another human being's debt.

He kissed her in a preoccupied way. "But what're we going to do now?"

Jennie avoided his gaze and stared into the sun. "I…I don't know, sweetheart. I'm not…" Her voice ran out of steam, just like her thoughts.

He squeezed her leg. "I can't let anything hurt us. I love you so much."

Faintly: "And I love you, Daniel."

He took the knife from his pocket. Stared at it. "I don't want to. I really don't. People've been hurt yesterday because of us."

Us. Not me.

She caught the distinction. He could sense it in the stiffening of her shoulders.

He continued, "But I didn't do that intentionally. It was accidental. But this…I don't know." He turned the knife over and over in his hand.

She pressed against him, staring at the blade flashing in the sunset. She was shivering hard.

"Will you help me, lovely? I can't do it by myself."

Jennie started to cry. "I don't know, sweetheart. I don't think I can." Her eyes were fixed on the rump of the car.

Pell kissed her head. "We can't let anything hurt us. I couldn't live without you."

"Me too." She sucked in breath. Her jaw was quivering as much as her fingers.

"Help me, please." A whisper. He rose, helped her to her feet and they continued to the Lexus. He gave her the knife, closed his hand around hers. "I'm not strong enough alone," he confessed. "But together…we can do it together." He looked at her, eyes bright. "It'll be like a pact. You know, like a lovers' pact. It means we're bonded as close as two people can be. Like blood brothers. We'd be blood lovers."

He reached into the car and hit the trunk-release button. Jennie barked a faint scream at the sound.

"Help me, lovely. Please." He led her toward the trunk.

Then she stopped.

She handed him the knife, sobbing. "Please…I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, sweetheart. Don't be mad. I can't do it. I just can't."

Pell said nothing, just nodded. Her miserable eyes, her tears reflecting red from the melting sun.

It was an intoxicating sight.

"Don't be mad at me, Daniel. I couldn't stand it if you were mad."

Pell hesitated for three heartbeats, the perfect length of time to hatch uncertainty. "It's okay. I'm not mad."

"Am I still your lovely?"

Another pause. "Of course you are." He told her to go wait in the car.

"I-"

"Go wait for me. It's okay." He said nothing more and Jennie walked back to the Toyota. He continued to the trunk of the Lexus and looked down.

At Susan Pemberton's lifeless body.

He'd killed her an hour before, in the parking lot of her building. Suffocated her with duct tape.

Pell had never intended Jennie help him kill the woman. He'd known she'd balk. This whole incident was merely another lesson in the education of his pupil.

She'd moved a step closer to where he wanted her. Death and violence were on the table now. For at least five or ten seconds she'd considered slipping the knife into a human body, prepared to watch the blood flow, prepared to watch a human life vanish. Last week she'd never have been able to conceive of the thought; next week she'd consider it for a longer period.

Then she might actually agree to help him kill someone. And later still? Maybe he could get her to the point where she'd commit murder by herself. He'd gotten the girls in the Family to do things they hadn't wanted to-but only petty crimes. Nothing violent. Daniel Pell, though, believed he had the talent to turn Jennie Marston into a robot who would do whatever he ordered, even kill.

He slammed the trunk. Then snagging a pine branch, he used it to obscure the footprints in the sand. He returned to the car, sweeping behind him. He told Jennie to drive up the road until the car was on gravel and he obliterated the tire prints, as well. He joined her.

"I'll drive," he said.

"I'm sorry, Daniel," she said, wiping her face. "I'll make it up to you."

Begging for reassurance.

But the lesson plan dictated that he give no response whatsoever.

Chapter 25

He was a curious man, Kathryn Dance was thinking.

Morton Nagle tugged at his sagging pants and sat down at the coffee table in her office, opening a battered briefcase.

He was a bit of a slob, his thinning hair disheveled, goatee unevenly trimmed, gray shirt cuffs frayed, body spongy. But he seemed comfortable with his physique, Dance the kinesics analyst assessed. His mannerisms, precise and economical, were stress-free. His eyes, with their elfin twinkle, performed triage, deciding instantly what was important and what wasn't. When he'd entered her office, he'd ignored the decor, noted what Dance's face revealed (probably exhaustion), gave young Rey Carraneo a friendly but meaningless glance and fixed immediately on Winston Kellogg.

