The Sleeping Doll

Chapter 39

In her backyard again.

Her Shire, her Narnia, her Hogwarts, her Secret Garden.

Seventeen-year-old Theresa Croyton Bolling sat in the gray teak Smith amp; Hawken glider and read the slim volume in her hand, flipping pages slowly. It was a magnificent day. The air was as sweet as the perfume department at Macy's, and the nearby hills of Napa were as peaceful as ever, covered with a mat of clover and grass, verdant grapevines and pine and gnarly cypress.

Theresa was thinking lyrically because of what she was reading-beautifully crafted, heartfelt, insightful…

And totally boring poetry.

She sighed loudly, wishing her aunt were around to hear her. The paperback drooped in her hand and she gazed over the backyard once more. A place where she seemed to spend half her life, the green prison, she sometimes called it.

Other times, she loved the place. It was beautiful, a perfect setting to read, or practice her guitar (Theresa wanted to be a pediatrician, a travel writer or, in the best of all worlds, Sharon Isbin, the famous classical guitarist).

She was here, not in school, at the moment because of an unplanned trip she and her aunt and uncle were going to be taking.

Oh, Tare, we'll have fun. Roger's got this thing he has to do in Manhattan, a speech, or research, I don't really know. Wasn't paying attention. He was going on and on. You know your uncle. But won't it be great, getting away, just on a whim? An adventure.

Which was why her aunt had taken her out of school at 10:00 A.M. on Monday. Only, hello, they hadn't left yet, which was a little odd. Her aunt explaining there were some "logistical difficulties. You know what I mean?"

Theresa was eighth in her class of 257 students at Vallejo Springs High. She said, "Yes, I do. You mean 'logistic.'"

But what the girl didn't understand was, since they were still not on a fucking airplane to New York, why couldn't she stay in school until the "difficulties" were taken care of?

Her aunt had pointed out, "Besides, it's study week. So study."

Which didn't mean study; what it meant was no TV.

And meant no hanging with Sunny or Travis or Kaitlin.

And meant not going to the big literacy benefit formal in Tiburon that her uncle's company was a sponsor of (she'd even bought a new dress).

Of course, it was all bullshit. There was no trip to New York, there were no difficulties, logistic, logistical or otherwise. It was just an excuse to keep her in the green prison.

And why the lies?

Because the man who'd killed her parents and her brother and sister had escaped from prison. Which her aunt actually seemed to believe she could keep secret from Theresa.

Like, please…The news was the first thing you saw on Yahoo's home page. And everybody in California was talking about it on MySpace and Facebook. (Her aunt had disabled the family's wireless router somehow, but Theresa had simply piggybacked through a neighbor's unsecured system.)

The girl tossed the book on the planks of the swing and rocked back and forth, as she pulled the scrunchi out of her hair and rebound her ponytail.

Theresa was certainly grateful for what her aunt had done for her over the years and gave the woman a lot of credit, she really did. After those terrible days in Carmel eight years ago her aunt had taken charge of the girl everybody called the Sleeping Doll. Theresa found herself adopted, relocated, renamed (Theresa Bolling; could be worse) and plopped down on the chairs of dozens of therapists, all of whom were clever and sympathetic and who plotted out "routes to psychological wellness by exploring the grieving process and being particularly mindful of the value of transference with parental figures in the treatment."

Some shrinks helped, some didn't. But the most important factor-time-worked its patient magic and Theresa became someone other than the Sleeping Doll, survivor of a childhood tragedy. She was a student, friend, occasional girlfriend, veterinary assistant, not bad sprinter in the fifty-and the hundred-yard dash, guitarist who could play Scott Joplin's "The Entertainer" and do the diminished chord run up the neck without a single squeak on the strings.

Now, though, a setback. The killer was out of jail, true. But that wasn't the real problem. No, it was the way her aunt was handling everything. It was like reversing the clock, sending her back in time, six, seven, oh, God, eight years. Theresa felt as if she were the Sleeping Doll once again, all the gains erased.

Honey, honey, wake up, don't be afraid. I'm a policewoman. See this badge? Why don't you get your clothes and go into your bathroom and get changed.

Her aunt was now panicked, edgy, paranoid. It was like in that HBO series she'd watched when she was over at Bradley's last year. About a prison. If something bad happened, the guards would lock down the place.

Theresa, the Sleeping Doll, was in lockdown. Stuck here in Hogwarts, in Middle Earth…in Oz…

The green prison.

Hey, that's sweet, she thought bitterly: Daniel Pell is out of prison and I'm stuck inside one.

Theresa picked up the poetry book again, thinking of her English test. She read two more lines.

Borrrring.

Theresa then noticed, through the chain-link fence at the end of the property, a car ease past, braking quickly, it seemed, as the driver looked through the bushes her way. A moment's hesitation and then the car continued on.

Theresa planted her feet and the swinging stopped.

The car could belong to anyone. Neighbors, one of the kids on break from school… She wasn't worried-not too much. Of course, with her aunt's media blackout, she had no idea if Daniel Pell had been rearrested or was last seen heading for Napa. But that was crazy. Thanks to her aunt she was practically in the witness protection program. How could he possibly find her?

Still, she'd go sneak a look at the computer, see what was going on.

A faint twist in her stomach.

Theresa stood and headed for the house.

Okay, we're bugging a little now.

She looked behind her, back at the gap through the bushes at the far end of their property. No car. Nothing.

And turning back to the house, Theresa stopped fast.

The man had scaled the tall fence twenty feet away, between her and the house. He looked up, breathing hard from the effort, from where he landed on his knees beside two thick azaleas. His hand was bleeding, cut on the jagged top of the six-foot chain link.

It was him. It was Daniel Pell!

She gasped.

He had come here. He was going to finish the murders of the Croyton family.

A smile on his face, he rose stiffly and began to walk toward her.

Theresa Croyton began to cry.

"No, it's all right," the man said in a whisper, as he approached, smiling. "I'm not going to hurt you. Shhhh."

Theresa tensed. She told herself to run. Now, do it!

But her legs wouldn't move; fear paralyzed her. Besides, there was nowhere to go. He was between her and the house and she knew she couldn't vault the six-foot chain-link fence. She thought of running away from the house, into the backyard, but then he could tackle her and pull her into the bushes, where he'd…

No, that was too horrible.

Gasping, actually tasting the fear, Theresa shook her head slowly. Felt her strength ebbing. She looked for a weapon. Nothing: only an edging brick, a bird feeder, The Collected Poems of Emily Dickinson.

She looked back at Pell.

"You killed my parents. You…Don't hurt me!"

A frown. "No, my God," the man said, eyes wide. "Oh, no, I just want to talk to you. I'm not Daniel Pell. I swear. Look."

He tossed something in her direction, ten feet away. "Look at it. The back. Turn it over."

Theresa glanced at the house. The one time she needed her aunt, the woman was nowhere in sight.

"There," the man said.

The girl stepped forward-and he continued to retreat, giving her plenty of room.

She walked closer and glanced down. It was a book. A Stranger in the Night, by Morton Nagle.

"That's me."

Theresa wouldn't pick it up. With her foot, she eased it over. On the back cover was a picture of a younger version of the man in front of her.

Was it true?

Theresa suddenly realized that she'd seen only a few pictures of Daniel Pell, taken eight years ago. She'd had to sneak a look at a few articles online-her aunt told her it would set her back years psychologically if she read anything about the murders. But looking at the younger author photo, it was clear that this wasn't the gaunt, scary man she remembered.

Theresa wiped her face. Anger exploded inside her, a popped balloon. "What're you doing here? You fucking scared me!"

The man pulled his sagging pants up as if planning to walk closer. But evidently he decided not to. "There was no other way to talk to you. I saw your aunt yesterday when she was shopping. I wanted her to ask you something."

Theresa glanced at the chain link.

Nagle said, "The police are on their way, I know. I saw the alarm on the fence. They'll be here in three, four minutes, and they'll arrest me. That's fine. But I have to tell you something. The man who killed your parents has escaped from prison."

"I know."

"You do? Your aunt-"

"Just leave me alone!"

"There's a policewoman in Monterey who's trying to catch him but she needs some help. Your aunt wouldn't tell you, and if you were eleven or twelve I'd never do this. But you're old enough to make up your own mind. She wants to talk to you."

"A policewoman?"

"Please, just call her. She's in Monterey. You can-Oh, God."

The gunshot from behind Theresa was astonishingly loud, way louder than in the movies. It shook the windows and sent birds streaking into the clear skies.

Theresa cringed at the sound and dropped to her knees, watching Morton Nagle tumble backward onto the wet grass, his arms flailing in the air.

Eyes wide in horror, the girl looked at the deck behind the house.

Weird, she didn't even know her aunt owned a gun, much less knew how to shoot it.

TJ Scanlon's extensive canvassing of James Reynolds's neighborhood had yielded no helpful witnesses or evidence.

"No vee-hicles. No nothin'." He was calling from a street near the prosecutor's house.

Dance, in her office, stretched and her bare feet fiddled with one of the three pairs of shoes under her desk. She badly wanted an ID of Pell's new car, if not a tag number; Reynolds had reported only that it was a dark sedan, and the officer who'd been bashed with the shovel couldn't remember seeing it at all. The MCSO's crime scene team hadn't found any trace or other forensic evidence to give even a hint as to what Pell might be driving now.

She thanked TJ and disconnected, then joined O'Neil and Kellogg in the CBI conference room, where Charles Overby was about to arrive to ask for fodder for the next press conference-and his daily update to Amy Grabe of the FBI, and the head of the CBI in Sacramento, both of whom were extremely troubled that Daniel Pell was still free. Unfortunately, though, Overby's briefing this morning would be primarily about the funeral plans for Juan Millar.

Her eyes caught Kellogg's and they both looked away. She hadn't had a chance to talk to the FBI agent about last night in the car.

Then decided: What is there to talk about? …afterward. How does that sound?

Young Rey Carraneo, eyes wide, stuck his perfectly round head into the conference room and said breathlessly, "Agent Dance, I'm sorry to interrupt."

"What, Rey?"

"I think…" His voice vanished. He'd been sprinting. Sweat dotted his dark face.

"What? What's wrong?"

The skinny agent said, "The thing is, Agent Dance, I think I've found him."

"Who?"

"Pell."

Chapter 40

The young agent explained that he'd called the upscale Sea View Motel in Pacific Grove-only a few miles from where Dance lived-and learned that a woman had checked in on Saturday. She was midtwenties, attractive and blond, slightly built. On Tuesday night, the desk clerk saw a Latino man go into her room.

"The clincher's the car, though," Carraneo said. "On the registration she put down Mazda. With a fake tag number-I just ran it. But the manager was sure he saw a turquoise T-bird there for a day or two. It's not there anymore."

"They're at the motel now?"

"He thinks so. The curtain's drawn but he saw some motion and lights inside."

"What's her name?"

"Carrie Madison. But there's no credit card info. She paid cash and showed a military ID but it was in a plastic wallet sleeve and scratched. Might've been faked."

Dance leaned against the edge of the table, staring at the map. "Occupancy of the motel?"

"No vacancies."

She grimaced. Plenty of innocents in the place.

Kellogg said, "Let's plan the takedown." To Michael: "You have MCSO tactical on alert?"

O'Neil was looking at Dance's troubled face, and Kellogg had to repeat the question. The detective answered, "We can get teams there in twenty minutes." He sounded reluctant.

Dance was, as well. "I'm not sure."

"About what?" the FBI agent asked.

"We know he's armed and he'll target civilians. And I know the motel. The rooms look out on a parking lot and courtyard. Hardly any cover. He could see us coming. If we try to empty the rooms nearby and across the way, he'd spot us. If we don't, people're going to get hurt. Those walls wouldn't stop a twenty-two."

Kellogg asked, "What're you thinking?"

