The Sleeping Doll

Chapter 27

Kathryn Dance was sitting in a cabin at the Point Lobos Inn-the first time she'd ever been in the expensive place. It was an upscale lodge of private cabins on a quiet road off Highway 1, south of Carmel, abutting the rugged and beautiful state park after which the inn was named. The Tudor-style place was secluded-a long driveway separated it from the road-and the deputy in the Monterey Sheriff's Office car stationed in front had a perfect view of all approaches, which was why she'd picked it.

Dance checked in with O'Neil. At the moment he was following up on a missing person report in Monterey. Calls to TJ and Carraneo too. TJ had nothing to tell her, and the rookie agent said he was still having no luck finding a cheap motel or boardinghouse where Pell might be staying. "I've tried all the way up to Gilroy and-"

"Cheap hotels?"

A pause. "That's right, Agent Dance. I didn't bother with the expensive ones. Didn't think an escapee'd have much money to spend on them."

Dance recalled Pell's secret phone conversation in Capitola, the reference to $9,200. "Pell's probably thinking that's exactly what you're thinking. Which means…" She let Carraneo pick up her thought.

"That it'd be smarter for him to stay in an expensive one. Hm. Okay. I'll get on it. Wait. Where are you right now, Agent Dance? Do you think he-?"

"I've already checked out everybody here," she assured him. She hung up, looked at her watch again and wondered: Is this harebrained scheme really going to do any good?

Five minutes later, a knock on the door. Dance opened it to see massive CBI Agent Albert Stemple towering over a woman in her late twenties. Stocky Linda Whitfield had a pretty face, untouched by makeup, and short red hair. Her clothes were a bit shabby: black stretch pants with shiny knees and a red sweater dangling threads; its V-neck framed a pewter cross. Dance detected no trace of perfume, and Linda's nails were unpolished and cut short.

The women shook hands. Linda's grip was firm.

Stemple's brow lifted. Meaning, Is there anything else?

Dance thanked him and the big agent set down Linda's suitcase and ambled off. Dance locked the door and the woman walked into the living room of the two-bedroom cabin. She looked at the elegant place as if she'd never stayed anywhere nicer than a Days Inn. "My."

"I've got coffee going." A gesture toward the small kitchen.

"Tea, if there's any."

Dance made a cup. "I'm hoping you won't have to stay long. Maybe not even overnight."

"Any more on Daniel?"

"Nothing new."

Linda looked at the bedrooms as if choosing one would commit her to staying longer than she wanted to. Her serenity wavered, then returned. She picked a room and took her suitcase inside, then returned a moment later and accepted the cup of tea, poured milk in and sat.

"I haven't been on an airplane in years," she said. "And that jet…it was amazing. So small, but it pushed you right back in your seat when we took off. There was an FBI agent on board. She was very nice."

They sat on comfortable couches, a large coffee table between them. She looked around the cabin again. "My, this is nice."

It sure was. Dance wondered what the FBI accountants would say when they saw the bill. The cabin was nearly six hundred a night.

"Rebecca's on her way. But maybe you and I could just get started."

"And Samantha?"

"She wouldn't come."

"You talked to her then?"

"I went to see her."

"Where is she?…No, wait, you can't tell me that."

Dance smiled.

"I heard she had plastic surgery and changed her name and everything."

"That's true, yes."

"At the airport I bought a newspaper to see what was going on?"

Dance wondered about the absence of a TV in her brother's house; was it an ethical or cultural decision? Or an economic one? You could get a cable ready set for a few hundred bucks nowadays. Still, Dance noted that the heels of Linda's shoes were virtually worn away.

"It said there was no doubt he killed those guards." She set down the tea. "I was surprised by that. Daniel wasn't violent. He'd only hurt someone in self-defense."

Though, looked at from Pell's point of view, that was exactly why he'd slaughtered the guards. "But," Linda continued, "he did let somebody go. That driver."

Only because it served his interest.

"How did you meet Pell?"

"It was about ten years ago. In Golden Gate Park. San Francisco. I'd run away from home and was sleeping there. Daniel, Samantha and Jimmy were living in Seaside, along with a few other people. They'd travel up and down the coast, like gypsies. They'd sell things they'd bought or made. Sam and Jimmy were pretty talented; they'd make picture frames, CD holders, tie racks. Things like that.

"Anyway, I'd run away that weekend-no big deal, I did it all the time-and Daniel saw me near the Japanese Garden. He sat down and we started talking. Daniel has this gift. He listens to you. It's like you're the center of the universe. It's really, you know, seductive."

"And you never went back home?"

"No, I did. I always wanted to run away and just keep going. My brother did. He left home at eighteen and never looked back. But I wasn't brave enough to. My parents-we lived in San Mateo-they were real strict. Like drill instructors. My father was head of Santa Clara Bank and Trust."

"Wait, that Whitfield?"

"Yep. The multimillionaire Whitfield. The one who financed a good portion of Silicon Valley and survived the crash. The one who was going into politics-until a certain daughter of his made the press in a big way." A wry smile. "Ever met anybody who's been disowned by her parents? You have now… Anyway, when I was growing up they were very authoritarian. I had to do everything the way they insisted. How I made my room, what I wore, what I was taking in school, what my grades were going to be. I got spanked until I was fourteen and I think he only stopped because my mother told my father it wasn't a good idea with a girl that age… They claimed it was because they loved me, and so on. But they were just control freaks. They were trying to turn me into a little doll for them to dress up and play with.

"So I go back home but all the time I was there I couldn't get Daniel out of my head. We'd only talked for, I don't know, a few hours. But it was wonderful. He treated me like I was a real person. He told me to trust my judgment. That I was smart, I was pretty." A grimace. "Oh, I wasn't really-not either of those things. But when he said it I believed him.

"One morning my mother came to my room and told me to get up and get dressed. We were going to visit my aunt or somebody. And I was supposed to wear a skirt. I wanted to wear jeans. It wasn't a formal thing-we were just going to lunch. But she made a big deal out of it. She screamed at me. 'No daughter of mine…' You get the idea. Well, I grabbed my backpack and just left. I was afraid I'd never find Daniel but I remembered he'd told me he'd be in Santa Cruz that week, at a flea market on the boardwalk."

The boardwalk was a famous amusement park on the beach. A lot of young people hung out there, at all hours of the day. Dance reflected that it'd make a good hunting ground if Daniel Pell was on the prowl for victims.

"So I hitched a ride down Highway One, and there he was. He looked happy to see me. Which I don't think my parents ever did." She laughed. "I asked if he knew a place I could stay. I was nervous about that, hinting. But he said, 'You bet I do. With us.'"

"In Seaside?"

"Uh-huh. We had a little bungalow there. It was nice."

"You, Samantha, Jimmy and Pell?"

"Right."

Her body language told Dance that she was enjoying the memory: the easy position of the shoulders, the crinkles beside the eyes and the illustrator hand gestures, which emphasize the content of the words and suggest the intensity of the speaker's reaction to what he or she is saying.

Linda picked up her tea again and sipped it. "Whatever the papers said-cult, drug orgies-that was wrong. It was really homey and comfortable. I mean, no drugs at all, or liquor. Some wine at dinner sometimes. Oh, it was nice. I loved being around people who saw you for who you were, didn't try to change you, respected you. I ran the house. I was sort of the mother, I guess you could say. It was so nice to be in charge for a change, not getting yelled at for having my own opinion."

"What about the crimes?"

Linda grew tense. "There was that. Some. Not as much as people say. A little shoplifting, things like that. And I never liked it. Never."

A few negation gestures here, but Dance sensed she wasn't being deceptive; the kinesic stress was due to her minimizing the severity of the crimes. The Family had done much worse than just shoplifting, Dance knew. There were burglary counts, and grand larceny, as well as purse snatching and pickpocketing-both crimes against persons, and under the penal code more serious than those against property.

"But we didn't have any choice. To be in the Family you had to participate."

"What was it like living with Daniel?"

"It wasn't as bad as you'd think. You just had to do what he wanted."

"And if you didn't?"

"He never hurt us. Not physically. Mostly, he'd…withdraw."

Dance recalled Kellogg's profile of a cult leader.

He'll threaten to withhold himself from them, and that's a very powerful weapon.

"He'd turn away from you. And you'd get scared. You never knew if that was the end for you and you'd get thrown out. Somebody in the church office was telling me about these reality shows? Big Brother, Survivor?"

Dance nodded.

"She was saying how popular they were. I think that's why people're obsessed with them. There's something terrifying about the idea of being kicked out of your family." She shrugged and fondled the cross on her chest.

"You got a longer sentence than the others. For destroying evidence. What was that story?"

The woman's lips grew tight. "It was stupid. I panicked. All I knew was that Daniel called and said Jimmy was dead and something had gone wrong at this house where they'd had a meeting. We were supposed to pack up and get ready to leave, the police might be after him soon. Daniel kept all these books about Charles Manson in the bedroom and clippings and things. I burned some before the police got there. I thought it'd look bad if they knew he had this thing for Manson."

Which it had, Dance reflected, recalling how the prosecutor had used the Charles Manson theme to help him win a conviction.

Responding to Dance's questions, Linda mentioned more about her recent life. In jail she'd become devoutly religious and, after her release, moved to Portland, where she'd gotten a job working for a local Protestant church. She'd joined it because her brother was a deacon there.

She was seeing a "nice Christian" man in Portland and was the nanny, in effect, for her brother and sister-in-law's foster children. She wanted to become a foster parent herself-she'd had medical problems and could have no children of her own-but that was hard with the prison conviction. She added, in a tone of conclusion, "I don't have many material things, but I like my life. It's a rich life, in the good sense of the word."

A knock on the door intruded. Dance's hand strayed toward her heavy pistol.

"It's TJ, boss. I forgot the secret password."

Dance opened the door and the young agent entered with another woman. Slim and tall, in her midthirties, she carried a leather backpack slung over her shoulder.

Kathryn Dance rose to greet the second member of the Family.

Chapter 28

Rebecca Sheffield was a few years older than her fellow Family member. She was athletic-looking and gorgeous, though Dance thought that the short crop of prematurely gray hair, the brash jewelry and the absence of makeup made her look austere. She wore jeans and a white silk T-shirt under a brown suede jacket.

Rebecca shook Dance's hand firmly but she immediately turned her attention to Linda, who was rising and gazing at her with a steady smile.

"Well, look who it is." Rebecca stepped forward and hugged Linda.

"After all these years." Linda's voice choked. "My, I think I'm going to cry." And she did.

They dropped the embrace but Rebecca continued to hold the other woman's hands tightly. "It's good to see you, Linda."

"Oh, Rebecca…I've prayed for you a lot."

"You're into that now? You didn't used to know a cross from a Star of David. Well, thanks for the prayers. Not sure they took."

"No, no, you're doing such good things. Really! The church office has a computer. I saw your website. Women starting their own businesses. It's wonderful. I'm sure it does a lot of good."

Rebecca seemed surprised that Linda had kept up with her.

Dance pointed out the available bedroom and Rebecca carried her backpack into it, and used the restroom.

"You need me, boss, just holler." TJ left and Dance locked the door behind him.

Linda picked up her teacup, fiddled with it, not taking a sip. How people love their props in stressful situations, Dance reflected. She'd interrogated suspects who clutched pens, ashtrays, food wrappers and even their shoes to dull the stress.

Rebecca returned and Dance offered her some coffee.

"You bet."

Dance poured her some and set out milk and sugar. "There's no public restaurant here, but they have room service. Order whatever you'd like."

Sipping the coffee, Rebecca said, "I've got to say, Linda, you're looking good."

A blush. "Oh, I don't know. I'm not in the shape I'd like. You're glamorous. And thin! I love your hair."

Rebecca laughed. "Hey, nothing like a couple years in prison to turn you gray, hm? Hey, no ring. You're not married?"

"Nope."

"Me either."

"You're kidding. You were going to marry some hunky Italian sculptor. I thought for sure you'd be hooked up now."

"Not easy to find Mr. Right when men hear your boyfriend was Daniel Pell. I read about your father in BusinessWeek. Something about his bank expanding."

"Really? I wouldn't know."

"You're still not talking?"

Linda shook her head. "My brother doesn't talk to them either. We're two poor church mice. But it's for the best, believe me. You still paint?"

"Some. Not professionally."

"No? Really?" Linda turned to Dance, her eyes shining. "Oh, Rebecca was so good! You should see her work. I mean, she's the best."

"Just sketch for fun now."

They spent a few minutes catching up. Dance was surprised that though they both lived on the West Coast they hadn't communicated since the trial.

Rebecca glanced at Dance. "Samantha joining our coffee klatch? Or whatever her name is now?"

"No, just the two of you."

"Sam was always the timid one."

"'Mouse,' remember?" Linda said.

"That's right. That's what Pell called her. 'My Mouse.'"

They refilled their cups and Dance got down to work, asking Rebecca the same basic questions she'd asked Linda.

"I was the last one to get suckered in by Mr. Pell," the thin woman said sourly. "It was only…when?" A glance at Linda, who said, "January. Just four months before the Croyton situation."

Situation. Not murders.

"How did you meet Pell?" Dance asked.

"Back then I was bumming around the West Coast, making money doing sketches of people at street fairs and on the beach, you know. I had my easel set up and Pell stopped by. He wanted his portrait done."

Linda gave a coy smile. "I seem to remember you didn't do much sketching. You two ended up in the back of the van. And were there for a long, long time."

Rebecca's smile was of embarrassment. "Well, Daniel had that side to him, sure… In any case, we did spend time talking too. And he asked me if I wanted to hang out with them in Seaside. I wasn't sure at first-I mean, we all knew about Pell's reputation and the shoplifting and things like that. But I just said to myself, hell, I'm a bohemian, I'm a rebel and artist. Screw my lily white suburban upbringing…go for it. And I did. It worked out well. There were good people around me, like Linda and Sam. I didn't have to work nine to five and could paint as much as I wanted. Who could ask for anything more in life? Of course, it turned out I'd also joined up with Bonnie and Clyde, a band of thieves. That wasn't so good."

Dance noticed Linda's placid face darken at the comment.

After release from jail, Rebecca explained, she became involved in the women's movement.

"I figured me kowtowing to Pell-treating him like the king of the roost-set the feminist cause back a few years and I wanted to make it up to them."

Finally, after a lot of counseling, she'd started a consulting service to help women open and finance small businesses. She'd been at it ever since. She must do well for herself, Dance thought, to judge from the jewelry, clothes and Italian shoes, which if the agent's estimate was right (Dance could be an expert footwear witness) cost the same as her best two pairs put together.

Another knock on the door. Winston Kellogg arrived. Dance was happy to see him-professionally and personally. She'd enjoyed getting to know him on the Deck last night. He'd been surprisingly social, for a hard-traveling Fed. Dance had attended a number of functions with her husband's federal coworkers and found most of them quiet and focused, reluctant to talk. But Win Kellogg, along with her parents, had been the last to leave the party.

He now greeted the two women and, in keeping with protocol, showed them his ID. He poured himself some coffee. Up until now Dance had been asking background information but with Kellogg here it was time to get to the crux of the interview.

"All right, here's the situation. Pell is probably still in the area. We can't figure out where or why. It doesn't make any sense; most escapees get as far away as they can from the site of the jail break."

She told them in detail of how the plan at the courthouse had unfolded and the developments to date. The women listened with interest-and shock or revulsion-to the specifics.

"First, let me ask you about his accomplice."

"That woman I read about?" Linda asked. "Who is she?"

"We don't know. Apparently blond and young. Age is roughly midtwenties."

"So he's got a new girlfriend," Rebecca said. "That's our Daniel. Never without one."

Kellogg said, "We don't exactly know the relationship. She was probably a fan of his. Apparently prisoners, even the worst, get plenty of women throwing themselves at their feet."

Rebecca laughed and glanced at Linda. "You get any love letters when you were inside? I didn't."

Linda gave a polite smile.

"There's a chance," Dance said, "that she isn't a stranger. She'd've been very young at the time the Family was together but I was wondering if she could be somebody you know."

Linda frowned. "Midtwenties now…she'd've been a teenager then. I don't remember anyone like that."

Rebecca added, "When I was in the Family, it was only the five of us."

Dance jotted a note. "Now, I want to talk about what your life was like then. What Pell said and did, what interested him, what his plans were. I'm hoping something you remember will give us a clue as to what he's up to."

"Step one, define the problem. Step two, get the facts." Rebecca's eyes were on Dance.