And after he learned Kellogg's employer, the writer's eyes narrowed a bit further, wondering what an FBI agent was doing here.

Kellogg was dressed quite unfederal compared with this morning-in a beige checkered sports coat, dark slacks and blue dress shirt. He wore no tie. Still, his behavior was right out of the bureau, as noncommittal as their agents always are. He told Nagle only that he was here as an observer, "helping out."

The writer offered one of his chuckles, which seemed to mean: I'll get you to talk.

"Rebecca and Linda have agreed to help us," Dance told him.

He lifted an eyebrow. "Really? The other one, Samantha?"

"No, not her."

Nagle extracted three sheets of paper from his briefcase. He set them on the table. "My mini-opus, if that's not an oxymoron. A brief history of Daniel Pell."

Kellogg scooted his chair next to Dance's. Unlike with O'Neil, she could detect no aftershave.

The writer repeated what he'd said to Dance the day before: his book wasn't about Pell himself, but about his victims. "I'm looking into everybody affected by the Croytons' deaths. Even employees. Croyton's company was eventually bought by a big software developer and hundreds of people were laid off. Maybe that wouldn't have happened if he hadn't died. And what about his profession? That's a victim too. He was one of the most innovative computer designers in Silicon Valley at the time. He had dozens of copyrights on programs and patents on hardware that were way ahead of their time. A lot of them didn't even have any application back then, they were so advanced. Now they're gone. Maybe some were revolutionary programs for medicine or science or communications."

Dance remembered thinking the same as she'd driven past the Cal State campus that was the recipient of much of Croyton's estate.

Nagle continued, with a nod toward what he'd written. "It's interesting-Pell changes his autobiography depending on whom he's talking to. Say, he needs to form a connection with somebody whose parents died at a young age. Well, to them Pell says he was orphaned at ten. Or if he has to exploit somebody whose father was in the military, then he was the army brat of a soldier killed in combat. To hear him tell it, there are about twenty different Pells. Well, here's the truth:

"He was born in Bakersfield, October of nineteen sixty-three. The seventh. But he tells everyone that his birthday is November twenty-second. That was the day Lee Harvey Oswald shot Kennedy."

"He admired a presidential assassin?" Kellogg asked.

"No, apparently he considered Oswald a loser. He thought he was too pliable and simpleminded. But what he admired was the fact that one man, with one act, could affect so much. Could make so many people cry, change the entire course of a country-well, the world.

"Now, Joseph Pell, his father, was a salesman, mother a receptionist when she could keep a job. Middle-class family. Mom-Elizabeth-drank a lot, have to assume she was distant, but no abuse, no incarceration. Died of cirrhosis when Daniel was in his midteens. With his wife gone, the father did what he could to raise the boy but Daniel couldn't take anyone else being in charge. Didn't do well with authority figures-teachers, bosses and especially his old man."

Dance mentioned the tape she and Michael O'Neil had watched, the comments about his father charging rent, beating him, abandoning the family, his parents dying.

Nagle said, "All a lie. But his father was undoubtedly a hard character for Pell to deal with. He was religious-very religious, very strict. He was an ordained minister-some conservative Presbyterian sect in Bakersfield-but he never got a church of his own. He was an assistant minister but finally was released. A lot of complaints that he was too intolerant, too judgmental about the parishioners. He tried to start his own church but the Presbyterian synod wouldn't even talk to him, so he ended up selling religious books and icons, things like that. But we can assume that he made his son's life miserable."

Religion was not central to Dance's own life. She, Wes and Maggie celebrated Easter and Christmas, though the chief icons of the faith were a rabbit and a jolly fellow in a red suit, and she doled out to the children her own brand of ethics-solid, incontrovertible rules common to most of the major sects. Still, she'd been in law enforcement long enough to know that religion often played a role in crime. Not only premeditated acts of terrorism but more mundane incidents. She and Michael O'Neil had spent nearly ten hours together in a cramped garage in the nearby town of Marina, negotiating with a fundamentalist minister intent on killing his wife and daughter in the name of Jesus because the teenage girl was pregnant. (They saved the family but Dance came away with an uneasy awareness of what a dangerous thing spiritual rectitude can be.)