"Surveillance. Get a team around the building, watch it nonstop. When he leaves, take him on the street."

O'Neil nodded. "I'd vote for that too."

"Vote for what?" Charles Overby asked, joining them.

Dance explained the situation.

"We've found him? All right!" He turned to Kellogg. "What about FBI tactical teams?"

"They can't get here in time. We'll have to go with county SWAT."

"Michael, you've called them?"

"Not yet. Kathryn and I have some problems with a takedown."

"What?" Overby asked testily.

She explained the risk. The CBI chief understood but he shook his head. "Bird in the hand."

Kellogg too persisted. "I really don't think we can risk waiting. He's gotten away from us twice now."

"If he gets any hint we're moving in-and all he has to do is look out the window-he'll go barricade. If there's a door to the adjoining room-"

"There is," Carraneo said. "I asked."

She gave him a nod for his initiative. Then continued, "He could take hostages. I say we get a team on the roof across the way and maybe somebody in a housekeeping uniform. Sit back and watch. When he leaves, we'll tail him. He hits a deserted intersection, block him in and get him in a cross-fire. He'll surrender."

Or be killed in a shootout. Either way…

"He's too slippery for that," Kellogg countered. "We surprise him in the motel, we move fast, he'll give up."

Our first spat, Dance thought wryly. "And go back to Capitola? I don't think so. He'll fight. Tooth and nail. Everything the women have told me about him makes me believe that. He can't stand to be controlled or confined."

Michael O'Neil said, "I know the motel too. It could turn barricade real easy. And I don't think Pell's the sort you could have a successful negotiation with."

Dance was in an odd situation. She had a strong gut feel that moving too fast was a mistake. But when it came to Daniel Pell she was wary of trusting her instinct.

Overby said, "Here's a thought. If we do end up with a barricade, what about the women in the Family? Would they be willing to help talk him out?"

Dance persisted. "Why would Pell listen to them? They never had any sway over him eight years ago. They sure don't now."

"But still, they're the closest thing to family that Pell's got." He stepped toward her phone. "I'll give them a call."

The last thing she wanted was Overby scaring them off.

"No, I'll do it." Dance called and spoke to Samantha and explained the situation to her. The woman begged Dance not to involve her; there was too great a risk her name would appear in the press. Rebecca and Linda, though, said they were willing to do what they could if it came to a barricade.

Dance hung up and related to those in the room what the women had said.

Overby said, "Well, there's your backup plan. Good."

Dance wasn't convinced that Pell would be swayed by sympathetic pleas for surrender, even-or maybe especially-from members of his former surrogate family. "I still say surveillance. He's got to come out eventually."

O'Neil said firmly, "I agree."

Kellogg looked absently at a map on the wall, troubled. He then turned to Dance. "If you're really opposed, okay. It's your choice. But remember what I was saying about the cult profile. When he goes out on the street he'll be alert, expecting something to go down. He'll have contingencies planned out. In the motel he won't be as well prepared. He'll be complacent in his castle. All cult leaders are."

"Didn't work too well in Waco," O'Neil pointed out.

"Waco was a standoff. Koresh and his people knew the officers were there. Pell won't have a clue we're coming."

That was true, she reflected.

"It is Winston's expertise, Kathryn," Overby said. "That's why he's here. I really think we should move."

Maybe her boss genuinely felt this way, though he could hardly oppose the view of the specialist that he'd wanted on board.

Stash the blame…

She stared at the map of Monterey.

"Kathryn?" Overby asked, his voice testy.

Dance debated. "Okay. We go in."

O'Neil stiffened. "We can afford some time here."

She hesitated again, glancing at Kellogg's confident eyes as he too scanned the map. "No, I think we should move on it," she said.

"Good," Overby said. "The proactive approach is the best. Absolutely."

Proactive, Dance thought bitterly. A good press conference word. She hoped the announcement to the media would be the successful arrest of Daniel Pell, and not more casualties.

"Michael?" Overby asked. "You want to contact your people?"

O'Neil hesitated, then called his office and asked for the MCSO SWAT commander.

Lying in bed in the soft morning light, Daniel Pell was thinking that they'd now have to be particularly careful. The police would know what he looked like in the Latino disguise. He could bleach much of the color out and change his hair again, but they'd be expecting that too.

Still, he couldn't leave yet. He had one more mission on the Peninsula, the whole reason for his remaining here.

Pell made coffee and when he returned to the bed, carrying the two cups, he found Jennie looking at him.

Like last night, her expression was different. She seemed more mature than when they'd first met.

"What, lovely?"

"Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"You're not coming with me to my house in Anaheim, are you?"

Her words hit him hard. He hesitated, not sure what to say, then asked, "Why do you think that?"

"I just feel it."

Pell set the coffee on the table. He started to lie-deception came so easily to him. And he could have gotten away with it. Instead he said, "I have other plans for us, lovely. I haven't told you yet."

"I know."

"You do?" He was surprised.

"I've known all along. Not exactly known. But I had a feeling."

"After we take care of a few things here, we're going somewhere else."

"Where?"

"A place I have. It's not near anything. There's no one around. It's wonderful, beautiful. We won't be bothered there. It's on a mountain. Do you like the mountains?"

"Sure, I guess."

That was good. Because Daniel Pell owned one.

Pell's aunt, in Bakersfield, was the only decent person in his family, as far as he was concerned. Aunt Barbara thought her brother, Pell's father, was mad, the chain-smoking failed minister obsessed with doing exactly what the Bible told him, terrified of God, terrified of making decisions on his own, as if that might offend Him. So the woman tried to divert the Pell boys as best she could. Richard would have nothing to do with her. But she and Daniel spent a lot of time together. She didn't corral him, didn't order him around. Didn't force him to be a housekeeper, and never even raised her voice to him, much less her hand. She let him come and go as he wished, spent money on him, asked about what he'd done during the days when he visited. She took him places. Pell remembered driving up into the hills for picnics, the zoo, movies-where he sat amid the smell of popcorn and her weighty perfume, mesmerized by the infallible assuredness of Hollywood villains and heroes up on the screen.

She also shared her views with him. One of which was her belief that there'd be a wildfire of a race war in the country at some point (her vote was the millennium-oops on that one), so she bought two hundred plus acres of forestland in Northern California, a mountaintop near Shasta. Daniel Pell had never been racist but neither was he stupid, and when the aunt ranted about the forthcoming Great War of Black and White, he was with her 100 percent.

She deeded over the land to her nephew so that he and other "decent, good, right-thinking people" (defined as "Caucasian") could escape to it when the shooting started.

Pell hadn't thought much about the place at the time, being young. But then he'd hitchhiked up there and knew instantly it was the place for him. He loved the view and the air, mostly loved the idea that it was so private; he'd be unreachable by the government and unwelcome neighbors. (It even had some large caves-and he often fantasized about what would go on in those, expanding the balloon within him nearly to the bursting point.) He did some clearing work himself and built a shack by hand. He knew that some day this would be his kingdom, the village the Pied Piper would lead his children to.

Pell had to make sure, though, that the property stayed invisible-not from the rampaging minorities but from law enforcers, given his history and proclivity toward crime. He bought books written by survivalists and the right-wing, antigovernment fringe about hiding ownership of property, which was surprisingly easy, provided you made sure the property taxes were paid (a trust and a savings account were all that it took). The arrangement was "self-perpetuating," a term that Daniel Pell loved; no dependency.

Pell's mountaintop.

Only one glitch had interfered with his plan. After he and a girl he'd met in San Francisco, Alison, had hitched up there, he happened to run into a guy who worked for the county assessor's office, Charles Pickering. He'd heard rumors of building supplies being delivered there. Did that mean improvements? Which in turn would mean a tax hike? That itself wouldn't've been a problem; Pell could have added money to the trust. But, the worst of all coincidences, Pickering had family in Marin County and recognized Pell from a story in the local paper about his arrest for a break-in.

Later that day the man tracked Pell down near his property. "Hey, I know you," the assessor said.

Which turned out to be his last words. Out came the knife and Pickering was dead thirty seconds after slumping to the ground in a bloody pile.

Nothing was going to jeopardize his enclave.

He'd escaped that one, though the police had held him for a time-long enough for Alison to decide it was over and head back south. (He'd been searching for her ever since; she'd have to die, of course, since she knew where his property was.)

The mountaintop was what sustained him after he went into the Q and then into Capitola. He dreamed of it constantly, living there with a new Family. It was what had driven him to study appellate law and craft a solid appeal for the Croyton murders, which he believed he'd win, getting the convictions knocked down, maybe even to time served.

But last year he'd lost.

And he'd had to start thinking of escape.

Now he was free, and after doing what he needed to in Monterey he'd get to his mountain as soon as he could. When that idiot of a prison guard had let Pell into the office on Sunday he'd managed to take a look at the place on the website Visual-Earth. He wasn't exactly sure of the coordinates of his property but he'd come close enough. And been thrilled to see that the area appeared as deserted as ever, no structures for miles around-the caves invisible from the prying eye of the satellite.

Lying now in the Sea View Motel, he told Jennie about the place-in general terms, of course. It was against his nature to share too much. He didn't tell her, for instance, that she wouldn't be the only one living there, but one of a dozen he'd lure away from their homes. And he certainly couldn't tell her what he envisioned for them all, living on the mountaintop. Pell realized the mistakes he'd made in Seaside ten years ago. He was too lenient, too slow to use violence.

This time, any threats would be eliminated. Fast and ruthlessly.

Absolute control…

But Jennie was content-even excited-about the few facts he shared. "I mean it. I'll go wherever you are, sweetie…" She took his coffee cup from his hands, set it aside. She lay back. "Make love to me, Daniel. Please?"

Make love, he noticed. Not fuck.

It was an indication that his student had graduated to another level. This, more than her body, began expanding the bubble within him.

He smoothed a strand of dyed hair off her forehead and kissed her. His hands began that familiar, yet always new, exploration.

Which was interrupted by a jarring ring. He grimaced and picked up the phone, listened to what the caller said and then held his hand over the mouthpiece. "It's housekeeping. They saw the 'Do not disturb' sign and want to know when they can make up the room."

Jennie gave a coy smile. "Tell her we need at least an hour."

"I'll tell her two. Just to be sure."

Chapter 41

The staging area for the assault was in an intersection around the corner from the Sea View Motel.

Dance still wasn't sure about the wisdom of a tactical operation here, but once the decision had been made, certain rules fell automatically into place. And one of those was that she had to take a backseat. This wasn't her expertise and there was little for her to do but be a spectator.

Albert Stemple and TJ would represent the CBI on the takedown teams, which were made up mostly of SWAT deputies from Monterey County and several Highway Patrol officers. The eight men and two women were gathered beside a nondescript truck, which held enough weapons and ammunition to put down a modest riot.

Pell was still inside the room that the woman had rented; the lights were off but a surveillance officer, on the back side of the motel, clapped a microphone on the wall and reported sounds coming from their room. He couldn't be sure, but it sounded like they were having sex.

That was good news, thought Dance. A naked suspect is a vulnerable suspect.

On the phone with the manager, she asked about the rooms next to Pell's. The one to his left was empty; the guests had just left with fishing tackle, which meant they wouldn't be back until much later. Unfortunately, though, as for the room on the other side, a family appeared to be still inside.

Dance's initial reaction was to call them and tell them to get down on the floor in the back. But they wouldn't do that, of course. They'd flee, flinging open the door, the parents rushing the children outside. And Pell would know exactly what was going on. He had the instincts of a cat.

Imagining them, the others in the rooms nearby and the housekeeping staff, Kathryn Dance thought suddenly, Call it off. Do what your gut tells you. You've got the authority. Overby wouldn't like it-that would be a battle-but she could handle him. O'Neil and the MCSO would back her up.