Both Linda and Kellogg looked blank. Dance, of course, knew what she was talking about. (And was thankful that the woman wasn't in the mood to deliver another lecture, like yesterday.)

"Jump in with whatever you want. If you have an idea that sounds bizarre, go ahead and tell us. We'll take whatever we can get."

"I'm game," Linda said.

Rebecca offered, "Shoot."

Dance asked about the structure of life in the Family.

"It was sort of a commune," Rebecca said, "which was weird for me, growing up in capitalistic, sitcom suburbia, you know."

As they described it, the arrangement was a little different, though, from what a communist cadre might expect. The rule seemed to be: From each according to what Daniel Pell demanded of them; to each according to what Daniel Pell decided.

Still, the Family worked pretty well, at least on a practical level. Linda had made sure the household ran smoothly and the others contributed. They ate well and kept the bungalow clean and in good repair. Both Samantha and Jimmy Newberg were talented with tools and home improvement. For obvious reasons-stolen property stored in a bedroom-Pell didn't want the owner to paint or fix broken appliances, so they had to be completely self-sufficient.

Linda said, "That was one of Daniel's philosophies of life. 'Self-Reliance'-the essay by Ralph Waldo Emerson. I read it out loud a dozen times. He loved to hear it."

Rebecca was smiling. "Remember reading at night?"

Linda explained that Pell believed in books. "He loved them. He made a ceremony out of throwing out the TV. Almost every night I'd read something aloud, with everyone else gathered in a circle on the floor. Those were nice nights."

"Were there any neighbors or other friends in Seaside he had a particular connection with?"

"We didn't have friends," Rebecca said. "Pell wasn't like that."

"But some people he'd met would come by, stay for a while, then leave. He was always picking up people."

"Losers like us."

Linda stiffened slightly. Then said, "Well, I'd say people down on their luck. Daniel was generous. Gave them food, money sometimes."

You give a hungry man food, he'll do what you want, Dance reflected, recalling Kellogg's profile of a cult leader and his subjects.

They continued reminiscing but the conversation didn't trigger any recollections of who the houseguests might've been. Dance moved on.

"There are some things he searched for online recently. I was wondering if they mean anything to you. One was 'Nimue.' I was thinking it might be a name. A nickname or computer screen name maybe."

"No. I've never heard of it. What does it mean?"

"It's a character out of the King Arthur legend."

Rebecca looked at the younger woman. "Hey, did you read us any of those stories?"

Linda didn't recall. Nor had they any recollection of an Alison-the other name Pell had searched for.

"Tell me about a typical day in the Family."

Rebecca seemed at a loss for words. "We'd get up, have breakfast…I don't know."

Shrugging, Linda said, "We were just a family. We talked about what families talk about. The weather, plans, trips we were going to take. Money problems. Who was going to be working where. Sometimes I'd stand in the kitchen after breakfast, doing dishes, and just cry-because I was so happy. I had a real family at last."

Rebecca agreed that their life hadn't been very different from anyone else's, though she clearly wasn't as sentimental as her sister-in-crime.

The discussion meandered and they revealed nothing helpful. In interviewing and interrogation, it's a well-known rule that abstractions obscure memories, while specifics trigger them. Dance now said, "Do this for me: Pick a particular day. Tell me about it. A day you'd both remember."

Neither could think of one that stood out, though.

Until Dance suggested, "Think of a holiday: Thanksgiving, Christmas."

Linda shrugged. "How about that Easter?"

"My first holiday there. My only holiday. Sure. That was fun."

Linda described making an elaborate dinner with food that Sam, Jimmy and Rebecca had "come up with." Dance spotted the euphemism instantly; it meant the trio had stolen the groceries.

"I cooked a turkey," Linda said. "I smoked it all day in the backyard. My, that was fun."

Prodding, Dance asked, "So there you are, you two and Samantha-she was the quiet one, you said."

"The Mouse."

"And the young man who was with Pell at the Croytons'," Kellogg said. "Jimmy Newberg. Tell us about him."

Rebecca said, "Right. He was a funny little puppy. He was a runaway too. From up north, I think."

"Good-looking. But he wasn't all there." Linda tapped her forehead.

A laugh from her comrade. "He'd been a stoner."

"But he was a genius with his hands. Carpentry, electronics, everything. He was totally into computers, even wrote his own programs. He'd tell us about them and none of us could understand what he was talking about. He wanted to get some website going-remember, this was before everybody had one. I think he was actually pretty creative. I felt bad for him. Daniel didn't like him that much. He'd lose patience with him. He wanted to kick him out, I think."

"Besides, Daniel was a ladies' man. He didn't do well with other men around."

Dance steered them back to the holiday.

"It was a pretty day," Linda continued. "The sun was out. It was warm. We had music going. Jimmy'd put together a real good sound system."

"Did you say grace?"

"No."

"Even though it was Easter?"

Rebecca said, "I suggested it. But Pell said no."

Linda said, "That's right. He got upset."

His father, Dance supposed.

"We played some games in the yard. Frisbee, badminton. Then I put dinner out."

Rebecca said, "I'd boosted some good Cabernet and we girls and Jimmy had wine-Pell didn't drink. Oh, I got pretty wasted. Sam did too."

"And we ate a lot." Linda gripped her belly.

Dance continued to probe. She was aware that Winston Kellogg had dropped out of the conversation. He might be the cult expert but he was deferring to her expertise now. She appreciated that.

Linda said, "After dinner we just hung out and talked. Sam and I sang. Jimmy was tinkering with his computer. Daniel was reading something."

The recollections came more frequently now, a chain reaction.

"Drinking, talking, a family holiday."

"Yeah."

"You remember what you talked about?"

"Oh, just stuff, you know…" Linda fell silent. Then she said, "Wait. That reminds me of one thing you might want to know about." She tilted her head slightly. It was a recognition response, though from the focus of her eyes-on a nearby vase filled with artificial amaryllis-the thought was not fully formed. Dance said nothing; you can often erase an elusive memory by asking someone about it directly.

The woman continued, "It wasn't Easter. It was another dinner. But thinking about Easter reminded me. Daniel and I were in the kitchen. He was watching me cook. And there was a big crash from next door. The neighbors were fighting. He said he couldn't wait to get out of Seaside. To his mountaintop."

"Mountaintop?"

"Yeah."

Kellogg asked, "His?"

"That's what he said."

"Did he own some property?"

"He never mentioned anything specific. Maybe he meant 'his' in the sense that it was something he wanted to have someday."

Rebecca knew nothing about it.

Linda said, "I remember it clearly. He wanted to get away from everybody. Just us, just the Family. Nobody else around. I don't think he said anything about it before or after that."

"But not Utah? You both said he never mentioned that."

"No," Rebecca agreed. "But, wait…you know, thinking of that…I don't know if it's helpful, but I remember something too. Along those same lines. We were in bed one night and he said, 'I need to make a big score. Come up with enough money just to get away from everybody.' I remember that. He said 'a big score.'"

"What did he mean? A robbery to buy some property?"

"Could be."

"Linda?"

She had to plead ignorance and seemed troubled that he hadn't shared everything with her.

Dance asked the obvious question: "Could the big score have been the Croyton break-in?"

"I don't know," Rebecca said. "He never told us that's where he and Jimmy were going that night."

Dance speculated: Maybe he did steal something valuable from Croyton's house, after all. When the police were closing in, he hid it. She thought of the car he'd driven to the break-in. Had it been searched thoroughly? Where was it now? Maybe destroyed, maybe owned by someone else. She made a note to try to find the vehicle. Also, to check deeds registries to see if Pell owned any property.

Mountaintop…Could that have been what he'd been looking for online in Capitola on the Visual-Earth website? Dozen of sizable peaks were within an hour's drive of the Peninsula.

There were still questions, but Dance was pleased at their progress. Finally, she felt she had some insights into the mind of Daniel Pell. She was about to ask more questions when her phone rang.

"Excuse me."

She answered it.

"Kathryn. It's me."

She pressed the phone closer to her head. "TJ, what's up?"

And steeled herself. The fact that he hadn't called her "boss" meant he was about to deliver bad news.

Chapter 29

Kathryn Dance and Winston Kellogg walked along a road covered with a thin coat of damp sand toward TJ and Michael O'Neil, who stood at the open trunk of a late-model Lexus.

Another man was there too, one of the officers from the Coroner's Division, which in Monterey County is part of the MCSO. The balding, round deputy greeted her. "Kathryn."

Dance introduced him to Kellogg, then peered into the trunk. The victim, a woman, lay on her side. Her legs were bent and her hands and mouth were duct-taped. Her nose and face were bright red. Blood vessels had broken.

O'Neil said, "Susan Pemberton. Lived in Monterey. Single, thirty nine."

"Probable COD is suffocation?"

The coroner officer added, "We've got capillary dilation and membrane inflammation and distension. That residue there? I'm sure it's capsicum oleoresin."

"He hit her with pepper spray and then duct-taped her."

The coroner officer nodded.

"Terrible," O'Neil muttered.

Dying alone, in pain, an ignominious trunk her coffin. A burst of raw anger at Daniel Pell swept through Dance.

It turned out, O'Neil explained, that Susan's was the disappearance he'd been looking into.

"We're sure it's Pell?"

"It's him," the Coroner's Division officer said. "Prints match."

O'Neil added, "I've ordered field prints tests done for every homicide in the area."

"Any idea of the motive?"

"Maybe. She worked for an event-planning company. He apparently used her to get in and tell him where all the files were. He stole everything. Crime scene's been through the office. Nothing conclusive so far, except his prints."

"Any clue why?" Kellogg asked.

"Nope."

"How'd he find her?"

"Her boss said she left the office about five last night to meet a prospective client for drinks."

"Pell, you think?"

O'Neil shrugged. "No idea. Her boss didn't know who. Maybe Pell saw them and followed."

"Next of kin?"

"Nobody here, doesn't look like," the Coroner's Division officer said. "Her parents're in Denver. I'll make that call when I get back to the office."

"TOD?"

"Last night, maybe seven to nine. I'll know more after the autopsy."

Pell had left little evidence behind, except a few faint footsteps in the sand that seemed to lead toward the beach then were lost in the pale grass littering the dunes. No other prints or tread marks were visible.

What was in the files he'd stolen? What didn't he want them to know?

Kellogg was walking around the area, getting a feel for the crime scene, maybe considering it in light of his specialty, cult mentality.

Dance told O'Neil about Rebecca's idea that Pell was after a big score, presumably so that he could buy an enclave somewhere.

"'Mountaintop' was what Linda said. And the big score might've been the Croyton break-in." She added her idea that maybe Pell had hidden something of Croyton's in the getaway car.

"I think it was why he was searching Visual-Earth. To check the place out."

"Interesting theory," O'Neil said. He and Dance would often brainstorm when they were working cases together. They'd occasionally come up with some truly bizarre theories about the crimes they were investigating. Sometimes those theories actually turned out to be right.

Dance told TJ to check out the status of the vehicle Pell had been driving on the night of the Croyton murders and if there'd been an inventory of the car's contents. "And see if Pell owns property anywhere in the state."

"Will do, boss."

Dance looked around. "Why'd he abandon the car here? He could've gone east into the woods, and nobody would've found it for days. It's a lot more visible here."

Michael O'Neil pointed at a narrow pier extending into the ocean. "The T-bird's out of commission. He's ditched the stolen Ford Focus by now. Maybe he got away by boat."

"Boat?" Dance asked.

"His footsteps go that way. None head back to the road."

Kellogg was nodding but slowly, and the motion said, I don't think so. "It's a little rough, don't you think, to dock a boat there?"

"Not for somebody who knows what they're doing."

"Could you?"

"Me? Sure. Depending on the wind."

A pause as Winston Kellogg looked over the scene. Rain started coming down steadily. He didn't seem to notice. "My thinking is that he started that way for some reason, maybe to lead us off. But then he turned and headed back over the dunes to the road, met his accomplice somewhere along here."

Phrases like "my thinking" and "I'm of the opinion that" are what Dance called verbal anesthetic. Their purpose is to take the sting out of a speaker's critical or contrary statement. The new kid on the block was reluctant to disagree with O'Neil but evidently felt that he was wrong about the boat.

"Why do you think that?" Dance asked.

"That old windmill."

At the turnoff where the beach road left the main highway was an abandoned gas station, under a decorative two-story windmill.

"How long's it been there?"

"Forty, fifty years, I'd guess. The pumps only have two windows for the price-like no one ever believed gas would ever cost more than ninety-nine cents."

Kellogg continued, "Pell knows the area. His accomplice's probably from out of town. He picked this place because it's deserted but also because there's a landmark you can't miss. 'Turn right at the windmill.'"

O'Neil wasn't swayed. "Could be. Of course, if that was the only reason, you'd wonder why he didn't pick someplace closer to town. Be easier to direct his accomplice to a place like that, and there are plenty of deserted areas that'd work. And think about it, the Lexus was stolen and had a body in the trunk. He'd definitely want to dump it as soon as possible."

"Maybe, makes sense," Kellogg conceded. He looked around, squinting in the mist. "But I'm leaning toward something else. I think he was drawn here not because of the pier but because it's deserted and it's a beach. He's not a ritualistic killer but most cult leaders have a mystical bent, and water often figures in that. Something happened here, almost ceremonial, I'd say. It might've involved that woman with him. Maybe sex after the kill. Or maybe something else."

"What?"

"I can't say. My guess is she met him here. For whatever he had in mind."

"But," O'Neil pointed out, "there's no evidence of another car, no evidence that he turned around and walked back to the road. You'd think there'd be some prints."

Kellogg said, "He could've covered his tracks." Pointing to a portion of the sand-covered road. "Those marks don't look natural. He could've swept over them with brush or leaves. Maybe even a broom. I'd excavate that whole area."

O'Neil went on, "I'm thinking it can't hurt to check on stolen vessels. And I'd rather crime scene ran the pier now."

The tennis volley continued, the FBI agent offering, "With this wind and rain…I really think the road should be first."

"You know, Win, I think we'll go with the pier."

Kellogg tipped his head, meaning: It's your crime scene team; I'm backing down. "Fine with me. I'll search it myself if you don't mind."

"Sure. Go right ahead."

Without a look at Dance-he had no desire to test loyalties-the FBI agent returned to the area with the dubious markings.

Dance turned and walked along a clean zone back to her car, glad to leave the crime scene behind. Forensic evidence wasn't her expertise.

Neither were strong-willed rams butting horns.

The visage of grief.

Kathryn Dance knew it well. From her days as a journalist, interviewing survivors of crimes and accidents. And from her days as a jury consultant, watching the faces of the witnesses and victims recounting injustices and personal injury mishaps.

From her own life too. As a cop.

And as a widow: looking in the mirror, staring eye-to-eye with a very different Kathryn Dance, the lipstick hovering before easing away from the mask of a face.

Why bother, why bother?

Now, she was seeing the same look as she sat in Susan Pemberton's office, across from the dead woman's boss, Eve Brock.

"It's not real to me."

No, it never is.

The crying was over but only temporarily, Dance sensed. The stocky middle-aged woman held herself in tight rein. Sitting forward, legs tucked under the chair, shoulders rigid, jaw set. The kinesics of grief matched the face.

"I don't understand the computer and the files. Why?"

"I assume there was something he wanted to keep secret. Maybe he was at an event years ago and he didn't want anybody to know about it." Dance's first question to the woman had been: Was the company in business before Pell went to prison? Yes, it was.

The crying began again. "One thing I want to know. Did he…?"

Dance recognized a certain tone and answered the incomplete question: "There was no sexual assault." She asked the woman about the client Susan was going to meet, but she knew no details.

"Would you excuse me for a moment?" Eve Brock was about to surrender to her tears.

"Of course."

Eve headed for the ladies' room.

Dance looked at Susan Pemberton's walls, filled with photos of past events: weddings; bar and bat mitzvahs; anniversary parties; outings for local corporations, banks and fraternal groups; political fund-raisers and high school and college events. The company also worked with funeral homes to cater receptions after an interment.

She saw, to her surprise, the name of the mortician who had handled her husband's funeral.

Eve Brock returned, her face red, eyes puffy. "I'm sorry."

"Not a problem at all. So she met that client after work?"

"Yes."

"Would they go for drinks or coffee somewhere?"

"Probably."

"Nearby?"

"Usually. Alvarado." The main street in downtown Monterey. "Or maybe Del Monte Center, Fisherman's Wharf."