Nagle continued, "Pell's father retired, moved to Phoenix and remarried. His second wife died two years ago and Joseph died last year, heart attack. Pell apparently had never stayed in touch. No uncles on either side and one aunt, in Bakersfield."

"The one with Alzheimer's?"

"Yes. Now, he does have a brother."

Not an only child, as he'd claimed.

"He's older. Moved to London years ago. He runs the sales operation of a U.S. importer/exporter. Doesn't give interviews. All I have is a name. Richard Pell."

Dance said to Kellogg, "I'll have somebody track him down."

"Cousins?" the FBI agent asked.

"Aunt never married."

Tapping the bio he'd written. "Now, Pell's later teens, he was constantly in and out of juvenile detention-mostly for larceny, shoplifting, car theft. But he has no long history of violence. His early record was surprisingly peaceful. There's no evidence of street brawling, no violent assaults, no signs he ever lost his temper. One officer suggested that it seemed Pell would only hurt somebody if it was tactically useful, and that he didn't enjoy-or hate-violence. It was a tool." The writer looked up. "Which, you ask me, is scarier."

Dance thought of her earlier assessment, killing emotionlessly whenever it was expedient.

"Now, no history of drugs. Pell apparently's never been a user. And he doesn't-or didn't-drink any alcohol."

"What about education?"

"Now that's interesting. He's brilliant. When he was in high school he tested off the charts. He got A's in independent study classes, but never showed up when attendance was required. In prison he taught himself law and handled his own appeal in the Croyton case."

She thought of his comment during the interview, about Hastings Law School.

"And he took it all the way to the California Supreme Court-just last year they ruled against him. Apparently it was a big blow. He thought for sure he'd get off."

"Well, he may be smart but not smart enough to stay out of jail." Kellogg tapped a paragraph of the bio that described maybe seventy-five arrests. "That's a rap sheet"

"And it's the tip of the iceberg; Pell usually got other people to commit the crimes. There're probably hundreds of other offenses he was behind that somebody else got nailed for. Robbery, burglary, shoplifting, pickpocketing. That's how he survived, getting people around him to do the dirty work."

"Oliver," Kellogg said.

"What?"

"Charles Dickens. Oliver Twist…You ever read it?"

Dance said, "Saw the movie."

"Good comparison. Fagin, the guy who ran the gang of pickpockets. That was Pell."

"'Please, sir, I want some more,'" Kellogg said in a Cockney accent. It was lousy. Dance laughed and he shrugged.

"Pell left Bakersfield and moved to L.A., then San Francisco. Hung out with some people there, was arrested for a few things, nothing serious. No word for a while-until he's picked up in Northern California in a homicide investigation."

"Homicide?"

"Yep. The murder of Charles Pickering in Redding. Pickering was a county worker. He was found stabbed to death in the hills outside of town about an hour after he was seen talking to somebody who looked like Pell. Vicious killing. He was slashed dozens of times. Bloodbath. But Pell had an alibi-a girlfriend swore he was with her at the time of the killing. And there was no physical evidence. The local police held him for a week on vagrancy, but finally gave him a pass. The case was never solved.

"Then he gets the Family together in Seaside. A few more years of theft, shoplifting. Some assaults. An arson or two. Pell was suspected in the beating of a biker who lived nearby, but the man wouldn't press charges. A month or so after that came the Croyton murders. From then on-well, until yesterday-he was in prison."

Dance asked, "What does the girl have to say?"

"Girl?"

"The Sleeping Doll. Theresa Croyton."

"What could she tell you? She was asleep at the time of the murders. That was established."

"Was it?" Kellogg asked. "By who?"

"The investigators at the time, I assume." Nagle's voice was uncertain. He'd apparently never thought about it.

"She'd be, let's see, seventeen now," Dance calculated. "I'd like to talk to her. She might know some things that'd be helpful. She's living with her aunt and uncle, right?"

"Yes, they adopted her."

"Could I have their number?"

Nagle hesitated. His eyes swept the desktop; they'd lost their sparkle.

"Is there a problem?"

"Well, I promised the aunt I wouldn't say anything to anybody about the girl. She's very protective of her niece. Even I haven't met her yet. At first the woman was dead set against my talking to her. I think she might agree eventually but if I gave you her number, I doubt very much she'd talk to you, and I suspect I'd never hear from her again."