Still, she couldn't trust her instinct at the moment. She didn't know people like Pell; Winston Kellogg did.

He happened to arrive just then, walking up to the tactical officers, shaking hands and introducing himself. He'd changed outfits yet again. But there was nothing country club about his new look. He was in black jeans, a black shirt and a thick bulletproof vest, the bandage on his neck visible.

TJ's words came back to her.

He's a bit of a straight arrow but he's not afraid to get his hands dirty…

In this garb, with his attentive eyes, he reminded her even more of her late husband. Bill had spent most of his time doing routine investigations, but occasionally he'd dressed for tactical ops. She'd seen him once or twice looking like this, confidently holding an elaborate machine gun.

Dance watched Kellogg load and chamber a round in a large silver automatic pistol.

"Now that's some weapon of mass destruction," TJ said. "Schweizerische Industries Gesellschaft."

"What?" Impatient.

"S-I-G as in SIG-Sauer. It's the new P220. Forty-five."

"It's forty-five caliber?"

"Yup," TJ said. "Apparently the bureau's adopted a let's-make-sure-they're-never-getting-up-ever-ever-again philosophy. One I'm not necessarily opposed to."

Dance and all the other agents at the CBI carried only 9mm Glocks, concerned that a higher caliber could cause more collateral damage.

Kellogg pulled on a windbreaker advertising him as an FBI agent and joined her and O'Neil, who was today in his khaki chief deputy uniform-body armor too.

Dance briefed them about the rooms next to Pell's. Kellogg said when they did the kick-in, he'd simultaneously have somebody enter the room next door and get the family down, under cover.

Not much, but it was something.

Rey Carraneo radioed in; he was in a surveillance position on the far side of the parking lot, out of sight, behind a Dumpster. The lot was empty of people at the moment-though there were a number of cars-and the housekeepers were going about their business, as Kellogg had instructed. At the last minute, as the tac teams were on their way, other officers would pull them to cover.

In five minutes the officers had finished dressing in armor and checking weapons. They were huddled in a small yard near the main office. They looked at O'Neil and Dance but it was Kellogg who spoke first. "I want a rolling entry, one team through the door, the second backup, right behind." He held up a sketch of the room, which the manager had drawn. "First team, here to the bed. Second, the closets and bathroom. I need some flash-bangs."

He was referring to the loud, blinding hand grenades used to disorient suspects without causing serious injury.

One of the MCSO officers handed him several. He put them in his pocket.

Kellogg said, "I'll take the first team in. I'm on point."

Dance wished he wouldn't; there were far younger officers on the Monterey SWAT team, most of them recent military discharges with combat experience.

The FBI agent continued, "He'll have that woman with him, and she may appear to be a hostage but she's just as dangerous as he is. Remember, she's the one who lit up the courthouse and that's what killed Juan Millar."

Acknowledging nods from them all.

"Now, we'll circle around the side of the building and move in fast along the front. Those going past his window, stay on your bellies. Don't crouch. As close to the building as you can get. Assume he's looking out. I want people in armor to pull the housekeepers behind cars. Then we go in. And don't assume there are only two perps in there."

His words put in mind Dance's conversation with Rebecca Sheffield.

Structure the solution…

He said to Dance, "That sound okay to you?"

Which wasn't really the question he was asking.

His query was more specific: Do I have authority here?

Kellogg was being generous enough to give her one last chance to pull the plug on the op.

She debated only a moment and said, "It's fine. Do it." Dance started to say something to O'Neil but couldn't think of any words that conveyed her thoughts-she wasn't sure what those thoughts were, in any case. He didn't look at her, just drew his Glock and, along with TJ and Stemple, moved out with a backup team.

"Let's get into position," Kellogg said to the tactical officers.

Dance joined Carraneo by the Dumpster and plugged in her headset and stalk mike.

A few minutes later her radio crackled. Kellogg, saying, "On my five, we move."

Affirmative responses came in from the leaders of the various teams.

"Let's do it. One…two…"

Dance wiped her palm on her slacks and closed it around the grip of her weapon.

"…three…four…five, go!"

The men and women dashed around the corner and Dance's eyes flipped back and forth from Kellogg to O'Neil.

Please, she thought. No more deaths…

Had they structured it right?

Had they recognized the patterns?

Kellogg got to the door first, giving a nod to the MCSO officer carrying a battering ram. The big man swung the weighty tube into the fancy door and it crashed open. Kellogg pitched in one of the grenades. Two officers rushed into the room beside Pell's and others pulled the maids behind parked cars. When the flash-bang detonated with a stunning explosion Kellogg's and O'Neil's teams raced inside.

Then: silence.

No gunshots, no screams.

Finally she heard Kellogg's voice, lost in a staticky transmission, ending with "…him."

"Say again," Dance transmitted urgently. "Say again, Win. Do you have him?"

A crackle. "Negative. He's gone."

Her Daniel was brilliant, her Daniel knew everything.

As they drove, fast but not over the limit, away from the motel, Jennie Marston looked back.

No squad cars yet, no lights, no sirens.

Angel songs, she recited to herself. Angel songs, protect us.

Her Daniel was a genius.

Twenty minutes ago, as they'd started to make love, he'd frozen, sitting up in bed.

"What, honey?" she'd asked, alarmed.

"Housekeeping. Have they ever called about making up the room?"

"I don't think so."

"Why would they today? And it's early. They wouldn't call until later. Somebody wanted to see if we were in. The police! Get dressed. Now."

"You want-"

"Get dressed!"

She leapt from bed.

"Grab what you can. Get your computer and don't leave anything personal." He'd put a porn movie on TV, looked outside, then walked to the adjoining door, held the gun up and kicked it in, startling two young men inside.

At first she thought he'd kill them but he just told them to stand up and turn around, tied their hands with fishing line and taped washcloths in their mouths. He pulled their wallets out and looked them over. "I've got your names and addresses. You stay here and be quiet. If you say anything to anybody, your families're dead. Okay?"

They nodded and Daniel closed the adjoining door and blocked it with a chair. He dumped out the contents of the fishermen's cooler and tackle boxes and put their own bags inside. They dressed in the men's yellow slickers and, wearing baseball caps, they carried the gear and the fishing rods outside.

"Don't look around. Walk right to our car. But slow." They headed across the parking lot. He spent some minutes loading the car, trying to look casual. They then climbed in and drove away, Jennie struggling to keep calm. She wanted to cry, she was so nervous.

But excited too. She had to admit that. The escape had been a total high. She'd never felt so alive, driving away from the motel. She thought about her husband, the boyfriends, her mother…nothing she'd experienced with any of them approached what she felt at this moment.

They passed four police cars speeding toward the motel. No sirens.

Angel songs…

Her prayer worked. Now, they were miles from the inn and no one was after them.

Finally he laughed and exhaled a long breath. "How about that, lovely?"

"We did it, sweetie!" She whooped and shook her head wildly as if she were at a rock concert. She pressed her lips against his neck and bit him playfully.

Soon they were pulling into the parking lot of the Butterfly Inn, a small dump of a motel on Lighthouse, the commercial strip in Monterey. Daniel told her, "Go get a room. We'll be finished up here soon, but it might not be till tomorrow. Get it for a week, though; it'll be less suspicious. In the back again. Maybe that cottage there. Use a different name. Tell the clerk you left your ID in your suitcase and you'll bring it later."

Jennie registered and returned to the car. They carried the cooler and boxes inside.

Pell lay on the bed, arms behind his neck. She curled up next to him. "We're going to have to hide out here. There's a grocery store up the street. Go get some food, would you, lovely?"

"And more hair dye?"

He smiled. "Not a bad idea."

"Can I be a redhead?"

"You can be green if you want. I'd love you anyway."

God, he was perfect…

She heard the crackle of the TV coming on as she stepped out of the door, slipping the cap on. A few days ago she'd never have thought she'd be okay with Daniel hurting people, giving up her house in Anaheim, never seeing the hummingbirds and wrens and sparrows in her backyard again.

Now, it seemed perfectly natural. In fact, wonderful.

Anything for you, Daniel. Anything.

Chapter 42

"And how did he know you were there?" Overby asked, standing in Dance's office. The man was jumpy. Not only had he engineered CBI's taking over the manhunt, but he was now on record as supporting the bad tactical decision at the motel. Paranoid too. Dance could tell this from his body language and his verbal content as well: his use of "you," whereas Dance or O'Neil would've said "we."

Stashing the blame…

"Must've sensed something about the hotel was different, maybe the staff were acting strange," Kellogg replied. "Like in the restaurant at Moss Landing. He's got the instincts of a cat."

Echoing Dance's thoughts earlier.

"And I thought your people heard him inside, Michael."

"Porn," Dance said.

The detective explained, "He had porn on pay-per-view. That was what surveillance heard."

The postmortem was discouraging, if not embarrassing. It turned out that the manager had, without knowing it, seen Pell and the woman leaving-pretending to be the two fishermen in the adjoining room-headed off for squid and salmon in Monterey Bay. The two men, bound and gagged in the next room, were reluctant to talk; Dance pried out of them that Pell had gotten their addresses and threatened to kill their families if they called for help.

Patterns…goddamn patterns.

Winston Kellogg was upset about the escape, but not apologetic. He'd made a judgment call, like Dance's at Moss Landing. His plan could have worked, but fate had intervened, and she respected that he wasn't bitter or whiny about the outcome; he was focused on the next steps.

Overby's assistant joined them. She told her boss he had a call from Sacramento, and SAC Amy Grabe, from the FBI, was holding on two. She wasn't happy.

An angry grunt. The CBI chief turned and followed her back to his office.

Carraneo called to report that the canvass he and several other officers were conducting had so far yielded nothing. A cleaning woman thought she'd seen a dark car driving toward the back of the lot before the raid. No tag number. No one had seen anything else.

Dark sedan. The same useless description they'd gotten at James Reynolds's house. A Monterey Sheriff's deputy arrived with a large packet. He handed it to O'Neil. "Crime scene, sir." The detective set out photos and a list of the physical evidence. There was no doubt; the fingerprints revealed that the two occupants of the room were indeed Pell and his accomplice. Clothes, food wrappers, newspapers, personal hygiene items, some cosmetics. Also clothespins, what looked like a whip made out of a coat hanger, dotted with blood, panty hose that had been tied to the bedposts, dozens of condoms-new and used-and a large tube of K-Y lubricant.

Kellogg said, "Typical of cult leaders. Jim Jones in Guyana? He had sex three or four times a day."

"Why is that?" Dance asked.

"Because they can. They can do pretty much whatever they want."

O'Neil's phone rang and he took the call. He listened for a few moments. "Good. Scan it and send it to Agent Dance's computer. You have her email?…Thanks."

He looked at Dance. "Crime scene found an email in the pocket of the woman's jeans."

A few minutes later Dance called up the message on the screen. She printed out the.pdf attachment.

From: CentralAdmin2235@Capitolacorrectional.com

To: JMSUNGIRL@Euroserve.co.uk

Re:

Jennie, my lovely-

Bargained my way into the office to write this. I had to. There's something I want to say. I woke up thinking about you-our plans to go out to the beach, and the desert, and watching the fireworks every night in your backyard. I was thinking, you're smart and beautiful and romantic-who could ask for anything more in a girl? We've danced around it a lot and haven't said it but I want to now. I love you. There's no doubt in my mind, you're unlike anybody I've ever met. So, there you have it. Have to go now. Hope these words of mine haven't upset you or "freaked" you out.

Soon, Daniel

So Pell had sent emails from Capitola-though prior to Sunday, Dance noted, probably why the tech hadn't found them.

Dance noted that Jennie was her first name. Last or middle initial M.

JMSUNGIRL.

O'Neil added, "Our tech department's contacting the ISP now. Foreign servers aren't very cooperative but we'll keep our fingers crossed."