"Any favorite watering hole?"

"No. Wherever the client wanted to go."

"Excuse me." Dance found her phone and called Rey Carraneo.

"Agent Dance," he said.

"Where are you?"

"Near Marina. Still checking on stolen boats for Detective O'Neil. Nothing yet. And no luck on the motels, either."

"Okay. Keep at it." She disconnected and called TJ. "Where are you?"

"The emphasis tells me I'm the second choice."

"But the answer is?"

"Near downtown. Monterey."

"Good." She gave him the address of Eve Brock's company and told him to meet her on the street in ten minutes. She'd give him a picture of Susan Pemberton and have him canvass all the bars and restaurants within walking distance, as well as the shopping center and Fisherman's Wharf. Cannery Row too.

"You love me best, boss. Bars and restaurants. My kind of assignment."

She also asked him to check with the phone company and find out about incoming calls to Susan's phones. She didn't think the client was Pell; he was ballsy, but he wouldn't come to downtown Monterey in broad daylight. But the prospective client might have valuable information about, say, where Susan was going after their meeting.

Dance got the numbers from Eve and recited them to TJ.

After they disconnected, she asked, "What would be in the files that were stolen?"

"Oh, everything about our business. Clients, hotels, suppliers, churches, bakeries, caterers, restaurants, liquor stores, florists, photographers, corporate PR departments who'd hired us…just everything…" The recitation seemed to exhaust her.

What had worried Pell so much he had to destroy the files?

"Did you ever work for William Croyton, his family or his company?"

"For…oh, the man he killed…No, we never did."

"Maybe a subsidiary of his company, or one of his suppliers?"

"I suppose we could have. We do a lot of corporate functions."

"Do you have backups of the material?"

"Some are in the archives…tax records, cancelled checks. Things like that. Probably copies of the invoices. But a lot of things I don't bother with. It never occurred to me that somebody would steal them. The copies would be at my accountant's. He's in San Jose."

"Could you get as many of them as possible?"

"There's so much…" Her mind was stalled.

"Limit it to eight years ago, up to May of 'ninety-nine."

It was then that Dance's mind did another of its clicks. Could Pell be interested in something that the woman was planning in the future?

"All your upcoming jobs too."

"I'll do what I can, sure."

The woman seemed crushed by the tragedy, paralyzed.

Thinking of Morton Nagle's book The Sleeping Doll, Dance realized that she was looking at yet one more victim of Daniel Pell.

I see violent crime like dropping a stone into a pond. The ripples of consequence can spread almost forever…

Dance got a picture of Susan to give to TJ and walked downstairs to the street to meet him. Her phone rang.

O'Neil's mobile on caller ID.

"Hi," she said, glad to see the number.

"I have to tell you something."

"Go ahead."

He spoke softly and Dance took the news without a single affect display, no revealed emotion.

"I'll be there as soon as I can."

"It's a blessing, really," Juan Millar's mother told Dance through her tears.

She was standing next to a grim-faced Michael O'Neil in the corridor of Monterey Bay Hospital, watching the woman do her best to reassure them and deflect their own words of sympathy.

Winston Kellogg arrived and walked up to the family, offered condolences, then shook O'Neil's hand, fingers on the detective's biceps, a gesture conveying sincerity among businessmen, politicians and mourners. "I'm so sorry."

They were outside the burn unit of the ICU. Through the window they could see the complicated bed and its surrounding spacecraft accoutrements: wires, valves, gauges, instrumentation. In the center was a still mound, covered by a green sheet.

The same color sheet had covered her husband's corpse. Dance recalled seeing it and thinking, frantically, But where did the life go, where did it go?

At that moment she'd come to loathe this particular shade of green.

Dance stared at the body, hearing in her memory Edie Dance's whispered words.

He said, "Kill me." He said it twice. Then he closed his eyes…

Millar's father was inside the room itself, asking the doctor questions whose answers he probably wasn't digesting. Still, the role of parent who'd survived his son required this-and would require much more in the days ahead.

The mother chatted away and told them again that the death was for the best, there was no doubt, the years of treatment, the years of grafts…

"For the best, absolutely," she said, inadvertently offering Charles Overby's favorite adverbial crutch.

Edie Dance, working an unplanned late shift, now came down the hall, looking distraught but determined, a visage that her daughter recognized clearly. Sometimes feigned, sometimes genuine, the expression had served her well in the past. Today it would, of course, be a reflection of her true heart.

Edie moved straight to Millar's mother. She took the woman by the arm and, recognizing approaching hysteria, bestowed words on her-a few questions about her own state of mind, but mostly about her husband's and other children's, all aimed at diverting the woman's focus from this impossible tragedy. Edie Dance was a genius in the art of compassion. It was why she was such a popular nurse.

Rosa Millar began to calm and then cried, and Dance could see the staggering horror melting into manageable grief. Her husband joined them, and Edie handed his wife over to him like a trapeze artist transferring one acrobat to another in midair.

"Mrs. Millar," Dance said, "I'd just like to-"

Then found herself flying sideways, barking a scream, hands not dropping to her weapon but rising to keep her head from slamming into one of the carts parked here. Her first thought: How had Daniel Pell gotten into the hospital?

"No!" O'Neil shouted. Or Kellogg. Probably both. Dance caught herself as she went down on one knee, knocking coils of yellow tubing and plastic cups to the floor.

The doctor too leapt forward, but it was Winston Kellogg who got the enraged Julio Millar in a restraint hold, arm bent backward, and held him down easily by a twisted wrist. The maneuver was fast and effortless.

"No, son!" the father shouted, and the mother cried harder.

O'Neil helped Dance up. No injuries other than what would be bruises come morning, she guessed.

Julio tried to break away but Kellogg, apparently much stronger than he appeared, tugged the arm up slightly. "Take it easy, don't hurt yourself. Just take it easy."

"Bitch, you fucking bitch! You killed him! You killed my brother!"

O'Neil said, "Julio, listen. Your parents are upset enough. Don't make it worse."

"Worse? How could it be worse?" He tried to kick out.

Kellogg simply sidestepped him and lifted the wrist higher. The young man grimaced and groaned. "Relax. It won't hurt if you relax." The FBI agent looked at the parents, their hopeless eyes. "I'm sorry."

"Julio," his father said, "you hurt her. She's a policewoman. They'll put you in jail."

"They should put her in jail! She's the killer."

Millar senior shouted, "No, stop it! Your mother, think about your mother. Stop it!"

Smoothly, O'Neil had his cuffs out. He was hesitating. He glanced at Kellogg. The men were debating. Julio seemed to be relaxing.

"Okay, okay, get off me."

O'Neil said, "We'll have to cuff you if you can't control yourself. Understand?"

"Yeah, yeah, I understand."

Kellogg let go and helped him up.

Everyone's eyes were on Dance. But she wasn't going to take the matter to the magistrate. "It's all right. There's no problem."

Julio stared into Dance's eyes. "Oh, there's a problem. There's a big problem."

He stormed off.

"I'm sorry," Rosa Millar said through her tears.

Dance reassured her. "Does he live at home?"

"No, an apartment nearby."

"Have him stay with you tonight. Tell him you need his help. For the funeral, to take care of Juan's affairs, whatever you can think of. He's in as much pain as everybody. He just doesn't know what to do with it."

The mother had moved to the gurney where her son lay. She muttered something. Edie Dance walked up to her again and whispered into her ear, touching her arm. An intimate gesture between women who'd been complete strangers until a couple of days ago.

After a moment Edie returned to her daughter. "You want the kids to spend the night?"

"Thanks. It's probably best."

Dance said good-bye to the Millars and added, "Is there anything we can do? Anything at all?"

The father answered in a voice that seemed perplexed by the question. "No, no." Then he added softly, "What else is there to be done?"

Chapter 30

The town of Vallejo Springs in Napa, California, has several claims to fame.

It's the site of a museum featuring many works of Eduard Muybridge, the nineteenth-century photographer credited with inventing moving pictures (and-a lot more interesting than his art-he was a man who murdered his wife's lover, admitted it in court and got off scot-free).

Another draw is the local vineyards, which produce a particularly fine strain of the Merlot grape-one of the three most famous used to make red wine. Contrary to a bad rap generated by a movie of a few years ago, Merlot isn't your Yugo of grapes. Just look at Pétrus, a wine from the Pomerol section of Bordeaux, made almost entirely from Merlot and perhaps the most consistently expensive wine in the world.

Morton Nagle was now crossing the town limits because of Vallejo Springs's third attraction, albeit one that was known to very few people.

Theresa Croyton, the Sleeping Doll, and her aunt and uncle lived here.

Nagle had done his homework. A month of tracking down twisty leads had turned up a reporter in Sonoma, who'd given him the name of a lawyer, who'd done some legal work for the girl's aunt. He'd been reluctant to give Nagle any information but did offer the opinion that the woman was over-bearing and obnoxious-and cheap. She'd dunned him on a bill. Once he was convinced that Nagle was a legitimate writer he gave up the town the family lived in and their new name on a guarantee of anonymity. ("Confidential source" is really just a synonym for spineless.)

Nagle had been to Vallejo Springs several times, meeting with the Sleeping Doll's aunt in an attempt to get an interview with the girl (the uncle didn't figure much in the equation, Nagle had learned). She was reluctant, but he believed that she would eventually agree.

Now, back in this picturesque town, he parked near the spacious house, waiting for the opportunity to talk to the woman alone. He could call, of course. But Nagle felt that phone calls-like email-were a very ineffective way of communicating. On a telephone people you're speaking to are your equals. You have much less control and power of persuasion than if you see them in person.

They can also just hang up.

He had to be careful. He'd noticed the police cruising past the house of the Bollings, the surname the family had adopted, at frequent intervals. This in itself meant nothing-Vallejo Springs was a rich town and had a large, well-endowed constabulary-but Nagle noticed that the squad cars seemed to slow when they drove by.

He noticed too that there were far more police cars out and about now than last week. Which suggested to him what he already suspected: that Theresa was a town sweetheart. The cops would be on high alert to make sure nothing happened to her. If Nagle overstepped, they'd escort him to the town line and dump him in the dust, like an unwelcome gunslinger in some bad western.

He sat back, eyes on the front door, and thought about opening lines for his book.

Carmel-by-the-Sea is a village of contradictions, a mecca for tourists, the jewel in the crown of the Central Coast, yet beneath the pristine and the cute you'll find the secretive world of the rich and ruthless from San Francisco, Silicon Valley and Hollywood…

Hm. Work on that.

Nagle chuckled.

And then he saw the SUV, a white Escalade, pulling out of the Bollings' driveway. The girl's aunt, Mary, was behind the wheel, alone in the car. Good. He'd never get close if Theresa was with her.

Nagle started his car, a Buick worth the price of the SUV's transmission alone, and followed. Theresa's aunt made a stop at a gas station, filled the tank with premium. She chatted with a woman at a nearby pump, driving a red Jaguar S-type. The aunt seemed harried. Her gray hair wasn't brushed and she looked tired. Even from the edge of the parking lot, Nagle could make out dark circles under her eyes.

Pulling out of Shell, she drove through the quaint, unmistakably Californian downtown: a street adorned with plants and flowers and quirky sculptures and lined with coffee shops, understated restaurants, a garden center, an independent bookstore, a yoga place and small retail operations selling wine, crystals, pet supplies and L.L. Bean-style clothing.

A few hundred yards along the road was the strip mall where the locals shopped, anchored by an Albertsons grocery and a Rite Aid drugstore. Mary Bolling parked in the lot and walked inside the grocery store. Nagle parked near her SUV. He stretched, longing for a cigarette, though he hadn't smoked in twenty years.

He continued the endless debate with himself.

So far he hadn't transgressed. Hadn't broken any rules.

He could still head home, no moral harm done.

But should he?

He wasn't sure.

Morton Nagle believed he had a purpose in life, which was to expose evil. It was an important mission, one he felt passionate about. A noble mission.

But the goal was to reveal evil, and let people make their own judgments. Not to fight it himself. Because once you crossed the line and your purpose became seeking justice, not illuminating it, there were risks. Unlike the police, he didn't have the Constitution telling him what he could and couldn't do, which meant there was a potential for abuse.

By asking Theresa Croyton to help find a killer, he was exposing her and her family-himself and his too-to very real dangers. Daniel Pell obviously had no problem killing youngsters.

It was so much better to write about human beings and their conflicts than to make judgments about those conflicts. Let the readers decide what was good or bad, and act accordingly. On the other hand, was it right for him to sit back and let Pell continue his slaughter, when he could do more?

The time for his slippery debate ended, though. Mary Bolling was walking out of Albertsons, wheeling a cart filled with groceries.

Yes or no?

Morton Nagle hesitated only a few seconds, then pulled open the door, stepped out and hitched up his pants. He strode forward.

"Excuse me. Hi, Mrs. Bolling. It's me."

She paused, blinked and stared at him. "What are you doing here?"

"I-"

"I haven't agreed to let you talk to Theresa."

"I know, I know…That's not-"

"How dare you show up here like this? You're stalking us!"

Her cell phone was in her hand.

"Please," Nagle said, feeling a sudden desperation to sway her. "This is something different. I'm here doing a favor for someone. We can talk about the book later."

"A favor?"

"I drove up from Monterey to ask you something. I wanted to see you in person."

"What are you talking about?"

"You know about Daniel Pell."

"Of course I know." She said this as if he were the village idiot.

"There's a policewoman who'd like to talk to your niece. She thinks maybe Theresa can help her find Pell."

"What?"

"Don't worry. There's no risk. She-"

"No risk? Are you mad? You could've led him here!"

"No. He's somewhere in Monterey."

"Did you tell them where we are?"

"No, no! This policewoman'll meet her wherever you like. Here. Anywhere. She just wants to ask Theresa-"

"No one is going to talk to her. No one is going to see her." The woman leaned forward. "There will be very serious consequences if you don't leave immediately."

"Mrs. Bolling, Daniel Pell has killed-"

"I watch the fucking news. Tell that policewoman, whoever she is, that there's not a single thing Theresa can tell her. And you can forget about ever talking to her for your goddamn book."

"No, wait, please-"

Mary Bolling turned and ran back to the Escalade, as her abandoned shopping cart ambled in the opposite direction down the shallow incline. By the time a breathless Nagle had grabbed the cart just before it slammed into a Mini Cooper, the aunt's SUV was spinning tires as it vanished from the lot.

Not long ago a CBI agent, now former, had once called this the "Gals' Wing."

He was referring to that portion of the Monterey headquarters that happened to be the home of two female investigative agents-Dance and Connie Ramirez-as well as Maryellen Kresbach and the no-nonsense office manager, Grace Yuan.

The unfortunate utterer was a fiftyish agent, one of those fixtures in offices all over the world who wake up counting the days to retirement, and who've done so since their twenties. He'd had his share of collars at the Highway Patrol some years back, but his move to the CBI had been a mistake. He wasn't up to the challenges of the job.

He also apparently lacked any sense of survival.

"And this is the Gals' Wing," he'd said, loud enough for everyone to hear, during a lunch-hour tour of HQ with a young woman he was wooing.

Dance and Connie Ramirez made eye contact.

That night they went on a panty-hose-buying mission and when the poor agent came to work the next day he found his entire office spiderwebbed in mesh, fishnet and glittery synthetic leg wear. Some personal hygiene products also figured in the decor. He ran whining to then-CBI head Stan Fishburne, who, bless him, could hardly keep a straight face during the inquisition. "What do you mean you only said, 'Gals' Wing,' Bart? You actually said that?"

He threatened a complaint to Sacramento, but he didn't last long enough in the CBI to see the matter through. Ironically, after the offender's departure, the population of that portion of the office adopted the moniker instantly and the hallway was now known to everyone in the CBI as "GW."

Whose undecorated hallway Kathryn Dance was walking down at the moment.

"Maryellen, hi."

"Oh, Kathryn, I'm sorry to hear about Juan. We're all going to make a donation. You know where his parents would like it to go?"

"Michael'll let us know."

"Your mother called. She's going to stop by with the kids later, if that's okay."

Dance made sure to see her children whenever she could, even during business hours, if a case was taking up a lot of time and she'd be working late. "Good. How's the Davey situation?"

"It's taken care of," said the woman firmly. The person in question was Maryellen's son, Wes's age, who'd been having trouble in school because of some issues with what amounted to a preteen gang. Maryellen now relayed the news of the resolution with a look of happy malice, which told Dance that extreme measures had been used to get the offenders transferred or otherwise neutralized.