"Just tell us where she lives. We'll get the name from Directory Assistance. I won't mention you."

He shook his head. "They changed their last name, moved out of the area. They were afraid somebody in the Family would come after them."

"You gave Kathryn the names of the women," Kellogg pointed out.

"They were in the phone book and in public records. You could've gotten them yourself. Theresa and her aunt and uncle are very unpublic."

"You found them," Dance said.

"Through some confidential sources. Who, I guarantee, want to stay even more confidential now that Pell's escaped. But I know this's important… I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll go see the aunt in person. Tell her you want to talk to Theresa about Pell. I'm not going to try to persuade them. If they say no, that's it."

Kellogg nodded. "That's all we're asking. Thanks."

Looking over the bio, Dance said, "The more I learn about him, the less I know."

The writer laughed, the sparkle returning to his face. "Oh, you want to know the why of Daniel Pell?" He dug through his briefcase, found a stack of papers and flipped to a yellow tab. "Here's a quote from one of his prison psych interviews. For once he was being candid." Nagle read:

"Pell: You want to analyze me, don't you? You want to know what makes me tick? You surely know the answer to that one, Doctor. It's the same for everybody: family, of course. Daddy whipped me, Daddy ignored me, Mommy didn't breastfeed me, Uncle Joe did who knows what. Nature or nurture, you can lay everything at your family's feet. But if you think too much about 'em, next thing you know, every single relative and ancestor you ever had is in the room with you and you're paralyzed. No, no, the only way to survive is to let 'em all go and remember that you're who you are and that's never going to change.

"Interviewer: Then who are you, Daniel?

"Pell (laughing): Oh, me? I'm the one tugging the strings of your soul and making you do things you never thought you were capable of. I'm the one playing my flute and leading you to places you're afraid to go. And let me tell you, Doctor, you'd be astonished at how many people want their puppeteers and their Pied Pipers. Absolutely astonished."

"I have to get home," Dance said, after Nagle had left. Her mother and the children would be anxiously awaiting her for her father's party.

Kellogg tossed the comma of hair off his forehead. It fell back. He tried again. She glanced at the gesture and noticed something she hadn't seen before-a bandage protruding above the collar of his shirt.

"You hurt?"

A shrug. "Got winged. A takedown in Chicago the other day."

His body language told her he didn't want to talk about it, and she didn't push. But then he said, "The perp didn't make it." In a certain tone and with a certain glance. It was how she told people that she was a widow.

"I'm sorry. You handling it okay?"

"Fine." Then he added, "Okay, not fine. But I'm handling it. Sometimes that's the best you can do."

On impulse she asked, "Hey, you have plans tonight?"

"Brief the SAC, then a bath at the hotel, a scotch, a burger and sleep. Well, okay, two scotches."

"Have a question."

He lifted an eyebrow.

"You like birthday cake?"

After only a brief pause he said, "It's one of my favorite food groups."

Chapter 26

"Mom, look. We deck-orated it! D-E-C-K."

Dance kissed her daughter. "Mags, that's funny."

She knew the girl had been bursting, waiting to share the pun.

The Deck did look nice. The kids had been busy all afternoon getting ready for the party. Banners, Chinese lanterns, candles everywhere. (They'd learned from their mom; when it came to entertaining, Kathryn Dance's guests might not get gourmet food, but they were treated to great atmosphere.)

"When can Grandpa open his presents?" Both Wes and Maggie had saved up allowance money and bought Stuart Dance outdoor gear-waders and a net. Dance knew her father'd be happy with anything his grandchildren got him but those particular items he would definitely use.

"Presents after the cake," Edie Dance announced. "And that's after dinner."

"Hi, Mom." Dance and her mother didn't always hug but tonight Edie clasped her close as an excuse to whisper that she wanted to talk to her about Juan Millar.

The women walked into the living room.

Dance saw immediately that her mother was troubled.

"What is it?"

"He's still hanging in there. He's come to a couple of times." A glance around to make sure, presumably, that the children were nowhere nearby. "Only for a few seconds each time. He couldn't possibly give you a statement. But…"

"What, Mom?"