Dance was staring at the email. "Look at what he said: beach, desert and fireworks every night. All three near her house. That ought to give us some ideas."

Kellogg said, "The car was stolen in Los Angeles… She's from Southern California somewhere: beach and desert. But fireworks every night?"

"Anaheim," Dance said.

The other parent present nodded. O'Neil said, "Disneyland."

Dance met O'Neil's eye. She said, "Your idea earlier: the banks and withdrawals of ninety-two hundred dollars. All of L.A. County-okay, maybe that was too much. But Anaheim? Much smaller. And now, we know her first name. And possibly an initial. Can your people handle this one, Win?"

"Sure, that'd be a more manageable number of banks," he said agreeably. He picked up the phone and called the request in to the L.A. field office.

Dance called the Point Lobos Inn. She explained to the women what had happened at the motel.

"He got away again?" Samantha asked.

"I'm afraid so." She gave her the details of the email, including the screen name, but none of them could recall anybody with that name or initials.

"We also found evidence of S and M activity." She described the sexual gear. "Could that've been Pell, or would it've been the woman's idea? Might help us narrow down a search, if it was hers. A professional, a dominatrix maybe."

Samantha was quiet for a moment. Then she said, "I, ah…That would've been Daniel's idea. He was kind of that way." Embarrassed.

Dance thanked her. "I know you're anxious to leave. I promise I won't keep you much longer."

It was only a few minutes later that Winston Kellogg received a call. His eyes flashed in surprise. He looked up. "They've got an ID. A woman named Jennie Marston withdrew nine thousand two hundred dollars-virtually her whole savings account-from Pacific Trust in Anaheim last week. Cash. We're getting a warrant, and our agents and Orange County deputies're going to raid her house. They'll let us know what they find."

Sometimes you do get a break.

O'Neil grabbed the phone and in five minutes a jpeg image of a young woman's driver's license photo was on Dance's computer. She called TJ into her office.

"Yo?"

She nodded at the screen. "Do an EFIS image. Make her a brunette, redhead, long hair, short hair. Get it to the Sea View. I want to make sure it's her. And if it is, I want a copy sent to every TV station and newspaper in the area."

"You bet, boss." Without sitting, he typed on her keyboard, then hurried out, as if he were trying to beat the picture's arrival to his office.

Charles Overby stepped into the doorway. "That call from Sacramento is-"

"Hold on, Charles." Dance briefed him on what had happened and his mood changed instantly.

"Well, a lead. Good. At last…Anyway, we've got another issue. Sacramento got a call from the Napa County Sheriff's Office."

"Napa?"

"They've got someone named Morton Nagle in jail."

Dance nodded slowly. She hadn't told Overby about enlisting the writer's aid to find the Sleeping Doll.

"I talked to the sheriff. And he's not a happy camper."

"What'd Nagle do?" Kellogg asked, lifting an eyebrow to Dance.

"The Croyton girl? She lives up there somewhere with her aunt and uncle. He apparently wanted to talk her into being interviewed by you."

"That's right."

"Oh. I didn't hear about it." He let that linger for a moment. "The aunt told him no. But this morning he snuck onto their property and tried to convince the girl in person."

So much for uninvolved, objective journalism.

"The aunt took a shot at him."

"What?"

"She missed but if the deputies hadn't shown up, the sheriff thinks she would've taken him out on the second try. And nobody seemed very upset about that possibility. They think we had something to do with it. This's a can of worms."

"I'll handle it," Dance told him.

"We weren't involved, were we? I told him we weren't."

"I'll handle it."

Overby considered this, then gave her the sheriff's number and headed back to his office. Dance called the sheriff and identified herself. She told him the situation.

The man grunted. "Well, Agent Dance, I appreciate the problem, Pell and all. Made the news up here, I'll tell you. But we can't just release him. Theresa's aunt and uncle went forward with the complaint. And I have to say we all keep a special eye out for that girl around here, knowing what she went through. The magistrate set bail at a hundred thousand and none of the bailbondsmen're interested in handling it."

"Can I talk to the prosecutor?"

"He's on trial, will be all day."

Morton Nagle would have to spend a little time in jail. She felt bad for him, and appreciated his change of mind. But there was nothing she could do. "I'd like to talk to the girl's aunt or uncle."

"I don't know what good it'd do."

"It's important."

A pause. "Well, now, Agent Dance, I really don't think they'd be inclined. In fact, I can pretty much guarantee it."

"Will you give me their number? Please?" Direct questions are often the most effective.

But so are direct answers. "No. Good-bye now, Agent Dance."

Chapter 43

Dance and O'Neil were alone in her office.

She'd learned from the Orange County Sheriff's Department that Jennie Marston's father was dead and her mother had a history of petty crime, drug abuse and emotional disabilities. There was no record of the mother's whereabouts; she had a few relatives on the East Coast but no one had heard from Jennie in years.

Dance learned that Jennie had gone to community college for a year, studying food management, then dropped out, apparently to get married. She'd worked for a Hair Cuttery for a year and then went into food service, employed by a number of caterers and bakeries in Orange County, a quiet worker who would arrive on time, do her job and then leave. She led a solitary life, and deputies could find no acquaintances, no close friends. Her ex-husband hadn't talked to her in years but said that she deserved whatever happened to her.

Not surprisingly, police records revealed a history of difficult relationships. Deputies had been summoned by hospital workers at least a half-dozen times on suspicion of domestic abuse involving the ex and at least four other partners. Social Services had started files, but Jennie had never pursued any complaints, let alone sought restraining orders.

Just the sort to fall prey to someone like Daniel Pell.

Dance mentioned this to O'Neil. The detective nodded. He was looking out Dance's window at two pine trees that had grafted themselves to each other over the years, producing a knuckle-like knot at eye level. Dance would often stare at the curious blemish when the facts of a case refused to coalesce into helpful insights.

"So, what's on your mind?" she asked.

"You want to know?"

"I asked, didn't I?" In a tone of good humor.

It wasn't reciprocated. He said testily, "You were right. He was wrong."

"Kellogg? At the motel?"

"We should've followed your initial plan. Set up a surveillance perimeter the minute we heard about the motel. Not spent a half-hour assembling Tactical. That's how he caught on. Somebody gave something away."

Instincts of a cat…

She hated defending herself, especially to someone she was so close to. "A takedown made sense at the time; a lot was going on and it was happening fast."

"No, it didn't make sense. That's why you hesitated. Even at the end, you weren't sure."

"Who knows anything in situations like this?"

"Okay, you felt it was the wrong approach and what you feel is usually right."

"It was just bad luck. If we'd moved in earlier, we probably would've had him." She regretted saying this, afraid he'd take her words as a criticism of the MCSO.

"And people would've died. We're just goddamn lucky nobody was hurt. Kellogg's plan was a prescription for a shootout. I think we're lucky Pell wasn't there. It could've been a bloodbath." He crossed his arms-a protective gesture, which was ironic because he still had on the bulletproof vest. "You're giving up control of the operation. Your operation."

"To Winston?"

"Yes, exactly. He's a consultant. And it seems like he's running the case."

"He's the specialist, Michael. I'm not. You're not."

"He is? I'm sorry, he talks about the cult mentality, he talks about profiles. But I don't see him closing in on Pell. You're the one who's been doing that."

"Look at his credentials, his background. He's an expert."

"Okay, he's got some insights. They're helpful. But he wasn't enough of an expert to catch Pell an hour ago." He lowered his voice. "Look, at the hotel, Overby backed Winston. Obviously-he's the one who wanted him on board. You got the pressure from the FBI and your boss. But we've handled pressure before, the two of us. We could've backed them down."

"What exactly are you saying? That I'm deferring to him for some other reason?"

Looking away. An aversion gesture. People feel stress not only when they lie; sometimes they feel it when they tell the truth. "I'm saying you're giving Kellogg too much control over the operation. And, frankly, over yourself."

She snapped, "Because he reminds me of my husband? Is that what you're saying?"

"I don't know. You tell me. Does he remind you of Bill?"

"This is ridiculous."

"You brought it up."

"Well, anything other than professional judgment's none of your business."

"Fine," O'Neil said tersely. "I'll stick to professional judgment. Winston was off base. And you acquiesced to him, knowing he was wrong."

"'Knowing?' It was fifty-five, forty-five on the tac approach at the motel. I had one opinion at first. I changed it. Any good officer can be swayed."

"By reason. By logical analysis."

"What about your judgment? How objective are you?"

"Me? Why aren't I objective?"

"Because of Juan."

A faint recognition response in O'Neil's eyes. Dance had hit close to home, and she supposed the detective felt responsible in some way for the young officer's death, thinking perhaps that he hadn't trained Millar enough.

His protégés…

She regretted her comment.

Dance and O'Neil had fought before; you can't have friendship and a working relationship without wrinkles. But never with an edge this sharp. And why was he saying what he did, his comments slipping over the bounds into her personal life? This was a first.

And the kinesics read almost as jealousy.

They fell silent. The detective lifted his hands and shrugged. This was an emblem gesture, which translated: I've said my piece. The tension in the room was as tight as that entwined pine knot, thin fibers woven together into steel.

They resumed their discussion of the next steps: checking with Orange County for more details about Jennie Marston, canvassing for witnesses and following up on the crime scene at the Sea View Motel. They sent Carraneo to the airport, bus station and rental-car offices armed with the woman's picture. They kicked around a few other ideas too, but the climate in the office had dropped significantly, summer to fall, and when Winston Kellogg came into the room, O'Neil retreated, explaining that he had to check in with his office and brief the sheriff. He said a perfunctory good-bye that was aimed at neither of them.

His hand throbbing from the cut sustained when he vaulted the Bollings' chain-link fence, Morton Nagle glanced at the guard outside the holding cell of Napa County Men's Detention.

The big Latino reciprocated with a cold gaze.

Apparently Nagle had committed the number-one offense in Vallejo Springs-not the technical infractions of trespass and assault (where the hell had they got that?) but the far more troubling crime of upsetting their local daughter.

"I have a right to make a phone call."

No response.

He wanted to reassure his wife that he was okay. But mostly he wanted to get word to Kathryn Dance about where Theresa was. He'd changed his mind and given up on his book and journalistic ethics. Goddamn it, he was going to do everything in his power to make sure that Daniel Pell got caught and flung back into Capitola.

Not illuminating evil, but attacking it himself. Like a shark. Seeing Theresa in person was what had swayed him: a dear, attractive, vivacious girl who deserved to be leading the normal life of a teenager, and pure evil had destroyed the hope for that. Telling people her story wasn't enough; Morton Nagle personally wanted Pell's head.

But apparently they were going to keep him incommunicado for as long as they possibly could.

"I really would like to make a phone call."

The guard looked at him as if he'd been caught selling crack to kids outside Sunday school and said nothing.

He stood up and paced. The look from the guard said, Sit down. Nagle sat.

Ten long, long minutes later he heard a door open. Footsteps approached.

"Nagle."

He gazed at another guard. Bigger than the first one.

"Stand up." The guard pushed a button and the door opened. "Hold out your hands."

It sounded ridiculous, like someone offering a child some candy. He lifted them and watched the cuffs clatter around his wrists.

"This way." The man took him by the arm, strong fingers closing around his biceps. Nagle smelled garlic and cigarette smoke residue. He almost pulled away but didn't think it would be a smart idea. They walked like this, the chains clinking, for fifty feet down a dim corridor. They continued to interview room A.

The guard opened it and gestured Nagle inside.

He paused.

Theresa Croyton, the Sleeping Doll, sat at a table, looking up at him with dark eyes. The guard pushed him forward and he sat down across from her.

"Hello again," he said.

The girl looked over his arms and face and hands, as if searching for evidence of prisoner abuse. Or maybe hoping for it. She noticed the bandage on his hand, squinted and then must have remembered that he'd cut it vaulting the fence.