Dance believed that Maryellen Kresbach would make a great cop.

In her office she dropped her jacket onto a chair, hitched the awkward Glock to the side and sat. She looked through her email. Only one was relevant to the Pell case. His brother, Richard Pell, was replying from London.

Officer Dance:

I received your forwarded email from the U.S. embassy here. Yes, I heard of the escape, it has made the news here. I have not had any contact with my brother for 12 years, when he came to visit my wife and me in Bakersfield at the same time my wife's twenty-three-year-old sister was visiting us from New York. One Saturday we got a call from the police that she'd been detained at a jewelry store downtown for shoplifting.

The girl had been an honor's student in college and quite involved in her church. She'd never been in any trouble in her life before that.

It seemed that she'd been "hanging out" with my brother and he'd talked her into stealing a "few things." I searched his room and found close to $10,000 worth of merchandise. My sister-in-law was given probation and my wife nearly left me as a result.

I never had anything to do with him again. After the murders in

Carmel in '99, I decided to move my family to Europe.

If I hear from him, I will certainly let you know, though that is unlikely. The best way to describe my relationship now is this: I've contacted the London Metropolitan Police and they have an officer guarding my house.

So much for that lead.

Her mobile rang. The caller was Morton Nagle. In an alarmed voice he asked, "He killed someone else? I just saw the news."

"I'm afraid so." She gave him the details. "And Juan Millar died, the officer who was burned."

"I'm so sorry. Are there other developments?"

"Not really." Dance told him that she'd spoken with Rebecca and Linda. They'd shared some information that might prove to be helpful, but nothing was leading directly to Pell's doorstep. Nagle had come across nothing in his research about a "big score" or a mountaintop.

He had news of his own efforts, though they weren't successful. He'd talked to Theresa Croyton's aunt, but she was refusing to let him, or the police, see the girl.

"She threatened me." His voice was troubled and Dance was sure that there would be no sparkle in his eyes at the moment.

"Where are you?"

He didn't say anything.

Dance filled in, "You're not going to tell me, are you?"

"I'm afraid I can't."

She glanced at the caller ID, but he was on his mobile, not a hotel or pay phone.

"Is she going to change her mind?"

"I really doubt it. You should've seen her. She abandoned a hundred dollars' worth of groceries and just ran."

Dance was disappointed. Daniel Pell was a mystery and she was now obsessed with learning everything she could about him. Last year when she'd assisted on that case in New York with Lincoln Rhyme, she'd noted the criminalist's obsessive fascination with every detail of the physical evidence; she was exactly the same-though with the human side of crime.

But there're compulsions like double-checking every detail of a subject's story, and there are compulsions like avoiding sidewalk cracks when you're walking home. You have to know which are vital and which aren't.

She decided they'd have to let the Sleeping Doll lead go.

"I appreciate your help."

"I did try. Really."

After hanging up, Dance talked to Rey Carraneo again. Still no luck on the motels and no reports of boats stolen from local marinas.

Just as she hung up, TJ called. He'd heard back from the DMV. The car that Pell had been driving during the Croyton murders hadn't been registered for years, which meant it'd probably been sold for scrap. If he had stolen something valuable from the Croytons' the night of the murders, it was most likely lost or melted into oblivion. TJ had also checked the inventory from when the car was impounded. The list was short and nothing suggested that any of the items had come from the businessman's house.

She gave him the news about Juan Millar too, and the young agent responded with utter silence. A sign that he was truly shaken.

A few moments later her phone rang again. It was Michael O'Neil with his ubiquitous, "Hey. It's me." His voice was laden with exhaustion, sorrow too. Millar's death was weighing on him heavily.

"Whatever'd been on the pier where we found the Pemberton woman was gone-if there was anything. I just talked to Rey. He tells me there're no reports of any stolen craft so far. Maybe I was off base. Your friend find anything the other way-toward the road?"

She noted the loaded term "friend" and replied, "He hasn't called. I assume he didn't stumble across Pell's address book or a hotel key."

"And negative on sources for the duct tape, and the pepper spray's sold in ten thousand stores and mail-order outlets."

She told O'Neil that Nagle's attempt to contact Theresa had failed.

"She won't cooperate?"

"Her aunt won't. And she's first base. I don't know how helpful it'd be anyway."

O'Neil said, "I liked the idea. She's the only nexus to Pell and that night."

"We'll have to try harder without her," Dance said.

"How're you doing?"

"Fine," he answered.

Stoic…

A few minutes after they disconnected, Winston Kellogg arrived and Dance asked him, "Any luck at the Pemberton crime scene, the road?"

"Nope. The scene itself-we searched for an hour. No tread marks, no discarded evidence. Maybe Michael was right. Pell did get away by boat from that pier."

Dance laughed to herself. The chest-bumping males had each just conceded the other might've been right-though she doubted they'd ever admit it to each other.

She updated him on the missing files from Susan Pemberton's office and Nagle's failure to arrange an interview with Theresa Croyton. TJ, she explained, was looking for the client Susan had met with just before Pell had killed her.

Dance glanced at her watch. "Got an important meeting. Want to come?"

"Is it about Pell?"

"Nope. It's about snack time."

Chapter 31

As they walked down the halls of CBI, Dance asked Kellogg where he lived.

"The District-that's Washington, D.C., to you all. Or that little place known as 'Inside the Beltway,' if you watch the pundits on Sunday-morning talk TV. Grew up in the Northwest-Seattle-but didn't really mind the move east. I'm not a rainy-day kind of guy."

The talk meandered to personal lives and he volunteered that he and his ex had no children, though he himself had come from a big family. His parents were still alive and lived on the East Coast.

"I've got four brothers. I was the youngest. I think my parents ran out of names and started on consumer products. So, I'm Winston, like cigarettes. Which is a really bad idea when your last name is cornflakes. If my parents had been any more sadistic my middle name'd be Oldsmobile."

Dance laughed. "I'm convinced I didn't get invited to the junior prom because nobody wanted to take a Dance to the dance."

Kellogg received a degree in psych from the University of Washington, then went into the army.

"CID?" She was thinking about her late husband's stint in the army, where he'd been a Criminal Investigations Division officer.

"No. Tactical planning. Which meant paper, paper, paper. Well, computer, computer, computer. I was fidgety. I wanted to get into the field so I left and joined the Seattle Police Department. Made detective and did profiling and negotiations. But I found the cult mentality interesting. So I thought I'd specialize in that. I know it sounds lame but I just didn't like the idea of bullies preying on vulnerable people."

She didn't think it was lame at all.

Down more corridors.

"How'd you get into this line?" he asked.

Dance gave him a brief version of the story. She'd been a crime reporter for a few years-she'd met her husband while covering a criminal trial (he gave her an exclusive interview in exchange for a date). After she grew tired of reporting, she went back to school and got degrees in psychology and communications, improving her natural gift of observation and an ability to intuit what people were thinking and feeling. She became a jury consultant. But nagging dissatisfaction with that job and a sense that her talents would be more worthwhile in law enforcement had led her to the CBI.

"And your husband was like me, a feebie?"

"Been doing your homework?" Her late husband, William Swenson, had been a dependable career special agent for the FBI, but he was just like tens of thousands of others. There was no reason for a specialist like Kellogg to have heard of him, unless he'd gone to some trouble to check.

A bashful grin. "I like to know where I'm going on assignments. And who I'm going to meet when I get there. Hope you're not offended."

"Not at all. When I interview a subject I like to know everything about his terrarium." Not sharing with Kellogg that she'd had TJ scope out the agent through his friend in the Chico resident agency.

A moment passed and he asked, "Can I ask what happened to your husband? Line of duty?"

The thud in her belly generated by that question had become less pronounced over the years. "It was a traffic accident."

"I'm sorry."

"Thank you… Now, welcome to Chez CBI." Dance waved him into the lunchroom.

They poured coffee and sat at one of the cheap tables.

Her cell chirped. It was TJ.

"Bad news. My bar-hopping days are over. Just as I got started. I found out where the Pemberton woman was before she was killed."

"And?"

"With some Latino guy in the bar at the Doubletree. A business meeting, some event he wanted her to handle, the waiter thinks. They left about six thirty."

"You get a credit-card receipt?"

"Yep, but she paid. Business expense. Hey, boss, I think we should start doing that."

"Anything else about him?"

"Zip. Her picture'll be on the news so he might see it and come forward."

"Susan's phone logs?"

"About forty calls yesterday. I'll check them out when I'm back in the office. Oh, and statewide real estate tax records? Nope, Pell don't own no mountaintops or anything else. I checked Utah too. Nothing there either."

"Good. I forgot about that."

"Or Oregon, Nevada, Arizona. I wasn't being diligent. I was just trying to prolong my bar time as much as I could."

After they hung up she relayed the information to Kellogg, who grimaced. "A witness, hm? Who'll see her picture on the tube and decide this is a real nice time to take that vacation to Alaska."

"And I can hardly blame him."

Then the FBI agent smiled as he looked over Dance's shoulder. She glanced back. Her mother and children were walking into the lunchroom.

"Hi, honey," she said to Maggie, then hugged her son. There'd be a day, pretty soon, when public hugs would be verboten and she was storing up for the drought. He tolerated the gesture well enough today.

Edie Dance and her daughter cast glances each other's way, acknowledging Millar's death but not specifically referring to the tragedy. Edie and Kellogg greeted each other, and exchanged a similar look.

"Mom, Carly moved Mr. Bledsoe's wastebasket!" Maggie told her breathlessly. "And every time he threw something out it went on the floor."

"Did you keep from giggling?"

"For a while. But then Brendon did and we couldn't stop."

"Say hello to Agent Kellogg."

Maggie did. But Wes only nodded. His eyes shifted away. Dance saw the aversion immediately.

"You guys want hot chocolate?" she asked.

"Yay!" Maggie cried. Wes said he would too.

Dance patted her jacket pockets. Coffee was gratis but anything fancier took cash, and she'd left all of hers in her purse in her office; Edie had no change.

"I'll treat," Kellogg said, digging into his pocket.

Wes said quickly, "Mom, I want coffee instead."

The boy had sipped coffee once or twice in his life and hated it.

Maggie said, "I want coffee too."

"No coffee. It's hot chocolate or soda." Dance supposed that Wes didn't want something that the FBI agent paid for. What was going on here? Then she remembered how his eyes had scanned Kellogg on the Deck the other night. She thought he'd been looking for his weapon; now she understood he'd been sizing up the man Mom had brought to his grandfather's party. Was Winston Kellogg the new Brian, in his eyes?

"Okay," her daughter said, "chocolate."

Wes muttered, "That's okay. I don't want anything."

"Come on, I'll loan it to your mom," Kellogg said, dispensing the coins.

The children took them, Wes reluctantly and only after his sister did.

"Thanks," Wes said.

"Thank you very much," Maggie offered.

Edie poured coffee. They sat at the unsteady table. Kellogg thanked Dance's mother again for the dinner the previous night and asked about Stuart. Then he turned to the children and wondered aloud if they liked to fish.

Maggie said sort of. She didn't.

Wes loved to but responded, "Not really. You know, it's boring."

Dance knew the agent had no motive but breaking the ice, his question probably inspired by his conversation with her father at the party about fishing in Monterey Bay. She noted some stress reactions-he was trying too hard to make a good impression, she guessed.

Wes fell silent and sipped his chocolate while Maggie inundated the adults with the morning's events at music camp, including a rerun, in detail, of the trash can caper.

The agent found herself irritated that the problem with Wes had reared its head yet again…and for no good reason. She wasn't even dating Kellogg.

But Dance knew the tricks of parenting and in a few minutes had Wes talking enthusiastically about his tennis match that morning. Kellogg's posture changed once or twice and the body language told Dance that he too was a tennis player and wanted to contribute. But he'd caught on that Wes was ambivalent about him and he smiled as he listened, but didn't add anything.

Finally Dance told them she needed to get back to work, she'd walk them out. Kellogg told her he was going to check in with the San Francisco field office.

"Good seeing you all." He waved.

Edie and Maggie said good-bye to him. After a moment Wes did too-only so he wouldn't be outdone by his sister, Dance sensed.

The agent wandered off up the hallway toward his temporary office.

"Are you coming to Grandma's for dinner?" Maggie asked.

"I'm going to try, Mags." Never promise if there's a chance you can't deliver.

"But if she can't," Edie said, "what're you in the mood for?"

"Pizza," Maggie said fast. "With garlic bread. And mint chocolate chip for dessert."

"And I want a pair of Ferragamos," Dance said.

"What're those?"

"Shoes. But what we want and what we get are sometimes two different things."

Her mother put another offer on the table. "How's a big salad? With blackened shrimp?"

"Sure."

Wes said, "That'll be great." The children were infinitely polite with their grandparents.

"But I think garlic bread can be arranged," Edie added, which finally pried a smile from him.

Outside the CBI office, one of the administrative clerks was on his way to deliver documents to the Monterey County Sheriff's Office in Salinas.

He noticed a dark car pulling into the lot. The driver, a young woman wearing sunglasses despite the fog, scanned the parking lot. She's uneasy about something, the clerk thought. But, of course, you got that a lot here: people who'd come in voluntarily as suspects or reluctant complaining witnesses. The woman looked at herself in the mirror, pulled on a cap and climbed out. She didn't go to the front door. Instead she approached him.

"Excuse me?"

"Yes, ma'am?"

"This is the California Bureau of Investigation?"

If she'd looked at the building she would've seen the large sign that repeated four of the words in her question. But, being a good public servant, he said, "That's right. Can I help you?"

"Is this the office where Agent Dance works?"

"Kathryn Dance. Yes."

"Is she in now?"

"I don't-" The clerk looked across the lot and barked a laugh. "Well, guess what, miss? That's her, right over there, the younger woman."

He saw Dance with her mother and the two kids, whom the clerk had met on a couple of occasions.

"Okay. Thank you, Officer."

The clerk didn't correct her. He liked being misidentified as a real law enforcer. He got into his car and pulled out of the driveway. He happened to glance in the rearview mirror and saw the woman standing just where he'd left her. She seemed troubled.

He could've told her she didn't need to be. Kathryn Dance, in his opinion, was one of the nicest people in the whole of the CBI.

Dance closed the door of her mother's Prius hybrid. It hummed out of the lot and the agent waved good-bye.

She watched the silver car negotiate the winding road toward Highway 68. She was troubled. She kept imagining Juan Millar's voice in her head.

Kill me…

The poor man.

Although his brother's lashing out had nothing to do with it, Kathryn Dance did feel guilty that she'd picked him to go check on what was happening in the lockup. He was the most logical one, but she wondered if, being younger, he'd been more careless than a more experienced officer might've been. It was impossible to think that Michael O'Neil, or big Albert Stemple, or Dance herself would have let Pell get the upper hand.

Turning back toward the building, she was thinking of the first few moments of the fire and the escape. They'd had to move so quickly. But should she have waited, thought out her strategy better?

Second-guessing. It went with the territory of being a cop.

Returning to the building, humming Julieta Venegas's music. The notes were swirling through her thoughts, intoxicating-and taking her away from Juan Millar's terrible wounds and terrible words and Susan Pemberton's death…and her son's eyes, flipping from cheerful to stony the moment the boy had seen Dance with Winston Kellogg.

What to do about that?

Dance continued through the deserted parking lot toward the front door of CBI, glad that the rain had stopped.

She was nearing the stairs when she heard a scrape of footstep on the asphalt and turned quickly to see that a woman had come up behind her, silently until now. She was a mere six or so feet away, walking directly toward her.

Dance stopped fast.

The woman did too. She shifted her weight.

"Agent Dance…I…"

Neither spoke for a moment.

Then Samantha McCoy said, "I've changed my mind. I want to help."

Chapter 32

"I couldn't sleep after you came to see me. And when I heard he'd killed someone else, that woman, I knew I had to come."

Samantha, Dance and Kellogg were in her office. The woman sat upright, gripping the arms of the chair hard, looking from one to the other. Never more than a second's gaze at either. "You're sure it was Daniel who killed her?"

"That's right," Kellogg said.

"Why?"

"We don't know. We're looking into it now. Her name was Susan Pemberton. She worked for Eve Brock. Do the names mean anything to you?"

"No."

"It's an event-planning company. Pell took all their files and presumably destroyed them. There was something in them that he wanted to hide. Or maybe there's an event coming up that he's interested in. Do you have any thoughts about what that might be?"

"I'm sorry, no."