She lowered her voice further. "I was standing near him. Nobody else was in earshot. I looked down and his eyes were open. I mean the one that's not bandaged. His lips were moving. I bent down. He said…" Edie glanced around again. "He said, 'Kill me.' He said it twice. Then he closed his eyes."

"Is he in that much pain?"

"No, he's so medicated he can't feel a thing. But he could look at the bandages. He could see the equipment. He's not a stupid man."

"His family's there?"

"Most of the time. Well, that brother of his, round the clock. He watches us like a hawk. He's convinced we're not giving Juan good treatment because he's Latino. And he's made a few more comments about you."

Dance grimaced.

"Sorry, but I thought you should know."

"I'm glad you told me."

Very troubling. Not Julio Millar, of course. She could handle him. It was the young detective's hopelessness that upset her so deeply.

Kill me…

Dance asked, "Did Betsey call?"

"Ah, your sister can't be here," Edie said in a breezy tone, whose subtext was irritation that their younger daughter wouldn't make the four-hour drive from Santa Barbara for her father's birthday party. Of course, with the Pell manhunt ongoing, Dance probably wouldn't've driven there, had the situation been reversed. According to an important rule of families, though, hypothetical transgressions aren't offenses, and that Dance was present, even by default, meant that, this time, Betsey earned the black mark.

They returned to the Deck and Maggie asked, "Mom, can we let Dylan and Patsy out?"

"We'll see." The dogs could be a little boisterous at parties. And tended to get too much human food for their own good.

"Where's your brother?"

"In his room."

"What's he doing?"

"Stuff."

Dance locked the weapon away for the party-an MCSO deputy on security detail was parked outside. She showered fast and changed.

She found Wes in the hallway. "No, no T-shirt. It's your grandfather's birthday."

"Mom. It's clean."

"Polo. Or your blue-and-white button-down." She knew the contents of his closet better than he did.

"Oh, okay."

She looked closely at his downcast eyes. His demeanor had nothing to do with a change of shirt.

"What's the matter?"

"Nothing."

"Come on, spill."

"Spill?"

"It's from my era. Tell me what's on your mind."

"Nothing."

"Go change."

Ten minutes later she was setting out mounds of luscious appetizers, offering a silent prayer of thanks to Trader Joe's.

In a dress shirt, cuffs buttoned and tails tucked, Wes strafed past and grabbed a handful of nuts. A whiff of aftershave followed. He looked good. Being a parent was a challenge, but there was plenty to be proud of too.

"Mom?" He tossed a cashew into the air. Caught it in his mouth.

"Don't do that. You could choke."

"Mom?"

"What?"

"Who's coming tonight?"

Now the eyes fished away and his shoulder was turned toward her. That meant another agenda lay behind the question. She knew what was bothering him-the same as last night. And now it was time to talk.

"Just us and a few people." Sunday evening there'd be a bigger event, with many of Stuart's friends, at the Marine Club near the aquarium in Monterey. Today, her father's actual birthday, she'd invited only eight or so people for dinner. She continued, "Michael and his wife, Steve and Martine, the Barbers…that's about it. Oh, and somebody who's working with us on a case. He's from Washington."

He nodded. "That's all? Nobody else?"

"That's all." She pitched him a bag of pretzels, which he caught with one hand. "Set those out. And make sure there're some left for the guests."

A much-relieved Wes headed off to start filling bowls.

What the boy had been worried about was the possibility that Dance had invited Brian Gunderson.

The Brian who was the source of the book sitting prominently nearby, the Brian whose phone call to Dance at CBI headquarters Maryellen Kresbach had so diligently reported.

Brian called…

The forty-year-old investment banker had been a blind date, courtesy of Maryellen, who was as compulsive about, and talented at, matchmaking as she was baking, brewing coffee and running the professional life of CBI agents.

Brian was smart and easy-going and funny too; on their first date the man had listened to her description of kinesics and promptly sat on his hands. "So you can't figure out my intentions." That dinner had turned out to be quite enjoyable. Divorced, no children (though he wanted them). Brian's investment-banking business was hectic, and with his and Dance's busy schedules, the relationship had by necessity moved slowly. Which was fine with her. Long married, recently widowed, she was in no hurry.

After a month of dinners, coffee and movies, she and Brian had taken a long hike and found themselves on the beach at Asilomar. A golden sunset, a slew of sea otters playing near shore…how could you resist a kiss or two? They hadn't. She remembered liking that. Then feeling guilty for liking. But liking it more than feeling guilty.