He knew she was only seventeen but there was nothing young about her, except the white delicacy of her skin. She didn't die in Daniel Pell's attack, Nagle thought. But her childhood did. His anger at the killer burned hotter yet.

The guard stepped back. But he remained close; Nagle could hear his large body absorbing sounds.

"You can leave us alone," Theresa said.

"I have to be here, Miss. Rules." He had a moveable smile. Polite to her, hostile to Nagle.

Theresa hesitated, then focused on the writer. "Tell me what you were going to say in my backyard. About Daniel Pell."

"He's staying in the Monterey area for some reason. The police can't figure out why."

"And he tried to kill the prosecutor who sent him to jail?"

"James Reynolds, that's right."

"He's okay?"

"Yes. The policewoman I was telling you about saved him."

"Who are you exactly?" she asked. Direct questions, unemotional.

"Your aunt didn't tell you anything?"

"No."

"I've been speaking to her for a month now about a book I wanted to write. About you."

"Me? Like, why would you want to write that? I'm nobody interesting."

"Oh, I think you are. I wanted to write about somebody who's been hurt by something bad. How they were beforehand, how they are after. How their life changes-and how things might've gone without the crime."

"No, my aunt didn't tell me any of that."

"Does she know you're here?"

"Yeah, I told her. She drove me here. She won't let me have a driver's license."

She glanced up at the guard, then back to Nagle. "They didn't want me to talk to you either, the police here. But there was nothing they could do about it."

"Why did you come to see me, Theresa?" he asked.

"That policewoman you mentioned?"

Nagle was astonished. "You mean, it's all right if she comes to see you?"

"No," the girl said adamantly, shaking her head.

Nagle couldn't blame her. "I understand. But-"

"I want to go see her."

The writer wasn't sure he'd heard correctly. "You want to what?"

"I want to go down to Monterey. Meet her in person."

"Oh, you don't have to do that."

She nodded firmly. "Like, yeah, I do."

"Why?"

"Because."

Which Nagle thought was as good a response as any.

"I'll have my aunt drive me down there now."

"She'll do that?"

"Or I'll take the bus. Or hitchhike. You can come with us."

"Well, there's one problem," Nagle said.

The girl frowned.

He chuckled. "I'm in jail."

She looked toward the guard, surprise in her eyes. "Didn't you tell him?"

The guard shook his head.

Theresa said, "I bailed you out."

"You?"

"My father was worth a lot of money." She now gave a laugh, a small one, but genuine and from her heart. "I'm a rich girl."

Chapter 44

Footsteps approaching.

The gun was in Daniel Pell's hand instantly.

In the cheap hotel, its aroma air freshener and insecticide, he glanced outside, slipped the pistol back into his waistband, seeing that it was Jennie. He shut off the TV and opened the door. She stepped inside, carrying a heavy shopping bag. He took it from her and set it on the bedside table beside a clock alarm flashing 12:00.

"How'd it go, lovely? See any police?"

"None." She pulled her cap off and rubbed her scalp. Pell kissed her head, smelled sweat and the sour scent of the dye.

Another glance out the window. After a long moment Daniel Pell came to a decision. "Let's get out of here for a bit, lovely."

"Outside? I thought you didn't think it was a good idea."

"Oh, I know a place. It'll be safe."

She kissed him. "Like we're going on a date."

"Like a date."

They put their caps on and walked to the door. Her smile gone, Jennie paused and looked him over. "You okay, sweetheart?"

Sweetheart.

"Sure am, lovely. Just that scare back at the motel. But everything's fine now. Fine as could be."

They drove along a complicated route of surface streets to a beach on the way to Big Sur, south of Carmel. Wooden walkways wound past rocks and dunes cordoned off with thin wires to protect the fragile environment. Sea otters and seals hovered in the raging surf and, at ebb, the tidal pools displayed whole universes in their saltwater prisms.

It was one of the most beautiful stretches of beach on the Central Coast.

And one of the most dangerous. Every year three or four people died here, wandering out onto the craggy rocks for photos, only to be swept breathlessly into the forty-five-degree water by a surprise wave. Hypothermia could kill, though most didn't last that long. Usually the screaming victims were smashed on the rocks or drowned, tangled in the mazelike kelp beds.

Normally the place would be crowded, but now, with the day's sweeping fog, wind and mist, the area was deserted. Daniel Pell and his lovely walked from the car down to the water. A gray wave exploded on rocks fifty feet away.

"Oh, it's beautiful. But it's cold. Put your arm around me."

Pell did. Felt her shivering.

"This is amazing. Near my house, the beaches there? They're all flat. It's, like, just sand and surf. Unless you go down to La Jolla. Even then, it's nothing like this. It's very spiritual here… Oh, look at them!" Jennie sounded like a schoolgirl. She was staring at the otters. A large one balanced a rock on his chest and pounded something against it.

"What's he doing?"

"He's breaking open a shell. Abalone or a clam or something."

"How'd they figure out how to do that?"

"Got hungry, I guess."

"Where we're going, your mountain? Is it as pretty as this?"

"I think it's prettier. And a lot more deserted. We don't want tourists, do we?"

"Nope." Her hand went to her nose. Was she sensing something was wrong? She muttered something, the words lost in the relentless wind.

"What was that?"

"Oh, I said 'angel songs.'"

"Lovely, you keep saying that. What do you mean?"

Jennie smiled. "I do that too much. It's like a prayer, or a mantra. I say it over and over to help me feel better."

"And 'angel song' is your mantra?"

Jennie laughed. "When I was little and Mother'd get arrested-"

"For what?"

"Oh, I don't have time to tell you everything."

Pell looked around again. The area was deserted. "That bad, huh?"

"You name it, she did it. Shoplifting, menacing, stalking. Assault too. She attacked my father. And boyfriends who were breaking up with her-there were a lot of those. If there was a fight, the police came to our house or wherever we were and a lot of times they'd be in a hurry and use the siren. Whenever I'd hear it, I'd think, Thank God, they're going to take her away for a while. It's like the angels were coming to save me. I got to think of sirens like that. Angel songs."

"Angel songs. I like that." Pell nodded.

Suddenly he turned her around and kissed her on the mouth. He leaned back and looked at her face now.

The same face that had been on the motel TV screen a half-hour earlier while she'd been out shopping.

"There's been a new development in the Daniel Pell escape. His accomplice has been identified as Jennie Ann Marston, twenty-five, from Anaheim, California. She's described as about five foot five, weighing a hundred and ten pounds. Her driver's license picture is in the upper left-hand corner of your screen and the photos to the right and below show what she might look like now, after cutting and dyeing her hair. If you see her, do not attempt to apprehend. Call 911 or the hotline you see at the bottom of your screen."

The picture was unsmiling, as if she was upset that the Motor Vehicles camera would capture her flawed nose and make it more prominent than her eyes, ears and lips.

Apparently Jennie had left something in the Sea View Motel room after all.

He turned her around to face the raging ocean, stood behind her.

"Angel songs," she whispered.

Pell held her tight for a moment, then kissed her on the cheek.

"Look at that," he said, gazing at the beach.

"What?"

"That rock there, in the sand."

He bent down and unearthed a smooth stone, which weighed maybe ten pounds. It was luminescent gray.

"What do you think it looks like, lovely?"

"Oh, when you hold it that way it's like a cat, don't you think? A cat sleeping all curled up. Like my Jasmine."

"That was your cat?" Pell hefted it in his hand.

"When I was a little girl. My mother loved it. She'd never hurt Jasmine. She'd hurt me, she'd hurt a lot of people. But never Jasmine. Isn't that funny?"

"That's exactly what I was thinking, lovely. It looks just like a cat."

Dance called O'Neil first with the news.

He didn't pick up, so she left a message about Theresa. It wasn't like him not to answer but she knew he wasn't screening. Even his outburst-well, not outburst, okay-even his criticism earlier had been grounded in a law enforcer's desire to run a case most efficiently.

She wondered now, as she occasionally did, what it would be like to live with the cop/book-collector/seafarer. Good and bad, each in large quantities, was her usual conclusion, and she now hung up on that thought at the same time she did the phone.

Dance found Kellogg in the conference room. She said, "We've got Theresa Croyton. Nagle just called from Napa. Get this. She bailed him out."

"How 'bout that? Napa, hm? That's where they moved to. Are you going up there to talk to her?"

"No, she's coming here. With her aunt."

"Here? With Pell still loose?"

"She wanted to come. Insisted, in fact. It was the only way she'd agree."

"Gutsy."

"I'll say."

Dance called massive Albert Stemple and arranged for him to take over Theresa's guard detail when they arrived.

She looked up and found Kellogg studying the pictures on her desk, the ones of her children. His face was still. She wondered again if there was something about the fact that she was a mother that touched, or troubled, him. This was an open question between them, she noted, wondering if there were others-or, more likely, what the others would be.

The great, complicated journey of the heart.

She said, "Theresa won't be here for a while. I'd like to go back to the inn, see our guests again."

"I'll leave that up to you. I think a male figure's a distraction."

Dance agreed. The sex of each participant makes a difference in how an interrogator handles a session, and she often adjusted her behavior along the androgyny scale depending on the subject. Since Daniel Pell had been such a powerful force in these women's lives, the presence of a man might throw off the balance. Kellogg had backed off earlier and let her pursue the questioning, but it would be better for him not to be there at all. She told him this and said she appreciated his understanding.

She started to rise but he surprised her by saying, "Wait, please."

Dance sat back. He gave a faint laugh and looked into her eyes.

"I haven't been completely honest with you, Kathryn. And it wouldn't mean anything…except for last night."

What was this? she wondered. An ex who isn't exactly an ex. Or a girlfriend who's very much present?

Neither of which made any difference at this point. They hardly knew each other and the emotional connection was potentially significant but negligible so far. Whatever it might be, better to air the issue now, up front.

"About children."

Dance dropped the it's-about-me line of thought, and sat forward, giving him her full attention.

"The fact is my wife and I did have a child."

The tense of the verb made Kathryn Dance's stomach clench.

"She died in a car accident when she was sixteen."

"Oh, Win…"

He gestured at the picture of Dance and her husband. "Bit of a parallel. Car crash…Anyway, I was a shit about it. Terrible. I couldn't handle the situation at all. I tried to be there for Jill, but I really wasn't, not the way I should've been. You know what it's like being a cop. The job can fill up as much of your life as you want. And I let too much in. We got divorced and it was a really bad time for a few years. For both of us. We've patched it up and we're friends now, sort of. And she's remarried.

"But I just have to say, the kid thing. It's hard for me to be natural with them. I've cut that out of my life. You're the first woman I've gotten anywhere near close to who has children. All I'm saying is, if I act a little stiff, it's not you or Wes or Maggie. They're wonderful. It's something I'm working on in therapy. So there." He lifted his hands, which is usually an emblem gesture, meaning, I've said what I wanted to. Hate me or love me, but there it is…

"I'm so sorry, Win."

Without hesitation, she took his hand and pressed it. "I'm glad you told me. I know it was hard. And I did see something. I wasn't sure what, though."

"Eagle eye."

She laughed. "I overheard Wes one time. He told his friend it sucks to have a mom who's a cop."

"Especially one who's a walking lie detector." He smiled too.

"I've got my own issues, because of Bill."

And because of Wes, she thought, but said nothing.

"We'll take things slow."

"Slow is good," she said.

He gripped her forearm, a simple, intimate and appropriate gesture.

"Now I should get back to the Family reunion."

She walked him to his temporary office, then drove back to the Point Lobos Inn.

As soon as she walked inside, she knew the atmosphere had changed. The kinesics were wholly different from yesterday. The women were restless and edgy. She noted postures and facial expressions that suggestion tension, defensiveness and outright hostility. Interviews and interrogations were long-term processes, and it wasn't unusual for a successful day to be followed by one that was a complete waste of time. Dance was discouraged and assessed that it might take long hours, if not days, to get them in a place mentally where they could once again provide helpful information.