Dance told her, "I want to get you together with Linda and Rebecca as soon as possible."

"They're both here?"

"That's right."

Samantha nodded slowly.

Kellogg said, "I need to follow up on a few things here. I'll join you later."

Dance told Maryellen Kresbach where she'd be and the women left the CBI building. The agent had Samantha park her car in the secure garage under the building, so no one would see it. They then both got into Dance's Ford.

Samantha clicked on her seat belt and then stared straight ahead. Suddenly she blurted, "One thing, my husband, his family…my friends. They still don't know."

"What did you tell him about being away?"

"A publishing conference…And Linda and Rebecca? I'd just as soon they didn't know my new name, about my family."

"That's fine with me. I haven't given them any details they didn't already know. Now, you ready?"

A shaky smile. "No. I'm not the least ready. But, okay, let's go."

When they arrived at the inn Dance checked with the MCSO deputy outside and learned there'd been no unusual activity in or around the cabin.

She gestured Samantha out of the car. The woman hesitated and climbed from the vehicle, squinting, taking in everything around her. She'd be vigilant, of course, under the circumstances, but Dance sensed something else behind this attentiveness.

Samantha gave a faint smile. "The smells, the sound of the ocean…I haven't been back to the Peninsula since the trial. My husband keeps asking me to drive down for the weekend. I've come up with some doozy excuses. Allergies, carsickness, pressing manuscripts to edit." Her smile faded. She glanced at the cabin. "Pretty."

"It's only got two bedrooms. I wasn't expecting you."

"If there's a couch, I can sleep on that. I don't want to bother anybody."

Samantha the unassuming one, the shy one, Dance recalled.

Mouse.

"I hope it'll just be for one night." Kathryn Dance stepped forward and knocked on the door to the past.

The Toyota smelled of cigarette smoke, which Daniel Pell hated.

He himself never smoked, though he'd bartered cigarettes like a floor broker on a stock exchange when he was inside the Q or Capitola. He would've let the kids in the Family smoke-dependency in someone else is exploitable, of course-but he loathed the smell. Reminded him of growing up, his father sitting in his big armchair, reading the Bible, jotting notes for sermons nobody would ever hear and chain-smoking. (His mother nearby, smoking and drinking.) His brother, not smoking or doing much else but hauling young Daniel out from where he was hiding, his closet, the tree house, the basement bathroom. "I'm not doing all the fucking work myself."

Though his brother ended up not doing any of the work; he just handed Daniel a scrub bucket or toilet brush or dishrag and went to hang with his friends. He'd return to the house occasionally to pound on his brother if the house wasn't spic-and-span, or sometimes even if it was.

Cleanliness, son, is next to godliness. There's truth in that. Now, polish the ashtrays. I want them to sparkle.

So he and Jennie were now driving with the windows down, the scent of pine and cold salty air swirling into the car.

Jennie did that rubby-nose thing, like she was trying to massage the bump out, and was quiet. She was content now, not purring but back on track. His distance last night, after she'd balked at helping him "kill" Susan Pemberton on the beach, had worked just fine. They'd returned to the Sea View and she'd done the only thing she could to try to win back his love-and spent two strenuous hours proving it. He'd withheld at first, been sullen, and she tried even harder. She even was starting to enjoy the pain. It reminded him of the time the Family had stopped at Carmel Mission years ago. He'd learned about the monks who'd beat themselves bloody, getting a high in the name of God.

But that reminded Daniel Pell of his chunky father looking at him blankly over the Bible, through a cloud of Camel cigarette smoke, so he pushed the memory away.

Last night, after the sex, he'd grown warmer to her. But later he'd stepped outside and pretended to make a phone call.

Just to keep her on edge.

When he'd returned, she hadn't asked about the call. Pell had returned to the material he'd gotten from Susan Pemberton's office, and went online once more.

This morning, he'd told her he had to go see someone. Let that sit, watched her insecurities roll up-taps on the lumpy nose, a half-dozen "sweetheart"s-and then finally he'd said, "I'd like it if you came along."

"Really?" A thirsty dog lapping up water.

"Yep. But, I don't know. It might be too hard for you."

"No, I want to. Please."

"We'll see."

She'd pulled him back to bed and they'd continued their balance-of-power game. He let himself be tugged temporarily back into her camp.

Now, though, as they drove, he had no interest in her body whatsoever; he was firmly back in control.

"You understand about yesterday, at the beach? I was in a funny mood. I get that way when something precious to me is endangered." This was a bit of an apology-who can resist that?-along with the reminder that it might happen again.

"That's one thing I love about you, sweetie."

Not "sweetheart" now. Good.

When Pell had had the Family, tucked away all cozy in the town of Seaside, he'd used a lot of techniques for controlling the girls and Jimmy. He'd give them common goals, he'd dispense rewards evenly, he'd give them tasks but withhold the reason for doing them, he'd keep them in suspense until they were nearly eaten alive by uncertainty.

And-the best way to cement loyalty and avoid dissension-he'd create a common enemy.

He now said to her, "We have another problem, lovely."

"Oh. That's where we're going now?" Rub-a-dub on the nose. It was a wonderful barometer.

"That's right."

"I told you, honey, I don't care about the money. You don't have to pay me back."

"This doesn't have anything to do with that. It's more important. Much more. I'm not asking you to do what I did last night. I'm not asking you to hurt anybody. But I need some help. And I hope you will."

Carefully playing with the emphasis.

She'd be thinking of the fake phone call last night. Who'd he been talking to? Somebody else he could call on to step in?

"Whatever I can do, sure."

They passed a pretty brunette, late teens, on the sidewalk. Pell noted immediately her posture and visage-the determined walk, the angry, downcast face, the unbrushed hair-which suggested she'd fled after an argument. Perhaps from her parents, perhaps her boyfriend. So wonderfully vulnerable. A day's work, and Daniel Pell could have her on the road with him.

The Pied Piper…

But, of course, now wasn't the time and he left her behind, feeling the frustration of a hunter unable to stop by the roadside and take a perfect buck in a field nearby. Still, he wasn't upset; there'd be plenty of other young people like her in his future.

Besides, feeling the gun and knife in his waistband, Pell knew that in just a short period of time his hunt lust would be satisfied.

Chapter 33

Standing in the open doorway of the cabin at Point Lobos Inn, Rebecca Sheffield said to Dance, "Welcome back. We've been gossiping and spending your money on room service." She nodded toward a bottle of Jordan Cabernet, which only she was drinking.

Rebecca glanced at Samantha and, not recognizing her, said, "Hello." Probably thinking she was another officer involved in the case.

The women walked inside. Dance shut and double-locked the door.

Samantha looked from one woman to the other. It seemed as if she'd lost her voice, and for a moment Dance believed she'd turn and flee.

Rebecca did a double take and blinked. "Wait. Oh my God."

Linda didn't get it, her brows furrowed.

Rebecca said, "Don't you recognize her?"

"What do you-? Wait. It's you, Sam?"

"Hello." The slim woman was racked with uneasiness. She couldn't hold a gaze for more than a few seconds.

"Your face," Linda said. "You're so different. My."

Samantha shrugged, blushing.

"Uh-huh, prettier. And you've got some meat on your bones. Finally. You were a scrawny little thing." Rebecca walked forward and firmly hugged Samantha. Then, hands on her shoulders, she leaned back. "Great job…What'd they do?"

"Implants on my jaw and cheeks. Lips and eyes mostly. Nose, of course. And then…" She glanced at her round chest. A faint smile. "But I'd wanted to do that for years."

Linda, crying, said, "I can't believe it." Another hug.

"What's your new name?"

Not looking at either of them, she said, "I'd rather not say. And listen, both of you. Please. You can't tell anybody about me. If they catch Daniel and you want to talk to reporters, please don't mention me."

"No problem with that."

"Your husband doesn't know?" Linda asked, glancing at Samantha's engagement and wedding rings.

A shake of the head.

"How'd you pull that one off?" Rebecca asked.

Samantha swallowed. "I lie. That's how."

Dance knew that married couples lie to each other with some frequency, though less often than romantic partners who aren't married. But most lies are trivial; very few involve something as fundamental as Samantha's.

"That's gotta be a pain," Rebecca said. "Need a good memory."

"I don't have any choice," Samantha added. Dance recognized the kinesic attributes of defensiveness, body parts folding, stature shrinking, crossings, aversions. She was a volcano of stress.

Rebecca said, "But he has to know you did time?"

"Yes."

"Then how-?"

"I told him it was a white-collar thing. I helped my boss embezzle some stocks because his wife needed an operation."

"He believed that?"

Samantha gave a timid look to Rebecca. "He's a good man. But he'd walk out the door if he knew the truth. That I was in a cult-"

"It wasn't a cult," Linda said quickly.

"Whatever it was, Daniel Pell was involved. That's reason enough to leave me. And I wouldn't blame him."

Rebecca asked, "What about your parents? Do they know anything?"

"My mother's dead, and my father's as involved in my life as he always was. Which is not at all. But I'm sorry, I'd rather not talk about all this."

"Sure, Sam," Rebecca said.

The agent now returned to the specifics of the case. First, she gave them the details of the Pemberton killing, the theft of the company's files.

"Are you sure he did it?" Linda asked.

"Yes. The prints are his."

She closed her eyes and muttered a prayer. Rebecca's face tightened angrily.

Neither of them had ever heard the name Pemberton, nor of the Brock Company. They couldn't recall any events Pell might've gone to that had been catered.

"Wasn't a black-tie kind of life back then," Rebecca said.

Dance now asked Samantha about Pell's accomplice, but, like the others, she had no idea who the woman might be. Nor did she recall any references to Charles Pickering in Redding. Dance told them about the email from Richard Pell and asked if they'd ever had any contact with him.

"Who?" Rebecca asked.

Dance explained.

"An older brother?" Linda interrupted. "No, Scotty was younger. And he died a year before I met Daniel."

"He had a brother?" Rebecca asked. "He said he was an only child."

Dance told them the story about the crimes Pell had committed with his brother's sister-in-law.

Linda shook her head. "No, no. You're wrong. His brother's name was Scott and he was mentally disabled. That's one of the reasons we connected so well. My cousin's got cerebral palsy."

Rebecca said, "And he told me he was an only child, like me." A laugh. "He was lying to get our sympathy. What'd he tell you, Sam?"

She was reluctant to answer. Then she said, "Richard was older. He and Daniel didn't get along at all. Richard was a bully. Their mother was drunk all the time and she never cleaned up, so his father insisted the boys do it. But Richard would force Daniel to do all the work. He beat him up if he didn't."

"He told you the truth?" Linda asked stiffly.

"Well, he just mentioned it."

"The Mouse scores." Rebecca laughed.

Linda said, "He told me he didn't want anybody else in the Family to know about his brother. He only trusted me."

"And I wasn't supposed to mention he was an only child," Rebecca said.

Linda's face was troubled. "We all tell fibs sometimes. I'll bet the incident with the sister-in-law-what his brother told you about-didn't happen at all, or it wasn't so bad, and his brother used it as an excuse to cut things off."

Rebecca was clearly not convinced of this.

Dance supposed that Pell had identified both Linda and Rebecca as more of a threat to him than Samantha. Linda was the mother of the Family and would have some authority. Rebecca was clearly brash and outspoken.

But Samantha…he could control her much better and knew she could be trusted with the truth-well, some truth.

Dance was glad she'd decided to come help them.

She noticed that Samantha was looking at the coffeepot.

"Like some?"

"I'm a little tired. Haven't had much sleep lately."

"Welcome to the club," Rebecca said.

Samantha half rose but Dance waved her down. "Milk, sugar?"

"Oh, don't go to any trouble. Really."

The agent noticed that Linda and Rebecca shared a faint smile at Samantha's habitual timidity.

Mouse…

"Thanks. Milk."

Dance continued, "Linda mentioned Pell might have wanted to move to the country somewhere, a 'mountaintop.' Do you have any idea what he was talking about?"

"Well, Daniel told me a bunch of times he wanted to get out to the country. Move the Family there. It was real important to him to get away from everybody. He didn't like neighbors, didn't like the government. He wanted space for more people. He wanted the Family to grow."

"He did?" Rebecca asked.

Linda said nothing about this.

"Did he ever mention Utah?"

"No."

"Where could he have had in mind?"

"He didn't say. But it sounded like he'd been doing some serious thinking about it."

Recalling that he'd possibly used a boat to escape from the Pemberton crime scene, Dance had an idea. She asked, "Did he ever mention an island?"

Samantha laughed. "An island? No way."

"Why not?"

"He's terrified of the water. He's not getting into anything that floats."

Linda blinked. "I didn't know that."

Rebecca didn't either. A wry smile. "Of course not. He'd only share his fears with his Mouse."

"Daniel said the ocean's somebody else's world. People have no business being there. You shouldn't be in a place that you can't be master of. Same thing with flying. He didn't trust pilots or airplanes."

"We were thinking he escaped from the murder scene by boat."

"Impossible."

"You're sure?"

"Positive."

Dance excused herself for a moment, called Rey Carraneo and had him call off the search for stolen boats. She hung up, reflecting that O'Neil's theory was wrong and Kellogg's was right.

"Now, I'd like to think about his motives for staying here. What about money?" She mentioned Rebecca's comment about a big score-a robbery or break-in, a big heist. "I was thinking he might be here because he hid money or something valuable somewhere. Or has unfinished business. Something to do with the Croyton murders?"

"Money?" Samantha shook her head. "No, I don't really think that's it."

Rebecca said firmly, "I know he said it."

"Oh, no, I'm not saying he didn't," the Mouse added quickly. "Just, he might not have meant 'big' in the sense we'd use. He didn't like to commit crimes that'd be too visible. We broke into houses-"

"Well, hardly any," Linda corrected.

Rebecca sighed. "Well…we pretty much did, Linda. And you folks'd been busy before I joined you."

"It was exaggerated."

Samantha said nothing to support either woman, and seemed uneasy, as if afraid they'd call on her again to be the tiebreaker. She continued, "He said if somebody did anything too illegal, the press would cover the story and then the police got after you in a big way. We stayed away from banks and check-cashing offices. Too much security, too risky." She shrugged. "Anyway, all the stealing-it was never about the money."

"It wasn't?" Dance asked.

"No. We could've made as much doing legitimate jobs. But that's not what turned Daniel on. What he liked was getting people to do things they didn't want to. That was his high."

Linda said, "You make it sound like that's all we did."

"I didn't mean it like that-"

"We weren't a gang of thugs."

Rebecca ignored Linda. "I think he was definitely into making money."

Samantha smiled uncertainly. "Well, I just had this sense it was more about manipulating people. He didn't need a lot of money. He didn't want it."

"He'd have to pay for his mountaintop somehow," Rebecca pointed out.

"That's true, I guess. I could be wrong."

Dance sensed this was an important key to understanding Pell, so she asked them about their criminal activities, hoping it might spark some specific memories.

Samantha said, "He was good, Daniel was. Even knowing what we were doing was wrong, I couldn't help but admire him. He'd know the best places to go for pickpocketing or breaking into houses. How security worked in department stores, what designer labels had security tags and which didn't, what kind of clerk would take returns without receipts."

Linda said, "Everybody makes him out to be this terrible criminal. But it was really just a game to him. Like, we'd have disguises. Remember? Wigs, different clothes, fake glasses. It was all harmless fun."

Dance was inclined to believe Samantha's theory that sending the Family out on their missions was more about power than money.

"But what about the Charles Manson connection?"

"Oh," Samantha said. "There was no Manson connection."

Dance was surprised. "But all the press said so."

"Well, you know the press."

Samantha was typically reluctant to disagree, but she was clearly certain about this. "He thought Manson was an example of what not to do."

But Linda shook her head. "No, no, he had all those books and articles about him."

Dance recalled that she'd gotten a longer prison sentence because she'd destroyed some of the incriminating material about Manson the night of the Croyton murders. She seemed troubled now that her heroic act might have been pointless.

"The only parallels were that he lived with several women and had us doing crimes for him. Manson wasn't in control of himself, Daniel said. He claimed he was Jesus, he tattooed a swastika on his forehead, he thought he had psychic powers, he ranted about politics and race. That was another example of emotions controlling you. Just like tattoos and body piercings or weird haircuts. They give people information about you. And information is control. No, he thought Manson did everything wrong. Daniel's heroes were Hitler-"

"Hitler?" Dance asked her.