That part of your life you can do without for a while, but not forever.

Dance hadn't had any particular plans for the future with Brian and was happy to take it easy, see what developed.

But Wes had intervened. He was never rude or embarrassing, but he made clear in a dozen ways a mother could clearly read that he didn't like anything about Brian. Dance had graduated from grief-counseling but she still saw a therapist occasionally. The woman told her how to introduce a possible romantic interest to the children, and she'd done everything right. But Wes had outmaneuvered her. He grew sullen and passive-aggressive whenever the subject of Brian came up or when she returned from seeing him.

That's what he'd been wanting to ask about last night when he was reading Lord of the Rings.

Tonight, in his casual question about attendance at the party, the boy really meant, Is Brian coming?

And the corollary: Have you guys really broken up?

Yes, we have. (Though Dance wondered if Brian felt differently. After all, he'd called several times since the breakup.)

The therapist had said his behavior was normal, and Dance could work it out if she remained patient and determined. Most important, though, she couldn't let her son control her. But in the end she decided she wasn't patient or determined enough. And so, two weeks ago, she'd broken it off. She'd been tactful, explaining that it was just a little too soon after her husband's death; she wasn't ready. Brian had been upset but had taken the news well. No parting shots. And they'd left the matter open.

Let's just give it some time…

In truth the breakup was a relief; parents have to pick their battles, and, she'd decided, skirmishing over romance wasn't worth the effort just now. Still, she was pleased about his calls and had found herself missing him.

Carting wine outside onto the Deck, she found her father with Maggie. He was holding a book and pointing to a picture of a deep-sea fish that glowed.

"Hey, Mags, that looks tasty," Dance said.

"Mom, gross."

"Happy birthday, Dad." She hugged him.

"Thank you, dear."

Dance arranged platters, dumped beer into the cooler, then walked into the kitchen and pulled out her mobile. She checked in with TJ and Carraneo. They'd had no luck with the physical search for Pell, nor come across any leads to the missing Ford Focus, anyone with the names or screen names Nimue or Alison, or hotels, motels or boardinghouses where Pell and his accomplice might be staying.

She was tempted to call Winston Kellogg, thinking he might be shying, but she decided not to. He had all the vital statistics; he'd either show or not.

Dance helped her mother with more food and, returning to the Deck, greeted the neighbors, Tom and Sarah Barber, who brought with them wine, a birthday present and their gangly mixed-breed dog, Fawlty.

"Mom, please!" Maggie called, her meaning clear.

"Okay, okay, let 'em out of doggy jail."

Maggie freed Patsy and Dylan from the bedroom and the three canines galloped into the backyard, knocking one another down and checking out new scents.

A few minutes later another couple appeared on the Deck. Fortyish Steven Cahill could've been a Birkenstock model, complete with corduroy slacks and salt-and-pepper ponytail. His wife, Martine Christensen, belied her surname; she was sultry, dark and voluptuous. You'd have thought the blood in her veins was Spanish or Mexican but her ancestors predated all the Californian settlers. She was part Ohlone Indian-a loose affiliation of tribelets, hunting and gathering from Big Sur to San Francisco Bay. For hundreds, possibly thousands, of years, the Ohlone were the sole inhabitants of this region of the state.

Some years ago Dance had met Martine at a concert at a community college in Monterey, a descendant of the famed Monterey Folk Festival, where Bob Dylan had made his West Coast debut in 1965, and that a few years later morphed into the even more famous Monterey Pop Festival, which brought Jimi Hendrix and Janis Joplin to the world's attention.

The concert where Dance and Martine had met was less culture-breaking than its predecessors, but more significant on a personal level. The women had hit it off instantly and had stayed out long after the last act finished, talking music. They'd soon become best friends. It was Martine who'd practically broken down Dance's door on several occasions following Bill's death. She'd waged a persistent campaign to keep her friend from sinking into the seductive world of reclusive widowhood. While some people avoided her, and others (her mother, for instance) plied her with exhausting sympathy, Martine embarked on a campaign that could be called ignoring sorrow. She cajoled, joked, argued and plotted. Despite Dance's reticence, she realized that, damn it, the tactic had worked. Martine was perhaps the biggest influence in getting her life back on track.