Still, she gave it a shot. She ran through what they'd learned about Jennie Marston and asked if the women knew anything about her. They didn't. Dance then tried to resume the conversation of yesterday but today the comments and recollections were superficial. Linda seemed to be speaking for all of them when she said, "I just don't know how much more I can add. I'd like to go home."

Dance believed they'd already proved invaluable; they'd saved the life of Reynolds and his family and had given insights into Pell's MO and, more important, his goal to retreat to a "mountaintop" somewhere; with more investigation they might find out where. Still, Dance wanted them to stay until she'd interviewed Theresa Croyton, in the hope that something the girl said might be a springboard to help the women's memories, though, as she'd promised the aunt, she said nothing of the impending visit. They agreed reluctantly to wait for a few more hours.

As Dance left, Rebecca accompanied her outside. They stood under an awning; a light drizzle was falling. The agent lifted an eyebrow. She was wondering if the woman was going to deliver another lecture on their incompetence.

But the message was different.

"Maybe it's obvious but I thought I should mention something. Sam doesn't appreciate how dangerous Pell is, and Linda thinks he's a poor, misunderstood product of his childhood."

"Go on."

"What we were telling you yesterday about him-all that psychological stuff-well, it's true. But I've been through plenty of therapy and I know it's easy to focus on the jargon and the theory and forget about the person behind them. You've managed to stop Pell from doing what he wants to, a couple of times, and nearly caught him. Does he know your name?"

A nod. "But do you think he'd waste time coming after me?"

"Are you immune to him?" Rebecca asked, cocking an eyebrow.

And that answered the question right there. Yes, she was immune to his control. And therefore she was a risk.

Threats have to be eliminated…

"I have a feeling he's worried. You're a real danger to him and he wants to stop you. And he gets to people through their family."

"Patterns," Dance said.

Rebecca nodded. "You have family in the area, I assume?"

"My parents and children."

"Are the children with your husband?"

"I'm a widow."

"Oh, I'm sorry."

"But they're not at home right now. And I've got a deputy guarding them."

"Good, but watch your back."

"Thank you." Dance nodded back into the cabin. "Did something happen last night? Between all of you?"

She laughed. "I think we've had a little more past than we can handle. We aired some laundry. It should've been aired years ago. But I'm not sure everybody felt that way."

Rebecca walked back inside and closed and locked the door. Dance glanced in through a gap in the curtain. She saw Linda reading the Bible, Samantha looking at her cell phone, undoubtedly thinking up some lie to tell her husband about her out-of-town conference. Rebecca sat down and began covering her sketchpad with broad, angry strokes.

The legacy of Daniel Pell and his Family.

Chapter 45

Kathryn Dance had been gone a half hour when one of the deputies called the cabin to check up on the women.

"Everything's fine," Sam replied-apart from the broiling tensions inside the suite.

He had her make sure the windows and doors were locked. She checked and confirmed that everything was secure.

Sealed in, nice and tight. She felt a burst of anger that Daniel Pell had them trapped once again, stuck in this little box of a cabin.

"I'm going stir crazy," Rebecca announced. "I've got to get outside."

"Oh, I don't think you should." Linda looked up. Sam noticed that the tattered Bible had many fingerprints on the page it was open to. She wondered what particular passages had given her so much comfort. She wished she could turn to something so simple for peace of mind.

Rebecca shrugged. "I'm just going out there a little ways." She gestured toward Point Lobos State Park.

"Really, I don't think you should." Linda's voice was brittle.

"I'll be careful. I'll wear my galoshes and look both ways." She was trying to make a joke but it fell flat.

"It's stupid but do what you want."

Rebecca said, "Look, I'm sorry about last night. I drank too much."

"Fine," Linda said distractedly and continued to read her Bible.

Sam said, "You'll get wet."

"I'll go to one of the shelters. I want to do some drawing." Rebecca pulled on her leather jacket, unlatched the back door and, picking up her sketchpad and box of pencils, stepped outside. Sam saw her looking back and could easily read the regret in the woman's face for her vicious words last night. "Lock it after me."

Sam went to the door and put the chain on, double locked it. She watched the woman walking down the path, wishing she hadn't gone.

But for an entirely different reason than her safety.

She was now alone with Linda.

No more excuses.

Yes or no? Sam continued the internal debate that had begun several days ago, prompted by Kathryn Dance's invitation to come to Monterey and help them.

Come back, Rebecca, she thought.

No, stay away.

"I don't think she should've done that," Linda muttered.

"Should we tell the guards?"

"What good would it do? She's a big girl." A grimace. "She'll tell you so herself."

Sam said, "Those things that happened to her, with her father. That's so terrible. I had no idea."

Linda continued to read. Then she looked up. "They want to kill him, you know."

"What?"

"They're not going to give Daniel a chance."

Sam didn't respond. She was still hoping Rebecca would return, hoping she wouldn't.

With an edge to her voice Linda said, "He can be saved. He's not hopeless. But they want to gun him down on sight. Be rid of him."

Of course they do, Sam thought. As to the question of his redemption, that was unanswerable in her mind.

"That Rebecca…Just like I remember her." Linda grunted.

Sam said, "What're you reading?"

Linda asked, "Would you know if I told you the chapter and verse?"

"No."

"So." Linda started to read but then she looked up from the holy book again. "She was wrong. What Rebecca said. It wasn't a nest of self-deception, or whatever she thinks."

Sam was silent.

Okay, she told herself. Go ahead. Now's the time.

"I know she was wrong about one thing."

"What's that?"

Sam exhaled long. "I wasn't a mouse all the time."

"Oh, that. Don't take it seriously. I never said you were."

"I stood up to him once. I told him no." She gave a laugh. "Ought to get a T-shirt printed up: 'I told Daniel Pell no.'"

Linda's lips pressed together. The attempt at humor fell leaden between them.

Walking to the TV, Sam shut it off. Sat down in an armchair, leaning forward. Linda's voice was wary as she said, "This is going somewhere. I can tell. But I'm not in the mood to get beat up again."

"It's about beating me up, not you."

"What?"

A few deep breaths. "About the time I said no to Daniel."

"Sam-"

"Do you know why I came down here?"

A grimace. "To help capture the evil escapee. To save lives. You felt guilty. You wanted a nice drive in the country. I don't have any idea, Sam. Why did you come?"

"I came because Kathryn said you'd be here, and I wanted to see you."

"You've had eight years. Why now?"

"I thought about tracking you down before. I almost did once. But I couldn't. I needed an excuse, some motivation."

"You needed Daniel to escape from prison for motivation? What's this all about?" Linda set the Bible down, open. Samantha kept staring at the pencil notes in the margins. They were dense as bees clustered in a hive.

"You remember that time you were in the hospital?"

"Of course." In a soft voice. The woman was gazing steadily at Sam. Wary.

The spring before the Croyton murders Pell had told Sam he was serious about retreating to the wilderness. But he wanted to increase the size of the Family first.

"I want a son," Pell had announced with all the bluntness of a medieval king bent on heirs. A month later Linda was pregnant.

And a month after that she'd miscarried. Their absence of insurance relegated them to a line at a lower-tier hospital in the barrio, frequented by pickers and illegals. The resulting infection led to a hysterectomy. Linda was devastated; she'd always wanted children. She'd told Sam often that she was meant to be a mother, and, aware of how badly her parents had raised her, she knew how to excel at the role.

"Why are you bringing this up now?"

Sam picked up a cup filled with tepid tea. "Because it wasn't supposed to be you who got pregnant. It was supposed to be me."

"You?"

Sam nodded. "He came to me first."

"He did?"

Tears stung Sam's eyes. "I just couldn't go through with it. I couldn't have his baby. If I did he'd have control over me for the rest of my life." No point in holding back, Sam reflected. She gazed at the table and said, "So I lied. I said you weren't sure you wanted to stay in the Family. Ever since Rebecca joined, you were thinking about leaving."

"You what?"

"I know…" She wiped her face. "I'm sorry. I told him that if you had his baby it'd show how much he wanted you to stay."

Linda blinked. She looked around the room, picked up and rubbed the cover of the holy book.

Sam continued, "And now you can't have children at all. I took them away from you. I had to choose between you and me, and I chose me."

Linda stared at a bad picture in a nice frame. "Why are you telling me this now?"

"Guilt, I guess. Shame."

"So this confession then, that's about you too, right?"

"No, it's about us. All of us…"

"Us?"

"All right, Rebecca's a bitch." The word felt alien in her mouth. She couldn't remember the last time she'd used it. "She doesn't think before she says things. But she was right, Linda. None of us're leading normal lives. Rebecca should have a gallery and be married to some sexy painter and be flying around the world. But she's jumping from older man to older man-we know why now. And you should have a real life, get married, adopt kids, a ton, and spoil 'em like crazy. Not spend your time in soup kitchens and caring for children you see for two months and never again. And maybe you could even give your dad and mom a call… No, Linda, it isn't a rich life you're living. And you're miserable. You know you are. You're hiding behind that." A nod at the Bible. "And me?" She laughed. "Well, I'm hiding even deeper than you are."

Sam rose and sat next to Linda, who leaned away. "The escape, Daniel coming back like this…it's a chance for us to fix things. Look, here we are! The three of us in a room together again. We can help each other."

"And what about now?"

Sam wiped her face. "Now?"

"Do you have children? You haven't told us a thing about your mysterious life."

A nod. "I have a son."

"What's his name?"

"My-?"

"What's his name?"

Sam hesitated. "Peter."

"Is he a nice boy?"

"Linda-"

"Is he a nice boy, I asked."

"Linda, you think it wasn't so bad back then, in the Family. And you're right. But not because of Daniel. Because of us. We filled all those gaps in our lives that Rebecca was talking about. We helped each other! And then it fell apart and we're back to where we started. But we can help each other again! Like real sisters." Sam leaned forward and gripped the Bible. "You believe in this, right? You think things happen for a purpose. Well, I think we were meant to get back together. To give us this chance to fix our lives."

"Oh, but mine is perfectly fine," Linda said evenly, pulling the Bible away from Sam's trembling fingers. "Work on yours as much as you want."

Daniel Pell parked the Camry in a deserted lot off Highway 1, near Carmel River State Beach, beside a sign that warned of the dangerous waters here. He was alone in the car.

He caught a whiff of Jennie's perfume.

Slipping his pistol into a pocket of the windbreaker, he climbed out of the car.

That perfume again.

Noticing Jennie Marston's blood in the crescent of his nails. He spit on his fingers and wiped it, but couldn't remove all of the crimson stain.

Pell looked around at the meadows, the cypress and pine and oak woods and the rugged outcroppings of granite and Carmelo formation rock. In the gray ocean sea lions, seals and otters swam and played. A half-dozen pelicans flew in perfect formation over the uneasy surface, and two gulls fought relentlessly for a scrap of food washed up on the shore.

Head down, Pell moved south through the thick trees. There was a path nearby but he didn't dare take it, though the park seemed deserted; he couldn't risk being seen as he headed for his destination: the Point Lobos Inn.

The rain had stopped but the overcast was heavy and more sprinkles seemed likely. The air was cold and thick with the scent of pine and eucalyptus. After ten minutes he came to the dozen cabins of the inn. Crouching, he circled to the rear of the place and continued, pausing to get his bearings and look for police. He froze, gripping his gun, when a deputy appeared, surveyed the grounds, then returned to the front of the cabin.

Easy, he told himself. Now's not the time to be careless. Take your time.

He walked for five minutes through the fragrant misty forest. About a hundred yards away, invisible to the cabins and the deputy, was a small clearing, inside which was a shelter. Someone sat at a picnic bench underneath it.