"Yep. Except he faulted him because of that 'Jewish thing.' It was a weakness. Pell said that if Hitler could suck it up and live with Jews, even include them in the government, he'd have been the most powerful man in history. But he couldn't control himself, so he deserved to lose the war. He admired Rasputin too."

"The Russian monk?"

"Right. He worked his way into Nicholas and Alexandra's household. Pell liked Rasputin's use of sex to control people." Drawing a laugh from Rebecca and a blush from Linda. "Svengali too."

"The Trilby book?" Dance asked.

"Oh," Samantha said. "You know about that? He loved that story. Linda read it a dozen times."

"And frankly," Rebecca said, "it was pretty bad."

Glancing at her notebook, the agent asked the newcomer about the keywords Pell had searched in prison.

"'Nimue'?" Samantha repeated. "No. But he had a girlfriend named Alison once."

"Who?" Linda asked.

"When he was in San Francisco. Before the Family. She was in this group, sort of like the Family."

"What're you talking about?" Linda asked.

Samantha nodded. She looked uneasily at Linda. "But it wasn't his group. He just was bumming around and met Alison and got to know some of the people in that cult, or whatever it was. Daniel wasn't a member-he didn't take orders from anybody-but he was fascinated with it, and hung out with them. He learned a lot about how to control people. But they got suspicious of him-he wouldn't really commit. So he and Alison left. They hitchhiked around the state. Then he got arrested or picked up by the police for something, and she went back to San Francisco. He tried to find her but he never could. I don't know why he'd want to try now."

"What was her last name?"

"I don't know."

Dance wondered aloud if Pell was looking for this Alison-or someone named Nimue-for revenge. "After all, he'd need a pretty good reason to risk going online in Capitola to find somebody."

"Oh," Samantha said, "Daniel didn't believe in revenge."

Rebecca said, "I don't know, Sam. What about that biker? That punk up the street? Daniel almost killed him."

Dance remembered Nagle telling them about a neighbor in Seaside whom Pell had assaulted.

"First of all," Linda said, "Daniel didn't do it. That was somebody else."

"Well, no, he beat the crap out of him. Nearly killed him."

"But the police let him go."

Curious proof of innocence, Dance reflected.

"Only because the guy didn't have the balls to press charges." Rebecca looked at Samantha. "Was it our boy?"

Samantha shrugged, avoiding their gaze. "I think so. I mean, yeah, Daniel beat him up."

Linda looked unconvinced.

"But that wasn't about revenge…See, the biker thought he was some kind of neighborhood godfather. He tried to blackmail Daniel, threatened to go to the police about something that never even happened. Daniel went to see him and started playing these mind games with him. But the biker just laughed at him and told Daniel he had one day to come up with the money.

"Next thing there's an ambulance in front of the biker's house. His wrists and ankles were broken. But that wasn't revenge. It was because he was immune to Daniel. If you're immune, then Daniel can't control you, and that makes you a threat. And he said all the time, 'Threats have to be eliminated.'"

"Control," Dance said. "That pretty much sums up Daniel Pell, doesn't it?"

This, it seemed, was one premise from their past that all three members of the Family could agree on.

Chapter 34

From the patrol car, the MCSO deputy kept his vigilant eye on his turf: the grounds, the trees, the gardens, the road.

Guard duty-it had to be the most boring part of being a police officer, hands down. Stakeouts came in a close second, but at least then you had a pretty good idea that the surveillee was a bad guy. And that meant you might get a chance to draw your weapon and go knock heads.

You'd get to do something.

But baby-sitting witnesses and good guys-especially when the bad guys don't even know where the good ones are-was borrrrring.

All that happened was you got a sore back and sore feet and had to balance the issue of coffee with bathroom breaks and-

Oh, hell, the deputy muttered to himself. Wished he hadn't thought that. Now he realized he had to pee.

Could he risk the bushes? Not a good idea, considering how nice this place was. He'd ask to use one inside. First he'd make a fast circuit just to be sure everything was secure, then go knock on the door.

He climbed out of the car and walked down the main road, looking around at the trees, the bushes. Still nothing odd. Typical of what you'd see around here: a limo driving past slowly, the driver actually wearing one of those caps like they did in the movies. A housewife across the street was having her gardener arrange flowers beneath her mailbox before he planted them, the poor guy frustrated at her indecision.

The woman looked up and saw the deputy, nodded his way.

He nodded back, flashing on a wispy fantasy of her coming over and saying how much she liked a man in a uniform. The deputy had heard stories of cops making a traffic stop and the women "paying the fine" behind a row of trees near the highway or in the backs of squad cars (the seats of Harley-Davidsons figured in some versions, as well). But those were always I-know-somebody-who-knows-somebody stories. It'd never happened to any of his friends. He suspected too that if anybody-even this desperate housewife-proposed a romp, he couldn't even get it up.

Which put him in mind of the geography below the belt again and how much he needed to relieve himself.

Then he noticed the housewife was waving to him and approaching. He stopped.

"Is everything okay around here, Officer?"

"Yes, ma'am." Ever noncommittal.

"Are you here about that car?" she asked.

"Car?"

She gestured. "Up there. About ten minutes ago I saw it park, but the driver, he sort of pulled up in between some trees, I thought it was a little funny, parking that way. You know, we've had a few break-ins around here lately."

Alarmed now, the deputy stepped closer to where she was indicating. Through the bushes he saw a glint of chrome or glass. The only reason to drive a car that far off the road was to hide it.

Pell, he thought.

Reaching for his gun, he took a step up the street.

Wsssssh.

He glanced back at the odd sound just as the shovel, swung by the housewife's gardener, slammed into his shoulder and neck, connecting with a dull ring.

A grunt. The deputy dropped to his knees, his vision filled with a dull yellow light, black explosions going off in front of him. "Please, no!" he begged.

But the response was simply another blow of the shovel, this one better aimed.

Dressed in his dirt-stained gardener outfit, Daniel Pell dragged the cop into the bushes where he couldn't be seen. The man wasn't dead, just groggy and hurting.

Quickly he stripped off the deputy's uniform and put it on, rolled up the cuffs of the too-long slacks. He duct-taped the officer's mouth and cuffed him with his own bracelets. He slipped the cop's gun and extra clips into his pocket, then placed the Glock he'd brought with him in the holster; he was familiar with that weapon and had dry-fired it often enough to be comfortable with the trigger pull.

Glancing behind him, he saw Jennie retrieving the flowers from the patch of dirt around the neighbor's mailbox and dumping them into a shopping bag. She'd done a good job in her role as housewife. She'd distracted the cop perfectly and she'd hardly flinched when Pell had smacked the poor bastard with the shovel.

The lesson of "murdering" Susan Pemberton had paid off; she'd moved closer to the darkness within her. But he'd still have to be careful now. Killing the deputy would be over the top. Still, she was coming along nicely; Pell was ecstatic. Nothing made him happier than transforming someone into a creature of his own making.

"Get the car, lovely." He handed her the gardener outfit.

A smile blossoming, full. "I'll have it ready." She turned and hurried up the street with the clothes, shopping bag and shovel. She glanced back, mouthing, "I love you."

Pell watched her, enjoying the confident stride.

Then he turned away and walked slowly up the driveway that led to the house of the man who'd committed an unforgivable sin against him, a sin that would spell the man's death: former prosecutor James Reynolds.

Daniel Pell peered through a crack in the curtain of a front window. He saw Reynolds on a cordless phone, holding a bottle of wine, walking from one room to another. A woman-his wife, Pell guessed-walked into what seemed to be the kitchen. She was laughing.

Pell had thought it'd be easy to find almost anybody nowadays, computers, the Internet, Google. He'd discovered some information about Kathryn Dance, which would be useful. But James Reynolds was invisible. No phone listing, no tax records, no addresses in any of the old state and county directories or bar association lists.

He would eventually have found the prosecutor through public records, Pell supposed, but could hardly browse through the very county government building he'd just escaped from. Besides, he had little time. He needed to finish his business in Monterey and leave.

But then he'd had his brainstorm and turned to the archives of local newspapers on the Internet. He'd found a listing in the Peninsula Times about the prosecutor's daughter's wedding. He'd called the venue where the event was held, the Del Monte Spa and Resort, and found the name of the wedding planner, the Brock Company. A bit of coffee-and pepper spray-with Susan Pemberton had earned Pell the files that contained the name and address of the man who'd paid for the fete, James Reynolds.

And now here he was.

More motion inside.

A man in his late twenties was also in the house. Maybe a son-the brother of the bride. He'd have to kill them all, of course, and anyone else inside. He didn't care one way or the other about hurting the family but he couldn't leave anyone alive. Their deaths were simply a practical matter, to give Pell and Jennie more time to get away. At gunpoint he'd force them into a closed space-a bathroom or den-then use the knife, so no one would hear shots. With some luck, the bodies wouldn't be found until after he'd finished his other mission here on the Peninsula and would be long gone.

Pell now saw the prosecutor hang up his phone and start to turn. Pell ducked back, checked his pistol and pressed the doorbell. There was the rustle of noise from inside. A shadow filled the peephole. Pell stood where he could be seen in his uniform, though he was looking down casually.

"Yes? Who is it?"

"Mr. Reynolds, it's Officer Ramos."

"Who?"

"I'm the relief deputy, sir. I'd like to talk to you."

"Just a second. I've got something on the stove."

Pell gripped his pistol, feeling that a huge irritation was about to be relieved. He suddenly felt aroused. He couldn't wait to get Jennie back to the Sea View. Maybe they wouldn't make it all the way to the motel. He'd take her in the backseat. Pell now stepped back into the shadows of a large, tangled tree beside the door, enjoying the feel of the heavy gun in his hand. A minute passed. Then another. He knocked again. "Mr. Reynolds?"

"Pell, don't move!" a voice shouted. It was coming from outside, behind him. "Drop the weapon." The voice was Reynolds's. "I'm armed."

No! What had happened? Pell shivered with anger. He nearly vomited he was so shaken and upset.

"Listen to me, Pell. If you move one inch I will shoot you. Take the weapon in your left hand by the barrel and set it down. Now!"

"What? Sir, what are you talking about?"

No, no! He'd planned this so perfectly! He was breathless with rage. He gave a brief glance behind him. There was Reynolds, holding a large revolver in both hands. He knew what he was doing and didn't seem the least bit nervous.

"Wait, wait, Prosecutor Reynolds. My name's Hector Ramos. I'm the relief-"

He heard the click as the hammer on Reynolds's gun cocked.

"Okay! I don't know what this is about. But okay. Jesus." Pell took the barrel in his left hand and crouched, lowering it to the deck.

When, with a screech, the black Toyota skidded into the driveway and braked to a stop, the horn blaring.

Pell dropped flat to his belly, swept up the gun and began firing in Reynolds's direction. The prosecutor crouched and fired several shots himself but, panicked, missed. Pell then heard the distant keening of sirens. Torn between self-preservation and his raw lust to kill the man, he hesitated a second. But survival won out. He sprinted down the driveway, toward Jennie, who had opened the passenger door for him.

He tumbled inside and they sped away, Pell finding some bleak satisfaction in emptying his weapon toward the house, hoping for at least one mortal hit.

Chapter 35

Dance, Kellogg and James Reynolds stood in his dewy front lawn, amid pristine landscaping, lit by the pulse of colored lights.

The prosecutor's first concern, he explained, was that no one had been hit by his, or Pell's, slugs. He'd fired in defensive panic-he was still shaken-and even before the car had skidded away he was troubled that a bullet might have injured a neighbor. He'd run to the street to look at the car's tags, but the vehicle was gone by then so he jogged to the houses nearby. No one had been injured by a stray shot, though. The deputy in the bushes outside the house would have some bad bruises, a concussion and very sore muscles, but nothing more serious than that, the medics reported.

When the doorbell rang and "Officer Ramos" announced his presence at the front door, Reynolds had actually been on the phone with Kathryn Dance, who was telling him urgently that Pell, possibly disguised as a Latino, knew where he lived and was planning to kill him. The prosecutor had drawn his weapon and sent his wife and son into the basement to call 911. Reynolds had slipped out a side door and come up behind the man.

He'd been seconds away from shooting to kill; only the girlfriend's intervention had saved Pell.

The prosecutor now stepped away to see how his wife was doing, then returned a moment later. "Pell took all this risk just for revenge? I sure called that one wrong."

"No, James, it wasn't revenge." Without mentioning her name-reporters were already starting to show up-Dance explained about Samantha McCoy's insights into Pell's psychology and told him about the incident in Seaside, where the biker had laughed at him. "You did the same thing in court. When he tried to control you, remember? That meant you were immune to him. And, even worse, you controlled him-you turned him into Manson, into somebody else, somebody he had no respect for. He was your puppet. Pell couldn't allow that. You were too much of a danger to him."

"That's not revenge?"

"No, it was about his future plans," Dance said. "He knew you wouldn't be intimidated, and that you had some insights and information about him-maybe even something in the case notes. And he knew that you were the sort who wouldn't rest until he was recaptured. Even if you were retired."

She remembered the prosecutor's determined visage in his house.

Whatever I can do…

"You wouldn't be afraid to help us track him down. That made you a threat. And, like he said, threats have to be eliminated."

"What do you mean by the 'future'? What's he got in mind?"

"That's the big question. We just don't know."

"But how the hell did you manage to call two minutes before he showed up?"

Dance shrugged. "Susan Pemberton."

"The woman killed yesterday."

"She worked for Eve Brock."

His eyes flashed in recognition. "The caterer, I mean, the event-planner who handled Julia's wedding. He found me through her. Brilliant."

"At first I thought Pell used Susan to get into the office and destroy some evidence. Or to get information about an upcoming event. I kept picturing her office, all the photos on the walls. Some were of local politicians, some were of weddings. Then I remembered seeing the pictures of your daughter's wedding in your living room. The connection clicked. I called Eve Brock and she told me that, yes, you'd been a client."

"How'd you know about the Latino disguise?"

She explained that Susan had been seen in the company of a slim Latino man not long before she'd been killed. Linda had told them about Pell's use of disguises. "Becoming Latino seemed a bit far-fetched…but apparently it wasn't." She nodded at a cluster of bullet holes in the prosecutor's front wall.

Finished with their canvassing, TJ and Rey Carraneo arrived to report that there'd been no sightings of the killer's new wheels.

Michael O'Neil too joined them. He'd been with the crime scene officers as they'd worked the street and the front yard.

O'Neil nodded politely toward Kellogg, as if the recent disagreements were long forgotten. Crime scene, O'Neil reported, hadn't discovered much at all. They'd found shell casings from a 9mm pistol, some useless tire prints (they were so worn the technicians couldn't ID the brand) and "about a million samples of trace that'll lead us nowhere." The latter information was delivered with the sour hyperbole O'Neil slung out when frustrated.

And, he added, the guard gave only a groggy and inarticulate description of his attacker and the girl with him, but he couldn't add anything to what they already knew.

Reynolds called his daughter, since Pell now knew her and her husband's names, and told her to leave town until the killer was recaptured. Reynolds's wife and other son would join them, but the prosecutor refused to leave. He was going to stay in the area-though at a separate hotel, under police guard-until he'd had a chance to review the Croyton murders files, which would arrive from the county court archives soon. He was more determined than ever to help them get Pell.

Most of the officers left-two stayed to guard Reynolds and his family, and two were keeping the reporters back-and soon Kellogg, O'Neil and Dance were alone, standing on the fragrant grass.

"I'm going back to Point Lobos," Dance said to both of the men. Then to Kellogg: "You want me to drop you off at HQ, for your car?"

"I'll go with you to the inn," Kellogg said. "If that's okay."

"Sure. What about you, Michael? Want to come with us?" She could see that Millar's death was still weighing heavily on him.

The chief deputy glanced at Kellogg and Dance, standing side by side, like a couple in front of their suburban house saying goodnight to guests after a dinner party. He said, "Think I'll pass. I'll make a statement to the press then stop by to see Juan's family." He exhaled, sending a stream of breath into the cool night. "Been a long day."

He was exhausted.

And his round belly contained pretty much an entire bottle of Vallejo Springs's smooth Merlot wine.

There was no way Morton Nagle was going to drive home tonight through a tangle of combat traffic in Contra Costa County, then the equally daunting roads around San Jose. He'd found a motel not far from the vineyards he'd moped around in all day and checked in. He washed his face and hands, ordered a club sandwich from room service and uncorked the wine.

Waiting for the food to arrive, he called his wife and spoke to her and the children, then got through to Kathryn Dance.