Steve's and Martine's children, twin boys a year younger than Maggie, followed them up the stairs, one toting his mother's guitar case, the other a present for Stuart. After greetings, Maggie herded the boys into the backyard.

The adults gravitated to a rickety candlelit table.

Dance saw that Wes was happier than he'd been in a long time. He was a natural social director and was now organizing a game for the children.

She thought again about Brian, then let it go.

"The escape. Are you…?" Martine's melodious voice faded once she saw that Dance knew what she was talking about.

"Yep. I'm running it."

"So the bugs hit you first," her friend observed.

"Right in the teeth. If I have to run off before the cake and candles, that's why."

"It's funny," said Tom Barber, a local journalist and freelance writer. "We spend all our time lately thinking about terrorists. They're the new 'in' villains. And suddenly somebody like Pell sneaks up behind you. You tend to forget that it's people like him who might be the worst threat to most of us."

Barber's wife added, "People're staying home. All over the Peninsula. They're afraid."

"Only reason I'm here," Steven Cahill said, "is because I knew there'd be folks packing heat."

Dance laughed.

Michael and Anne O'Neil arrived with their two children, Amanda and Tyler, nine and ten. Once again Maggie clambered up the stairs. She escorted the new youngsters to the backyard, after stocking up on sodas and chips.

Dance pointed out wine and beer, then headed into the kitchen to help. But her mother said, "You've got another guest." She indicated the front door, where Dance found Winston Kellogg.

"I'm empty-handed," he confessed.

"I've got more than we'll ever eat. You can take a doggy bag home, if you want. By the way, you allergic?"

"To pollen, yes. Dogs? No."

Kellogg had changed again. The sports coat was the same but he wore a polo shirt and jeans, Topsiders and yellow socks.

He noted her glance. "I know. For a Fed I look surprisingly like a soccer dad."

She directed him through the kitchen and introduced him to Edie. Then they continued on to the Deck, where he was inundated with more introductions. She remained circumspect about his role here, and Kellogg said merely that he was in town from Washington and was "working with Kathryn on a few projects."

Then she took him to the stairs leading down to the backyard and introduced him to the children. Dance caught Wes and Tyler looking at him closely, undoubtedly for armament, and whispering to each other.

O'Neil joined the two agents.

Wes waved enthusiastically to the deputy and, with another glance at Kellogg, returned to their game, which he was apparently making up on the run. He was laying out the rules. It seemed to involve outer space and invisible dragons. The dogs were aliens. The twins were royalty of some kind and a pine cone was either a magic orb or a hand grenade, perhaps both.

"Did you tell Michael about Nagle?" Kellogg asked.

She gave a brief synopsis of what they'd learned about Pell's history and added that the writer was going to see if Theresa Croyton would talk to them.

"So, you think Pell's here because of the murders back then?" O'Neil asked.

"I don't know," she said. "But I need all the information I can get."

The placid detective gave a smile and said to Kellogg, "No stone left un-turned. That's how I describe her policing style."

"Which I learned from him," Dance said, laughing, and nodding at O'Neil.

Then the detective said, "Oh, I was thinking about something. Remember? One of Pell's phone conversations from Capitola was about money."

"Ninety-two hundred dollars," Kellogg said.

Dance was impressed at his retention.

"Well, here's what I thought: We know the Thunderbird was stolen in Los Angeles. It's logical to assume that's where Pell's girlfriend's from. How 'bout we contact banks in L.A. County and see if any women customers've withdrawn that amount in the past, say, month or two?"

Dance liked the idea, though it would mean a lot of work.

O'Neil said to Kellogg, "That'd have to come from you folks: FBI, Treasury, IRS or Homeland Security, I'd guess."

"It's a good idea. Just thinking out loud, though, I'd say we'd have a manpower problem." He echoed Dance's concern. "We're talking millions of customers. I know the L.A. bureau couldn't handle it, and Homeland'd laugh. And if she was smart she'd make small withdrawals over a period of time. Or cash third-party checks and stash the money."

"Oh, sure. Possibly. But it'd be great to ID his girlfriend. You know, 'A second suspect-'"

"-'logarithmically increases the chances for detection and arrest,'" Kellogg finished the quotation from an old textbook on law enforcement. Dance and O'Neil quoted it often.