Pell's heart gave an uncharacteristic thud.

The woman was looking out over the ocean. A pad of paper was in her hand, and she was sketching. Whatever she was drawing, he knew it would be good. Rebecca Sheffield was talented. He remembered when they'd met, a cool, clear day by the beach. She'd squinted up from the low chair in front of her easel near where the Family had a booth at a flea market.

"Hey, how'd you like me to do your portrait?"

"I guess. How much?"

"You'll be able to afford it. Take a seat."

He looked around once more and, not seeing anyone else, made his way toward the woman, who was oblivious to his approach. Wholly focused on the scenery, on the motion of her pencil.

Pell closed the distance quickly, until he was right behind her. He paused.

"Hello," he whispered.

She gasped, dropped the pad and stood, turning quickly. "Jesus." A moment of silence.

Then Rebecca's face lurched into a smile as she stepped forward. The wind slapped them hard and nearly carried off her words, "Damn, I missed you."

"Come here, lovely," he said and pulled her toward him.

Chapter 46

They'd moved into the grove of trees, so there was no chance of being spotted by anyone at the motel.

"They know about Jennie," Rebecca said.

"I know. I saw it on the TV." He grimaced. "She left something in the room. They tracked her down."

"And?"

He shrugged. "She won't be a problem." Glanced down at the blood in his nails.

"Lovely, if you hadn't called, I don't know what would've happened."

Pell had left a message on Rebecca's voice mail at home, giving her the name of the Sea View motel. The call he'd received there, supposedly from housekeeping, was from Rebecca, telling him in a frantic whisper that the police were on their way-Kathryn Dance had asked if the women would help out in the event Pell took hostages. He hadn't wanted Jennie to know about Rebecca yet so he'd come up with the story about the maids.

"That was lucky," Rebecca said, wiping a coating of mist from her face. Pell thought she did look pretty good. Jennie was fine in bed, but less of a challenge. Rebecca could keep you going all night. Jennie needed sex to validate herself; Rebecca simply needed sex. He got a twist inside him, the bubble expanding.

"How are my little gals holding up under the pressure?"

"Bickering and driving me fucking crazy. I mean, it's like not a day's gone by. Same as eight years ago. Except Linda's a Bible-thumper and Sam isn't Sam. Changed her name. And she's got boobs too."

"And they're helping the cops, they're actually doing that?"

"Oh, you bet. I tried to lead things off as best I could. But I couldn't be too obvious about it."

"And they don't guess anything about you?"

"Nope."

Pell kissed her again. "You're the best, baby. I'm free only 'cause of you."

Jennie Marston had been just a pawn in the escape; it was Rebecca who'd planned everything. After his appeal was finally rejected, Pell had begun thinking about escape. He'd managed some unsupervised phone time in Capitola and spoken to Rebecca. For some time she'd been considering how to break Pell out. But there'd been no opportunities until recently, when Rebecca told him she'd come up with an idea.

She had read about the unsolved Robert Herron killing-which Pell had nothing to do with-and decided to make him the prime suspect so he'd be transferred to a lower-security facility for the indictment and trial. Rebecca had found some of his tools, which she'd had from the days of the Family in Seaside, and slipped them into his aunt's garage in Bakersfield.

Pell had sifted through his fan letters to look for a candidate who'd help. He settled on Jennie Marston, a woman in Southern California who suffered from the disease of bad-boy worship. She seemed wonderfully desperate and vulnerable. Pell had limited access to computers, so Rebecca had set up an untraceable email address and masqueraded as Pell to win Jennie's heart and work out the plan. One reason they'd picked her was that Jennie lived only an hour or so away from Rebecca, who could check her out and learn details of her life to make it seem that she and Pell had some spiritual connection.

Oh, you're so much like me, honey, it's like we're two sides of the same coin.

The love of cardinals and hummingbirds, the color green, Mexican comfort food… It doesn't take much, in this mean world, to make somebody like Jennie Marston your soul mate.

Finally Rebecca, as Pell, convinced Jennie that he was innocent of the Croyton killings and got her to agree to help him escape. Rebecca had come up with the idea for the gas bombs after scoping out the Salinas lockup and the delivery-service schedules at the You Mail It franchise. She'd sent the woman instructions: stealing the hammer, making up the fake wallet, planting them in Salinas. And then how to construct the gas bomb and where to buy the fire suit and bag. Rebecca had checked with Jennie, via email, and then, when everything seemed in order, posted the message on the "Manslaughter" bulletin board that everything was in place.

Pell now asked her, "That was Sam when I phoned, wasn't it?"

The call-thirty minutes ago-purporting to be the guard checking up on them was Pell. The arrangement he'd made with Rebecca was that he'd ask whoever answered-if she didn't-to check the window locks. That meant he'd be there soon and Rebecca was supposed to go to the shelter and wait for him.

"She didn't catch on. The poor thing's still a little mouse. She just doesn't get it."

"I want to get out of here as soon as possible, lovely. What's our time like?"

"Won't be long now."

Pell said, "I've got her address. Dance's."

"Oh, one thing you'll want to know. Her kids aren't at home. She didn't say where they are but I found a Stuart Dance-probably her father or brother-in the phone book. I'd guess they're there. Oh, and there's a cop guarding them. There's no husband."

"A widow, right?"

"How'd you know?"

"Just did. How old are the kids?"

"I don't know. Does it matter?"

"No."

Rebecca eased back and studied him. "For an undocumented alien you look pretty damn good. You really do." Her arms looped him. The nearness of her body, bathed in air fragrant with ripe sea vegetation and pine, added to his already stoked arousal. He slipped his hand into the small of her back. The pressure inside him growing. He kissed her hungrily, tongue slipping into her mouth. "Daniel…not now. I have to get back."

But Pell hardly heard the words. He led her farther into the forest, put his hands on her shoulders and started to push her down. She held up a finger. Then set her sketchpad on the wet ground, cardboard base down. She knelt on it. "They'd wonder how I got wet knees." And began to unzip his jeans.

That was Rebecca, he reflected. Always thinking.

Michael O'Neil finally called.

She was glad to hear his voice, though the tone was purely professional, and she knew he didn't want to talk about their fight earlier. He was, she sensed, still angry. Which was odd for him. It bothered her, but there was no time to consider their grievances, given his news.

"Got a call from CHP," O'Neil said. "Some hikers halfway to Big Sur found a purse and some personal effects on the beach. Jennie Marston's. No body yet, but there was blood all over the sand. And blood and some hairs and scalp tissue on a rock that crime scene found. Pell's prints're on the rock. The Coast Guard has two boats out looking. There wasn't anything helpful in the purse. ID and credit cards. If that's where she kept what's left of the ninety-two hundred dollars, Pell's got it now."

He killed her…

Dance closed her eyes. Pell had seen her picture on TV and knew she'd been identified. She'd become a liability to him.

A second suspect logarithmically increases the chances for detection and arrest…

"I'm sorry," O'Neil said. He'd understand what she was thinking-that Dance never would have guessed releasing the woman's picture would result in her death.

I believed it would be just another way to help find this terrible man.

The detective said, "It was the right call. We had to do it."

We, she noted. Not you.

"How long ago?"

"Crime scene's estimating an hour. We're checking along One and the cross roads, but no witnesses."

"Thanks, Michael."

She said nothing more, waiting for him to say something else, something about their earlier discussion, something about Kellogg. Didn't matter what, just some words that would give her a chance to broach the subject. But he said merely, "I'm making plans for a memorial service for Juan. I'll let you know the details."

"Thanks."

"'Bye."

Click.

She called Kellogg and Overby with the news. Her boss was debating whether it was good or bad. Someone else had been killed on his watch, but at least it was one of the perps. On the whole, he suggested, the press and public would receive the development as a score for the good guys.

"Don't you think, Kathryn?"

Dance had no chance to formulate an answer, though, because just then the CBI's front desk called on the intercom to tell her the news that Theresa Croyton, the Sleeping Doll, had arrived.

The girl didn't resemble what Kathryn Dance expected.

In baggy sweats, Theresa Croyton Bolling was tall and slim and wore her light brown hair long, to the middle of her back. The strands had a reddish sheen. Four metallic dots were in her left ear, five in the other, and the majority of her fingers were encircled by silver rings. Her face, free of makeup, was narrow and pretty and pale.

Morton Nagle ushered the girl and her aunt, a solid woman with short, gray hair, into Dance's office. Mary Bolling was somber and cautious and it was obvious that this was the last place in the world she wanted to be. Hands were shaken and greetings exchanged. The girl's was casual and friendly, if a bit nervous; the aunt's stiff.

Nagle would want to stay, of course-talking to the Sleeping Doll had been his goal even before Pell's escape. But some bargain had apparently been struck that he'd take a backseat for the time being. He now said he'd be at home if anybody needed him.

Dance gave him a sincere "Thank you."

"Good-bye, Mr. Nagle," Theresa said.

He nodded a friendly farewell to both of them-the teenager and the woman who'd tried to gun him down (she looked as if she'd like a second opportunity). Nagle gave one of his chuckles, tugged up his saggy pants and left.

"Thank you for coming. You go by 'Theresa'?"

"Mostly Tare."

Dance said to her aunt, "Do you mind if I talk to your niece alone?"

"It's okay." This was from the girl. The aunt hesitated. "It's okay," the girl repeated more firmly. A hit of exasperation. Like musicians with their instruments, young people can get an infinite variety of sounds out of their voices.

Dance had arranged a room at a chain motel near CBI headquarters. It was booked under one of the fictional names she sometimes used for witnesses.

TJ escorted the aunt to the office of Albert Stemple, who would take her to the motel and wait with her.

When they were alone, Dance came out from around the desk and closed her door. She didn't know if the girl had hidden memories to be tapped, some facts that could help lead them to Pell. But she was going to try to find out. It would be difficult, though. Despite the girl's strong personality and her gutsy foray here, she'd be doing what every other seventeen-year-old in the universe would do at a time like this: raising subconscious barriers to protect herself from the pain of recollection.

Dance would get nothing from her until those barriers were lowered. In her interrogations and interviews the agent didn't practice classic hypnosis. She did, though, know that subjects who were relaxed and not focused on external stimuli could remember events that otherwise they might not. The agent directed Theresa to the comfortable couch and shut off the bright overhead light, leaving a single yellow desk lamp burning.

"You comfortable?"

"Sure, I guess." Still, she clasped her hands together, shoulders up, and smiled at Dance with her lips taut. Stress, the agent noted. "That man, Mr. Nagle, said you wanted to ask me about what happened the night my parents and brother and sister were killed."

"That's right. I know you were asleep at the time, but-"

"What?"

"I know you were asleep during the murders."

"Who told you that?"

"Well, all the news stories…the police."

"No, no, I was awake."

Dance blinked in surprise. "You were?"

The girl's expression was even more surprised. "Like, yeah. I mean, I thought that's why you wanted to see me."

Chapter 47

"Go ahead, Tare."

Dance felt her heart tapping fast. Was this the portal to an overlooked clue that might lead to Daniel Pell's purpose here?

The girl tugged at her earlobe, the one with five dots of metal in it, and the top of her shoe rose slightly, indicating she was curling her toes.

Stress…

"I was asleep earlier, for a while. Yeah. I wasn't feeling good. But then I woke up. I had a dream. I don't remember what it was, but I think it was scary. I woke myself up with a noise, kind of moaning. You know how that happens?"

"Sure."

"Or shouting. Only…" Her voice faded, she was squeezing her ear again.

"You're not sure it was you making the noise? It might've been somebody else?"

The girl swallowed. She'd be thinking that the sound had perhaps come from one of her dying family members. "Right."

"Do you remember what time?" The TODs were between six thirty and eight, Dance recalled.