She told him that Pell had tried to kill the prosecutor in the Croyton trial.

"Reynolds? No!"

"Everybody's all right," Dance said. "But he got away."

"You think maybe that was his goal? Why he was staying in the area?"

The agent explained she didn't think so. She believed he'd intended to kill Reynolds as a prelude to his real plan, because he was frightened of the prosecutor. But what that real plan might be continued to elude them.

Dance sounded tired, discouraged.

Apparently he did too.

"Morton," Dance asked, "are you all right?"

"I'm just wondering how bad my headache'll be tomorrow morning."

She gave a sour laugh.

Room service knocked on the door. He said good-bye and hung up the phone.

Nagle ate the meal without much appetite and channel surfed, seeing virtually nothing that flickered by on the screen.

The large man lay back in bed, kicking off his shoes. As he sipped from the plastic glass of wine he was thinking of a color photo of Daniel Pell in Time magazine years ago. The killer's head was turned partially away but the unearthly blue eyes stared straight into the camera. They seemed to follow you wherever you were, and you couldn't shake the thought that even if you closed the magazine, Pell would continue to stare into your soul.

Nagle was angry that he'd failed in his attempt to get the aunt's agreement, that the trip here had been a waste of time.

But then he told himself that, at least, he'd stayed true to his journalist's ethics and protected his sources-and protected the girl. He'd been as persuasive as he could with the aunt but hadn't stepped over the moral boundary and told Kathryn Dance the girl's new name and location.

No, Nagle realized, he'd done everything right in a difficult situation.

Growing drowsy, he found he was feeling better. He'd go home tomorrow, back to his wife and children. He'd do the best he could with the book without Theresa. He'd heard from Rebecca Sheffield and she was game to go ahead-she'd been making a lot of notes on life in the Family-and wanted to sit down with him when he returned. She was sure she could convince Linda Whitfield to be interviewed, as well. And there were certainly no lack of victims of Daniel Pell to write about.

Finally, drunk and more or less content, Morton Nagle drifted off to sleep.

Chapter 36

They sat around the TV, leaning forward, watching the news like three reunited sisters.

Which in a way they were, thought Samantha McCoy.

"Can you believe that?" Rebecca asked in a low, angry voice.

Linda, who with Sam was cleaning up the remnants of a room-service dinner, shook her head in dismay.

James Reynolds, the prosecutor, had been the target of Daniel Pell.

Sam was very disturbed by the assault. She remembered Reynolds well. A stern but reasonable man, he'd negotiated what her lawyer had said were fair plea bargains. Sam, in fact, had thought he was quite lenient. There was no evidence that they'd had any involvement in the Croyton deaths-Sam, like the others, was stunned and horrified at the news. Still, the Family's record of petty crimes was extensive and if he'd wanted to, James Reynolds could have gone to trial and probably gotten much longer sentences from a jury.

But he was sympathetic to what they'd been through; he realized they'd fallen under the spell of Daniel Pell. He called it the Stockholm syndrome, which Sam had looked up. It was an emotional connection that victims develop with their hostage takers or kidnappers. Sam was happy to accept Reynolds's leniency, but she wasn't going to let herself off the hook by blaming her actions on some psychological excuse. Every single day she felt bad about the thefts and letting Pell run her life. She hadn't been kidnapped; she'd lived with the Family voluntarily.

A picture came on the TV: an artist's rendering of Pell with darker skin, moustache and black hair, glasses and a vague Latino look. His disguise.

"That's way bizarre," Rebecca offered.

The knock on the door startled them. Kathryn Dance's voice announced her arrival. Linda rose to let her in.

Samantha liked her-a cop with a great smile, who wore an iPod like her gun and had shoes with bold daisies embossed on the straps. She'd like a pair of shoes like that. Sam rarely bought fun or frivolous things for herself. Sometimes she'd window-shop and think, Neat, I'd like one of those. But then her conscience tweaked, and she decided, No, I don't deserve it.

Winston Kellogg too was smiling, but his was different from Dance's. It seemed like his badge, something to be flashed, saying: I'm really not what you think. I'm a federal agent, but I'm human too. He was appealing. Kellogg wasn't really handsome, certainly not in a classic way. He had a bit of double chin, was a little round in the middle. But his manner and voice and eyes made him sexy.

Glancing at the TV screen, Dance asked, "You heard?"

Linda said, "I'm so happy he's all right. His family was there too?"

"They're all fine."

"On the news, they mentioned a deputy was hurt?" Rebecca asked.

Kellogg said, "He'll be all right." He went on to explain how Pell and his partner had planned the man's murder, killing the other woman, Susan Pemberton, yesterday solely to find out where Reynolds lived.

Sam thought of what had struck her years ago: the obsessed, unstoppable mind of Daniel Pell.

Dance said, "Well, I wanted to thank you. The information you gave us saved his life."

"Us?" Linda asked.

"Yep." She explained how the observations they'd offered earlier-particularly about Pell's reaction to being laughed at and about disguises-had let her deduce what the killer might be up to.

Rebecca was shaking her head, her expressive lips tight. She said, "But he did get away from you, I noticed."

Sam was embarrassed at Rebecca's abrasive comment. It always amazed her how people wouldn't hesitate to criticize or insult, even when there was no purpose to it.

"He did," Dance said, looking the taller woman in the eyes. "We didn't get there in time."

"The newscaster said Reynolds tried to capture him himself," Rebecca said.

"That's right," Kellogg said.

"So maybe he's the reason Pell got away."

Dance held her eye easily. Sam was so envious of that ability. Her husband would often say, "Hey, what's the matter? Look at me." It seemed that her eighteen-month-old son was the only person in the world she could look in the eye.

Dance said to Rebecca, "Possibly. But Pell was at the front door with a gun. James didn't really have any choice."

Rebecca shrugged. "Still. One of him, all of you."

"Come on," Linda snapped. "They're doing the best they can. You know Daniel. He thinks out everything. He's impossible to get ahead of."

The FBI agent said, "No, you're right, Rebecca. We have to work harder. We're on the defensive. But we will get him, I promise."

Samantha noticed Kellogg glance at Kathryn Dance and Sam thought: Damn, he's sweet on her, the phrase from one of the hundreds of old-time books she'd spent her summers reading as a girl. As for the policewoman? Hm, could be. Sam couldn't tell. But she didn't waste much time thinking about the romantic life of two people she'd known for one day. They were part of a world she wanted to leave behind as fast as possible.

Rebecca relented. "Well, if we got you that close last time, maybe we'll get you there five minutes earlier the next."

Dance nodded. "Thank you for that. And everything. We really appreciate it. Now, a couple of things. Just to reassure you, I've added another deputy outside. There's no reason to believe that Pell has any clue you're here, but I thought it couldn't hurt."

"Won't say no to that," Rebecca said.

The agent glanced at the clock. It was 10:15. "I'm proposing we call it quits for tonight. If you think of anything else about Pell or the case and want to talk about it, I can be here in twenty minutes. Otherwise, we'll reconvene in the morning. You've got to be exhausted."

Samantha said, "Reunions have a way of doing that."

Parking in the back of the Sea View, Jennie shut off the Toyota's engine. Daniel Pell didn't get out. He felt numb and everything seemed surreal: the lights ghostly auras in the fog, the slow-motion sound of the waves piling up on Asilomar Beach.

An alternate world, out of some weird movie the cons would watch in Capitola and talk about for months afterward.

All because of the bizarre incident at the prosecutor's house.

"Are you all right, sweetie?"

He said nothing.

"I don't like it that you're unhappy." She rested a hand on his leg. "I'm sorry things didn't work out for you."

He was thinking of that instant eight years ago, at the Croyton trial, when he had turned his blue eyes, blue like ice, on prosecutor James Reynolds, to intimidate, to make him lose his concentration. But Reynolds had glanced his way and snickered. Then turned to the jury with a wink and a sour joke.

And they had laughed too.

All his efforts were wasted. The spell was broken. Pell had been convinced that he could will his way to an acquittal, to make the jury believe that Jimmy Newberg was the killer, that Pell was a victim too; all he'd done was act in self-defense.

Reynolds, laughing, like Pell was some kid making faces at adults.

Calling him the Son of Manson…

Controlling me!

That had been the unforgivable sin. Not prosecuting Pell-no, many people had done that. But controlling him. Jerking him about like a puppet to be laughed at.

And not long after that the jury foreman had read the verdict. He saw his precious mountaintop vanishing, his freedom, his independence, the Family. All gone. His whole life destroyed by a laugh.

And now Reynolds-a threat to Pell as serious as Kathryn Dance-would go underground, be far more difficult to find.

He shivered in rage.

"You okay, baby?"

Now, still feeling like he was in a different dimension, Pell told Jennie the story about Reynolds in court and the danger he represented-a story no one knew.

And, funny, she didn't seem to think it was so odd.

"That's terrible. My mother'd do that, laugh at me in front of other people. And she'd hit me too. I think the laughing was worse. A lot worse."

He was actually moved by her sympathy.

"Hey, lovely?…You held fast tonight."

She smiled and made fists-as if displaying the tattooed letters, H-O-L-D F-A-S-T.

"I'm proud of you. Come on, let's go inside."

But Jennie didn't move. Her smile slipped away. "I was thinking about something."

"What?"

"How did he figure it out?"

"Who?"

"The man tonight, Reynolds."

"Saw me, I suppose. Recognized me."

"No, I don't think so. It sounded like the sirens were coming, you know, before you knocked on the door."

"They were?"

"I think so."

Kathryn… Eyes as green as mine are blue, short pink nails, red rubber band around her braid, pearl on her finger and a polished shell at her throat. Holes in her lobes but no earrings.

He could picture her perfectly. He could almost feel her body next to him. The balloon within him began to expand.

"Well, there's this policewoman. She's a problem."

"Tell me about her."

Pell kissed Jennie and slipped his hand down her bony spine, past the strap of her bra, and kept going into the waistband of her slacks, felt the lace. "Not here. Inside. I'll tell you about her inside."

Chapter 37

"I've had enough of that," Linda Whitfield said, nodding toward the TV, where news stories about Pell kept looping over and over.

Samantha agreed.

Linda walked into the kitchen and made decaf coffee and tea, then brought out the cups and milk and sugar, along with some cookies. Rebecca took the coffee but set it down and continued to sip her wine.

Sam said, "That was nice, what you said at dinner."

Linda had said grace, apparently improvised, but articulate. Samantha herself wasn't religious but she was touched by Linda's words, intended for the souls of the people Daniel Pell had killed and their families, as well as gratitude for the chance to reunite with her sisters and a plea for a peaceful resolution of this sad situation. Even Rebecca-the steel magnolia among them-had seemed moved.

When she was young, Sam often wished her parents would take her to church. Many of her friends went with their families, and it seemed like something parents and a daughter could do together. But then, she'd have been happy if they'd taken her to grocery shop or for a drive to the airport to watch the planes take off and land while they ate hot dogs from a catering truck parked near the fence, like Ellie and Tim Schwimmer from next door did with their folks.

Samantha, I'd love to go with you but you know how important the meeting is. The issue isn't just about Walnut Creek. It could affect all of Contra Costa. You can make a sacrifice too. The world's not all about you, dear…

But enough of that, Sam commanded herself.

During dinner the conversation had been superficial: politics, the weather, what they thought of Kathryn Dance. Now Rebecca, who'd had plenty of wine, tried to draw Linda out some, find out what had happened in prison to make her so religious, but the woman might have sensed, as did Sam, that there was something challenging about the questions and deflected them. Rebecca had been the most independent of the three and was still the most blunt.

Linda did, though, explain about her day-to-day life. She ran the church's neighborhood center, which Sam deduced was a soup kitchen, and helped with her brother and sister-in-law's foster children. It was clear from the conversation-not to mention her shabby clothing-that Linda was struggling financially. Still, she claimed she had a "rich life" in the spiritual sense of the word, a phrase she'd repeated several times.

"You don't talk to your parents at all?" Sam asked.

"No," Linda said softly. "My brother does every once in a while. But I don't." Sam couldn't tell whether the words were defiant or wistful. (Sam recalled that Linda's father had tried to run for some election following Linda's arrest and been defeated-after the opposing candidate ran ads implying that if Lyman Whitfield couldn't maintain law and order in his family he'd hardly be a good public servant.)

The woman added that she was dating a man from her church. "Nice" was how she described him. "He works at Macy's." Linda didn't go into specifics and Samantha wondered if she was actually dating him or they were merely friends.

Rebecca was much more forthcoming about her life. Women's Initiatives was doing well, with a staff of four full-time employees, and she lived in a condo overlooking the water. As for her romantic life, she described her latest boyfriend, a landscape designer, almost fifteen years older but handsome and pretty well off. Rebecca had always wanted to get married but, as she talked about their future, Sam deduced there were stumbling blocks and guessed that his divorce wasn't final (if the papers had even been filed). Rebecca mentioned other recent boyfriends too.

Which made Sam a bit envious. After prison she'd changed her identity and moved to San Francisco, where she hoped she could get lost in the anonymity of a big city. She'd avoided socializing for fear she'd let slip some fact about her real identity, or that somebody might recognize her, despite the surgery.

Finally the loneliness caught up and she started to go out. Her third date, Ron Starkey, was a Stanford electrical engineer grad. He was sweet and shy and a bit insecure-a classic nerd. He wasn't particularly interested in her past; in fact, he seemed oblivious to just about everything except avionics navigation equipment, movies, restaurants and, now, their son.

Not the sort of personality most women would go for, but Samantha decided it was right for her.

Six months later they were married, and Peter was born a year after that. Sam was content. Ron was a good father, a solid man. She only wished she'd met him a few years later, after she'd lived and experienced a bit more of life. She felt that meeting Daniel Pell had resulted in a huge hole in her life, one that could never be filled.

Both Linda and Rebecca tried to get Sam to talk about herself. She demurred. She didn't want anyone, least of all these women, to have any possible clues as to her life as Sarah Starkey. If word got out, Ron would leave her. She knew it. He'd broken up with her for a few months when she'd tearfully "confessed" about the fake embezzlement; he'd walk right out the door-and take their child with him, she knew-if he learned she'd been involved with Daniel Pell and been lying to him about it for years.

Linda offered the plate of cookies again.

"No, no," Samantha said. "I'm full. I haven't eaten that much for dinner in a month."

Linda sat nearby, ate half a cookie. "Oh, Sam, before you got here we were telling Kathryn about that Easter dinner. Our last one together. Remember that?"

"Remember it? It was fantastic."

It had been a wonderful day, Sam recalled. They'd sat outside around a driftwood table she and Jimmy Newberg had made. Piles of food, great music from Jimmy's complicated stereo, sprouting wires everywhere. They'd dyed Easter eggs, filling the house with the smell of hot vinegar. Sam tinted all of hers blue. Like Daniel's eyes.

The Family wouldn't survive long after that; six weeks later the Croyton family and Jimmy would be dead, the rest of them in jail.

But that had been a good day.

"That turkey," Sam said, shaking her head at the memory. "You smoked it, right?"

Linda nodded. "About eight hours. In that smoker Daniel made for me."

"The what?" Rebecca asked.

"That smoker out back. The one he made."

"I remember. But he didn't make it."

Linda laughed. "Yes, he did. I told him I'd always wanted one. My parents had one and my father'd smoke hams and chickens and ducks. I wanted to help but they wouldn't let me. So Daniel made me one."

Rebecca was confused. "No, no…he got it from what's-her-name up the street."

"Up the street?" Linda frowned. "You're wrong. He borrowed some tools and made it out of an old oil drum. He surprised me with it."

"Wait, it was…Rachel. Yeah, that was her name. Remember her? Not a good look-gray roots with bright red hair." Rebecca looked perplexed. "You have to remember her."

"I remember Rachel." Linda's response was stiff. "What's she got to do with anything?"

Rachel was a stoner who'd caused serious disharmony within the Family because Pell had spent a lot of time at her house doing, well, what Daniel Pell loved to do most. Sam hadn't cared-anything to avoid Pell's unpleasantries in the bedroom was fine with her. But Linda had been jealous. Their last Christmas together Rachel had stopped by the Family's house on some pretense when Daniel was away. Linda had thrown the woman out of the house. Pell had heard about it and promised he wouldn't see her anymore.

"He got the smoker from her," said Rebecca, who'd arrived after the Yuletide blow-out and knew nothing about the jealousy.

"No, he didn't. He made it for my birthday."