Smiling, Kellogg held O'Neil's eye. "We Feds don't have quite the resources people think we do. I'm sure we couldn't come up with the bodies to man the phones. Be a huge job."

"I wonder. You'd think it'd be pretty easy to check databases, at least with the big chain banks." Michael O'Neil could be quite tenacious.

Dance asked, "Would you need a warrant?"

O'Neil said, "Probably to release the name you would. But if a bank wanted to cooperate they could run the numbers and tell us if there was a match. We could get a warrant for the name and address in a half-hour."

Kellogg sipped his wine. "The fact is, there's another problem. I'm worried if we go to the SAC or Homeland with something like that-too tenuous-we might lose support we'd need later for something more solid."

"Crying wolf, hm?" O'Neil nodded. "Guess you have to play more politics at that level than we do here."

"But let's think about it. I'll make some calls."

O'Neil looked past Dance's shoulder. "Hey, happy birthday, young man."

Stuart Dance, wearing a badge that said "Birthday Boy," handmade by Maggie and Wes, shook hands, refilled O'Neil's and Dance's wineglasses and said to Kellogg, "You're talking shop. Not allowed. I'm stealing you away from these children, come play with the adults."

Kellogg gave a shy laugh and followed the man to the candlelit table, where Martine had her battered Gibson guitar out of the case and was organizing a sing-along. Dance and O'Neil stood alone. She saw Wes looking up. He'd apparently been studying the adults. He turned away, back to the Star Wars improvisation.

"He seems good," O'Neil said, tilting his head toward Kellogg.

"Winston? Yes."

Typically, O'Neil carried no grudge about the rejection of his suggestions. He was the antithesis of pettiness.

"He take a hit recently?" O'Neil tapped his neck.

"How'd you know?" The bandage wasn't visible tonight.

"He was touching it the way you touch a wound."

She laughed. "Good kinesic analysis. Yeah, just happened. He was in Chicago. The perp got a round off first, I guess, and Win took him out. He didn't go into the details."

They fell silent, looking over the backyard, the children, the dogs, the lights glowing brighter in the encroaching dusk. "We'll get him."

"Will we?" she asked.

"Yep. He'll make a mistake. They always do."

"I don't know. He's something different. Don't you feel that?"

"No. He's not different. He's just more." Michael O'Neil-the most widely read person she knew-had surprisingly simple philosophies of life. He didn't believe in evil or good, much less God or Satan. Those were all abstractions that deflected you from your job, which was to catch people who broke rules that humans had created for their own health and safety.

No good, no bad. Just destructive forces that had to be stopped.

To Michael O'Neil, Daniel Pell was a tsunami, an earthquake, a tornado.

He watched the children playing, then said, "I gather that guy you've been seeing…It's over with?"

Brian called…

"You caught that, hm? Busted by my own assistant."

"I'm sorry. Really."

"You know how it goes," Dance said, noting she'd spoken one of those sentences that were meaningless flotsam in a conversation.

"Sure."

Dance turned to see how her mother was coming with dinner. She saw O'Neil's wife looking at the two of them. Anne smiled.

Dance smiled back. She said to O'Neil, "So, let's go join the sing-along."

"Do I have to sing?"

"Absolutely not," she said quickly. He had a wonderful speaking voice, low with a natural vibrato. He couldn't stay on key under threat of torture.

After a half-hour of music, gossip and laughter, Edie Dance, her daughter and granddaughter set out Worcestershire-marinated flank steak, salad, asparagus and potatoes au gratin. Dance sat beside Winston Kellogg, who was holding his own very well among strangers. He even told a few jokes, with a deadpan delivery that reminded her of her late husband, who had shared not only Kellogg's career but his easy-going nature-at least once the federal ID card was tucked away.

The conversation ambled from music to Anne O'Neil's critique of San Francisco arts, to politics in the Middle East, Washington and Sacramento, to the far more important story of a sea otter pup born in captivity at the aquarium two days ago.

It was a comfortable gathering: friends, laughter, food, wine, music.

Though, of course, complete comfort eluded Kathryn Dance. Pervading the otherwise fine evening, like the moving bass line of Martine's old guitar, was the thought that Daniel Pell was still at large.