Sam foresaw disaster looming. She said quickly, "Well, whatever, you made a real nice turkey. I think we had sandwiches for two weeks."

They both ignored her. Rebecca sipped more of the wine. "Linda, he gave it to you on your birthday because he was with her that morning and she gave it to him. Some surfer dude made it for her but she didn't cook."

"He was with her?" Linda whispered. "On my birthday?"

Pell had told Linda he hadn't seen Rachel since the incident at Christmas. Linda's birthday was in April.

"Yeah. And, like, three times a week or so. You mean you didn't know?"

"It doesn't matter," Sam said. "It was a long-"

"Shut up," Linda snapped. She turned to Rebecca. "You're wrong."

"What, you're surprised Daniel lied to you?" Rebecca was laughing. "He told you he had a retarded brother and he told me he didn't have a brother. Let's ask the authority. Sam, was Daniel seeing Rachel that spring?"

"I don't know."

"Wrong answer…Yes, you do," Rebecca announced.

"Oh, come on," Sam said. "What difference does it make?"

"Let's play who knows Daniel best. Did he say anything to you about it? He told everything to his Mouse."

"We don't need to-"

"Answer the question!"

"I don't have any idea. Rebecca, come on. Let it go."

"Did he?"

Yes, in fact, he had. But Sam said, "I don't remember."

"Bullshit."

"Why would he lie to me?" Linda growled.

"Because you told him that Mommy and Daddy didn't let you play at the cookout. That gave him something to work with. And he used it. And he didn't just buy you one. He claimed he made it! What a fucking saint!"

"You're the one who's lying."

"Why?"

"Because Daniel never made anything for you."

"Oh, please. Are we back in high school?" Rebecca looked Linda over. "Oh, I get it. You were jealous of me! That's why you were so pissed off then. That's why you're pissed off now."

This was true too, Sam reflected. After Rebecca joined the Family Daniel had spent far less time with the other women. Sam could handle it-anything as long as he was happy and didn't want to kick her out of the Family. But Linda, in the role of mother, was stung that Rebecca seemed to supplant her.

Linda denied it now. "I was not. How could anybody afford to be jealous living in that situation? One man and three women living together?"

"How? Because we're human, that's how. Hell, you were jealous of Rachel."

"That was different. She was a slut. She wasn't one of us, she wasn't part of the Family."

Sam said, "Look, we're not here about us. We're here to help the police."

Rebecca scoffed. "How could we not be here about us? The first time we've been together after eight years? What, you think we'd just show up, write a top-ten list-'Things I remember about Daniel Pell'-and go home? Of course, this's about us as much as him."

Angry too, Linda gazed at Sam. "And you don't have to defend me." A contemptuous nod toward Rebecca. "She's not worth it. She wasn't there from the beginning like we were. She wasn't a part of it, and she took over."

Turning to Rebecca. "I was with him for more than a year. You? A few months."

"Daniel asked me. I didn't force my way in."

"We were going along fine, and then you show up."

"'Going along fine'?" Rebecca set down her wineglass and sat forward. "Are you hearing what you're saying?"

"Rebecca, please," Sam said. Her heart was pounding. She thought she'd cry as she looked at the two red-faced women, facing each other across a coffee table of varnished yellowing logs. "Don't."

The lean woman ignored her. "Linda, I've been listening to you since I got here. Defending him, saying it wasn't so bad, we didn't steal all that much, maybe Daniel didn't kill so-and-so…Well, that's bullshit. Get real. Yes, the Family was sick, totally sick."

"Don't say that! It's not true."

"Goddamn it, it is true. And Daniel Pell's a monster. Think about it. Think about what he did to us…" Rebecca's eyes were glowing, jaw trembling. "He looked at you and saw somebody whose parents never gave her an inch of freedom. So what does he do? He tells you what a fine, independent person you are, how you're being stifled. And puts you in charge of the house. He makes you Mommy. He gives you power, which you never had before. And he hooks you in with that."

Tears dotted Linda's eyes. "It wasn't like that."

"You're right. It was worse. Because then look at what happened. The Family breaks up, we go to jail and where do you end up? Right back where you started. With a domineering male figure again-only this time, Daddy's God. If you thought you couldn't say no to your real father, think about your new one."

"Don't say that," Sam began. "She's-"

Rebecca turned on her. "And you. Just like the old days. Linda and I go at it, and you play Little Miss United Nations, don't want anybody upset, don't want anybody making waves. Why? Is it because you care about us, dear? Or is it because you're terrified we'll self-destruct and you'll be even more alone than you already are?"

"You don't have to be like that," Sam muttered.

"Oh, I think I do. Let's take a look at your story, Mouse. Your parents didn't know you existed. 'Go do whatever you want, Sammy. Mommy and Daddy're too busy with Greenpeace or the National Organization for Women or walking for the cure to tuck you in at night.' And what does Daniel do for you? He's suddenly the involved parent you never had. He looks out for you, tells you what to do, when to brush your teeth, when to repaint the kitchen, when to get on all fours in bed…and you think it means he loves you. So, guess what? You're hooked too.

"And now? You're back to square one, just like Linda. You didn't exist to your parents, and now you don't exist to anyone. Because you're not Samantha McCoy. You became somebody else."

"Stop it!" Sam was crying hard now. The harsh words, born from a harsh truth, stung deeply. There were things she could say too-Rebecca's selfishness, her bluntness bordering on cruelty-but she held back. It was impossible for her to be harsh, even in self-defense.

Mouse…

But Linda didn't have Sam's reticence. "And what gives you the right to talk? You were just some tramp pretending to be this bohemian artist." Linda's voice shook with anger, tears streaming down her face. "Sure, we had some problems, Sam and me, but we cared for each other. You were just a whore. And here you are, judging us. You weren't any better!"

Rebecca sat back, her face still. Sam could almost see the anger bleeding away. She looked down at the table, said in a soft voice, "You're right, Linda. You're absolutely right. I'm no better at all. I fell for it too. He did the same thing to me."

"You?" the woman snapped. "You didn't have any connection with Daniel! You were just there to fuck."

"Exactly," she said with a sad smile on her face, one of the saddest that Samantha McCoy had ever seen.

Sam asked, "What do you mean, Rebecca?"

More wine. "How do you think he got me hooked?" Another sip of wine. "I never told you that I hadn't slept with anybody for three years before I met him."

"You?"

"Funny, huh? Sexy me. The femme fatale of the Central Coast? The truth was a lot different. What did Daniel Pell do for me? He made me feel good about my body. He taught me that sex was good. It wasn't dirty." She set down the wineglass. "It wasn't something that happened when my father got home from work."

"Oh," Sam whispered.

Linda said nothing.

Downing the last of the wine. "Two or three times a week. Middle and high school…You want to hear what my graduation present was?"

"Rebecca…I'm so sorry," Sam said. "You never said anything."

"You mentioned that day in the van, when we met?" Speaking to Linda, whose face was unmoved. "Yeah, we were there for three hours. You thought we were fucking. But all we did was talk. He was comforting me because I was so freaked out. Just like so many other times-being with a man who wanted me, and me wanting him, only I couldn't go there. I couldn't let him touch me. A sexy package-with no passion inside. But Daniel? He knew exactly what to say to make me feel comfortable.

"And now look at me-I'm thirty-three and I've dated four different men this year and, you know, I can't remember the name of the second one. Oh, and guess what-every one of them was at least fifteen years older than me… No, I'm not any better than you guys. And everything I said to you, I mean it twice for myself.

"But come on, Linda, look at him for who he is and what he did to us. Daniel Pell's the worst thing you can possibly imagine. Yes, it was all that bad…Sorry, I'm drunk and this's brought up more crap than I was prepared to deal with."

Linda said nothing. Sam could see the conflict in her face. After a moment she said, "I'm sorry for your misfortune. I'll pray for you. Now please excuse me, I'm going to bed."

Clutching her Bible, she went off to the bedroom.

"That didn't go over very well," Rebecca said. "Sorry, Mouse." She leaned back, eyes closed, sighing. "Funny about trying to escape the past. It's like a dog on a tether. No matter how much he runs, he just can't get away."

Chapter 38

Dance and Kellogg were in her office at CBI headquarters, where they'd briefed Overby, working late for a change, on the events at Reynolds's house-and learned from TJ and Carraneo that there were no new developments. The hour was just after 11:00 P.M.

She put her computer on standby. "Okay, that's it," she said. "I'm calling it a night."

"I'm with you there."

As they walked down the dim hallway, Kellogg said, "I was thinking, they really are a family."

"Back there? At the lodge?"

"Right. The three of them. They're not related. They don't even like each other particularly. But they are a family."

He said this in a tone suggesting that he defined the word from the perspective of its absence. The interaction of the three women, which she'd noted clinically and found revealing, even amusing, had touched Kellogg in some way. She didn't know him well enough either to deduce why or to ask. She noted his shoulders lift very slightly and two fingernails of his left hand flicked together, evidence of general stress.

"You going to pick up the children?" he asked.

"No, they'll stay at their grandparents' tonight."

"They're great, they really are."

"And you never thought about having kids?"

"Not really." His voice faded. "We were both working. I was on the road a lot. You know. Professional couples."

In interrogation and kinesic analysis the content of speech is usually secondary to the tone-the "verbal quality"-with which the words are delivered. Dance had heard many people tell her they'd never had children, and the resonance of the words explained whether that fact was inconsequential, a comfortable choice, a lingering sorrow.

She'd sensed something significant in Kellogg's statement. She noted more indications of stress, little bursts of body language. Maybe a physical problem on his part or his wife's. Maybe it had been a big issue between them, the source of their breakup.

"Wes has his doubts about me."

"Ah, he's just sensitive about Mom meeting other men."

"He'll have to get used to it someday, won't he?"

"Oh, sure. But just now…"

"Got it," Kellogg said. "Though he seemed to be comfortable when you're with Michael."

"Oh, that's different. Michael's a friend. And he's married. He's no threat." Aware of what she'd just said, Dance added quickly, "It's just, you're the new kid in town. He doesn't know you."

There was a faint hesitation before Kellogg answered. "Sure, I can see that."

Dance glanced at him to find the source of the pause. His face gave nothing away.

"Don't take Wes's reaction personally."

Another pause. "Maybe it's a compliment."

His face remained neutral after this exploratory venture too.

They walked outside. The air was so crisp it would signal impending autumn in any other region. Dance's fingers were quivering from the chill but she liked the sensation. It felt, she decided, like ice numbing an injury.

The mist coalesced into rain. "I'll drive you to yours," she said. Kellogg's car was parked behind the building.

They both got in and she drove to his rental.

Neither of them moved for a minute. She put the transmission in park. She closed her eyes, stretched and pressed her head back against the rest. It felt good.

She opened her eyes and saw him turning toward her and, leaving one hand on the dash, touched the shoulder closest to him-both firmly yet somehow tentatively. He was waiting for some signal. She gave him none, but looked into his eyes and remained silent. Both of which, of course, were signals in themselves.

In any case, he didn't hesitate any longer but leaned forward and kissed her, aiming straight for her lips. She tasted mint; he'd subtly dropped a Tic Tac or Altoid when she wasn't looking. Slick, she thought, laughing to herself. She'd done the same with Brian that day on the beach, in front of the sea otter and seal audience. Kellogg now backed off slightly, regrouping and waiting for intelligence about the first skirmish.

This gave Dance a moment to figure how she was going to handle it.

She made a decision and, when he eased in again, met him halfway; her mouth opened. She kissed back fervently. She slipped her arms up to his shoulders, which were as muscular as she'd thought they'd be. His beard stubble troubled her cheek.

His hand slipped behind her neck, pulling her harder into him. She felt that uncurling within her, heart stepping up its pace. Mindful of the bandaged wound, she pressed her nose and lips against the flesh beneath his ear, the place where, with her husband, she'd rested her face when they'd made love. She liked the smooth plane of skin there, the smell of shave cream and soap, the pulse of blood.

Then Kellogg's hand detached itself from her neck and found her chin, easing her face to him again. Their whole mouths participated now, and their breathing came fast. She felt his fingers moving tentatively to her shoulder, locating the satin strap and, using it as a road map, beginning to move down, outside her blouse. Slowly, ready to divert at the least sign of reluctance.

Her response was to kiss him harder. Her arm was near his lap, and she could feel his erection flirting with her elbow. He shifted away, perhaps so he wouldn't seem too eager, too forward, too much of a teenager.

But Kathryn Dance pulled him closer as she reclined-kinesically, an agreeable, submissive position. Images of her husband came to mind once or twice, but she observed them from a distance. She was completely with Winston Kellogg at this moment.

Then his hand reached the tiny metal hoop where the strap transitioned to the white Victoria's Secret cup.

And he stopped.

The hand retreated, though the evidence near her elbow was undiminished. The kisses became less frequent, like a merry-go-round slowing after the power's shut off.

But this seemed to her exactly right. They'd arrived at the highest pinnacle they could under the circumstances-which included the manhunt for a killer, the short time they'd known each other and the terrible deaths that had recently occurred.

"I think-" he whispered.

"No, it's okay."

"I-"

She smiled and lightly kissed away any more words.

He sat back and squeezed her hand. She curled against him, feeling her heart rate slow as she found within herself a curious balance: the perfect stasis of reluctance and relief. Rain pelted the windshield. Dance reflected that she always preferred to make love on rainy days.

"But one thing?" he said.

She glanced at him.

Kellogg continued, "The case won't go on forever."

From his mouth to God's ear…

"If you'd be interested in going out afterward. How does that sound?"

"'Afterward' has a nice ring to it. Real nice."

A half-hour later Dance was parking in front of her house.

She went through the standard routine: a check of security, a glass of Pinot Grigio, two pieces of cold flank steak left over from last night and a handful of mixed nuts enjoyed to the sound track of phone messages. Then came canine feeding and their backyard tasks and stowing her Glock-without the kids home she kept the lockbox open, though she still stashed the gun inside, since imprinted memory would guide her hand there automatically no matter how deep a sleep she awoke from. Alarms on.

She opened the window to the guards-about six inches-to let in the cool, fragrant night air. Shower, a clean T-shirt and shorts. She dropped into bed, protecting herself from the mad world by an inch-thick down comforter.

Thinking: Golly damn, girl, making out in a car-with a bench front seat, no buckets, just made for reclining with the man of the hour. She recalled mint, recalled his hands, the flop of hair, the absence of aftershave.

She also heard her son's voice and saw his eyes earlier that day. Wary, jealous. Dance thought of Linda's comments earlier.

There's something terrifying about the idea of being kicked out of your family…

Which was ultimately Wes's fear. The concern was unreasonable, of course, but that didn't matter. It was real to him. She'd be more careful this time. Keep Wes and Kellogg separate, not mention the word "date," sell the idea that, like him, she had friends who were both male and female. Your children are like suspects in an interrogation: It's not smart to lie but you don't need to tell them everything.

A lot of work, a lot of juggling.

Time and effort…

Or, she wondered, her thoughts spinning fast, was it better just to forget about Kellogg, wait a year or two before she dated? Age thirteen or fourteen is hugely different from twelve. Wes would be better then.

Yet Dance didn't want to. She couldn't forget the complicated memories of his taste and touch. She thought too of his tentativeness about children, the stress he exhibited. She wondered if it was because he was uneasy around youngsters and was now forming a connection with a woman who came with a pair of them. How would he deal with that? Maybe-

But, hold on here, let's not get ahead of ourselves.

You were making out. You enjoyed it. Don't call the caterer yet.

For a long time she lay in bed, listening to the sounds of nature. You were never very far from them around here-throaty sea animals, temperamental birds and the settling bed sheet of surf. Often, loneliness sprang into Kathryn Dance's life, a striking snake, and it was at moments like this-in bed, late, hearing the sound track of night-that she was most vulnerable to it. How nice it was to feel your lover's thigh next to yours, to hear the adagio of shallow breath, to awake at dawn to the thumps and rustling of someone's rising: sounds, otherwise insignificant, that were the comforting heartbeats of a life together.

Kathryn Dance supposed longing for these small things revealed weakness, a sign of dependency. But what was so wrong with that? My God, look at us fragile creatures. We have to depend. So why not fill that dependency with somebody whose company we enjoy, whose body we can gladly press against late at night, who makes us laugh?…Why not just hold on and hope for the best?

Ah, Bill… She thought to her late husband. Bill…

Distant memories tugged.

But so did fresh ones, with nearly equal gravitation.

…afterward. How does that sound?