But Theresa couldn't remember for sure. She guessed around seven.

"You stayed in bed?"

"Uh-huh."

"Did you hear anything after that?"

"Yeah, voices. I couldn't hear them real well. I was, you know, groggy, but I definitely heard them."

"Who was it?"

"I don't know, men's voices. But definitely not my father or brother. I remember that."

"Tare, did you tell anybody this back then?"

"Yeah." She nodded. "But nobody was interested."

How on earth had Reynolds missed it?

"Well, tell me now. What did you hear?"

"There were, like, a couple of things. First of all, I heard somebody mention money. Four hundred dollars. I remember that exactly."

Pell had been found with more than that when he was arrested. Maybe he and Newberg were going through Croyton's wallet and commenting on how much money was inside. Or was the phrase actually "four hundred thousand"?

"What else?"

"Okay, then somebody-a man, but somebody different-said something about Canada. And somebody else asked a question. About Quebec."

"And what was the question?"

"He just wanted to know what Quebec was."

Somebody not knowing about Quebec? Dance wondered if that was Newberg-the women had said that while he was a genius at woodworking, electronics and computers he was pretty damaged otherwise, thanks to drugs.

So, a Canadian connection. Is that where Pell wanted to escape to? A lot easier to get through that border than going south. A lot of mountaintops too.

Dance smiled and sat forward. "Go on, Tare. You're doing great."

"Then," Theresa continued, "somebody was talking about used cars. Another man. He had a really low voice. He talked fast."

Used-car dealerships were popular venues for money laundering. Or they might have been talking about getting a car for their escape. And it hadn't been just Pell and Newberg. Somebody else was there. A third person.

"Did your father do business in Canada?"

"I don't know. He traveled a lot. But I don't think he ever mentioned Canada… I could never figure out why the police back then didn't ask me more about it. But since Pell was in jail, it didn't matter. But now that he's out…Ever since Mr. Nagle said you needed help finding the killer, I've been trying to make sense out of what I heard. Maybe you can figure it out."

"I hope I can."

"Anything else?"

"No, it was about then that I guess I fell back asleep. And the next thing I knew…" She swallowed again. "There was this woman in a uniform there. A policewoman. She had me get dressed and…that was it."

Dance reflected: four hundred dollars, a car dealership, a French Canadian province.

And a third man.

Was Pell intent on heading north now? At the very least she'd call Homeland Security and Immigration; they could keep an eye on the northern border crossings.

Dance tried again, walking the girl through the events of that terrible night.

But the efforts were useless. She knew nothing more.

Four hundred dollars…Canada…What's Quebec?…used cars…Did they contain the key to the Daniel Pell conspiracy?

And then Dance had a thought that, surprisingly, involved her own family: herself, Wes and Maggie. An idea occurred to her. She ran through the facts of the murder in her mind. Impossible…But then the theory grew more likely, though she didn't like the conclusion.

She reluctantly asked, "Tare, you said this was around seven P.M. or so?"

"Yeah, maybe."

"Where did your family eat?"

"Where? The den most of the time. We weren't allowed to use the dining room. That was just for, like, formal things."

"Did you watch TV while you were having dinner?"

"Yeah. A lot. Me and my brother and sister, at least."

"And was the den near your bedroom?"

"Like, right down the stairs. How did you know?"

"Did you ever watch Jeopardy!?"

She frowned. "Yeah."

"Tare, I'm wondering if maybe the voices you heard were from the show. Maybe somebody picking the category of geography for four hundred dollars. And the answer was 'the French-speaking province of Canada.' The question would be 'What is Quebec?'"

The girl fell silent. Her eyes were still. "No," she said firmly, shaking her head. "No, that wasn't it. I'm sure."

"And the voice talking about the dealership-could it have been a commercial? Somebody talking fast in a low voice. Like they do on car ads."

The girl's face flushed with dismay. Then anger. "No!"

"But maybe?" Dance asked gently.

Theresa's eyes closed. "No." A whisper. Then: "I don't know."

That was why Reynolds hadn't pursued the child's testimony. He too had figured out she was talking about a TV show.

Theresa's shoulders slumped forward, collapsing in on themselves. It was a very subtle movement but Dance could clearly read the kinesic signal of defeat and sorrow. The girl had been so certain that she'd remembered something helpful to find the man who'd killed her family. Now, she realized that her courageous trip here, defying her aunt…The efforts had been pointless. She was crestfallen. "I'm sorry…" Tears pooled in her eyes.

Kathryn Dance smiled. "Tare, don't worry. It's nothing." She gave the girl a Kleenex.

"Nothing? It's terrible! I wanted to help so bad…"

Another smile. "Oh, Tare, believe me, we're just getting warmed up."

In her seminars Dance told the story of the city slicker stopping in a small town to ask a farmer directions. The stranger looks at the dog sitting at the man's feet and says, "Your dog bite?" The farmer says no and when the stranger reaches down to pet the dog, he gets bitten. The man jumps back and angrily says, "You said your dog didn't bite!" The farmer replies, "Mine doesn't. This here dog's not mine."

The art of interviewing isn't only about analyzing the subjects' answers and their body language and demeanor; it's also about asking the right questions.

The facts about the Croytons' murders and every moment afterward had been documented by police and reporters. So Kathryn Dance decided to inquire about the one period of time that no one had apparently ever asked about: before the murders.

"Tare, I want to hear about what happened earlier."

"Earlier?"

"Sure. Let's start with earlier that day."

Theresa frowned. "Oh, I don't even remember much about it. I mean, what happened that night, it kind of shoved everything else away."

"Give it a try. Think back. It was May. You were in school then, right?"

"Yeah."

"What day of the week?"

"Um, it was Friday."

"You remembered that pretty fast."

"Oh, because on a lot of Fridays Dad'd take us kids places. That day we were going to the carnival rides in Santa Cruz. Only everything got messed up because I got sick." Theresa thought back, rubbing her eyes. "Brenda and Steve-my sister and brother-and I were going, and Mom stayed at home because she had a benefit or something on Saturday she had to work on."

"But plans got changed?"

"Right. We were, like, on our way but…" She looked down. "I got sick. In the car. So we turned around and went home."

"What did you have? A cold?"

"Stomach flu." Theresa winced and touched her belly.

"Oh, I just hate that."

"Yeah, it sucks."

"And you got back home about when?"

"Five thirty, maybe."

"And you went straight to bed."

"Yeah, that's right." She looked out the window at the gnarled tree.

"And then you woke up, hearing the TV show."

The girl twined a brown strand of hair around a finger. "Quebec." A laughing grimace.

At this point, Kathryn Dance paused. She realized she had a decision to make, an important one.

Because there was no doubt that Theresa was being deceptive.

When she'd been making casual conversation and, later, talking about what Theresa had overheard from the TV room, the girl's kinesic behavior was relaxed and open, though she obviously was experiencing general stress-anyone who's talking to a police officer as part of an investigation, even an innocent victim, experiences this.

But as soon as she started talking about the trip to the Santa Cruz boardwalk she displayed hesitations of speech, she covered parts of her face and ear-negation gestures-and looked out the window-aversion. Trying to appear calm and casual, she revealed the stress she was experiencing by bobbing her foot. Dance sensed deception stress patterns and that the girl was in the denial response state.

Everything Theresa was telling her was presumably consistent with facts that Dance could verify. But deception includes evasion and omission as well as outright lying. There were things Theresa wasn't sharing.

"Tare, something troubling happened on the drive, didn't it?"

"Troubling? No. Really. I swear."

A triple play there: two denial flag expressions, along with answering a question with a question. Now the girl was flushed and her foot bobbed again, an obvious cluster of stress responses.

"Go on, tell me. It's all right. There's nothing you have to worry about. Tell me."

"Like, you know. My parents, my brother and sister…They were killed. Who wouldn't be upset?" A bit of anger now.

Dance nodded sympathetically. "I mean before that. You've left Carmel, you're driving to Santa Cruz. You're not feeling well. You go home. Other than being sick, what was there about that drive that bothered you?"

"I don't know. I can't remember."

That sentence, from a person in a denial state, means: I remember perfectly well but I don't want to think about it. The memory's too painful.

"You're driving along and-

"I-" Theresa began, then she fell silent. And lowered head to hands, breaking into tears. A torrent, accompanied by the sound track of breathless sobbing.

"Tare." Dance rose and handed her a wad of tissues as the girl cried hard, though quietly, the sobs like hiccups.

"It's okay," the agent said compassionately, gripping her arm. "Whatever happened, it's fine. Don't worry."

"I…" The girl was paralyzed; Dance could see she was trying to make a decision. Which way would it go? the agent wondered. She'd either spill everything, or stonewall-in which case the interview was now over.

Finally she said, "Oh, I've wanted to tell somebody. I just couldn't. Not the counselors or friends, my aunt…" More sobbing. Collapsed chest, chin down, hands in her lap when not mopping her face. The textbook kinesic signs that Theresa Croyton had moved into the acceptance stage of emotional response. The terrible burden of what she'd been living with was finally going to come out. She was confessing.

"It's my fault. It's all my fault they're dead!"

Now she pressed her head back against the couch. Her face was red, tendons rose, tears stained the front of her sweater.

"Brenda and Steve and Mom and Dad…all because of me!"

"Because you got sick?"

"No! Because I pretended to be sick!"

"Tell me."

"I didn't want to go to the boardwalk. I couldn't stand going, I hated it! All I could think of was to pretend to be sick. I remembered about these models who put their fingers down their throats so they throw up and don't get fat. When we were in the car on the highway I did that when nobody was looking. I threw up in the backseat and said I had the flu. It was all gross, and everybody was mad and Dad turned around and drove back home."

So that was it. The poor girl was convinced it was her fault her family'd been slaughtered because of the lie she told. She'd lived with this terrible burden for eight years.

One truth had been excavated. But at least one more remained. And Kathryn Dance wanted to unearth this one as well.

"Tell me, Tare. Why didn't you want to go to the pier?"

"I just didn't. It wasn't fun."

Confessing one lie doesn't lead automatically to confessing them all. The girl had now slipped into denial once again.

"Why? You can tell me. Go on."

"I don't know. It just wasn't fun."

"Why not?"

"Well, Dad was always busy. So he'd give us money and tell us he'd pick us up later and he'd go off and make phone calls and things. It was boring."

Her feet tapped again and she squeezed the right-side earrings in a compulsive pattern: top, bottom, then the middle. The stress was eating her up.

Yet it wasn't only the kinesics that were sending significant deception signals to Kathryn Dance. Children-even a seventeen-year-old high school student-are often hard to analyze kinesically. Most interviewers of youngsters perform a content-based analysis, judging their truth or deception by what they say, not how they say it.

What Theresa was telling Dance didn't make sense-both in terms of the story she was offering, and in terms of Dance's knowledge of children and the place in question. Wes and Maggie, for instance, loved the Santa Cruz boardwalk, and would have leapt at the chance to spend hours there unsupervised with a pocketful of money. There were hundreds of things for children to do, carnival rides, food, music, games.

And another contradiction Dance noted: Why hadn't Theresa simply said she wanted to stay home with her mother before they left that Friday and let her father and siblings go without her? It was as if she didn't want them to go to Santa Cruz either.

Dance considered this for a moment.

A to B…

"Tare, you were saying your father worked and made phone calls when you and your brother and sister went on the rides?"

She looked down. "Yeah, I guess."

"Where would he go to make the calls?"

"I don't know. He had a cell phone. Not a lot of people had them then. But he did."

"Did he ever meet anybody there?"

"I don't know. Maybe."

"Tare, who were these other people? The ones he'd be with?"

She shrugged.

"Were they other women?"

"No."

"You sure?"

Theresa was silent, looking everywhere but at Dance. Finally she said, "Maybe. Some, yeah."

"And you think they might've been girlfriends of his?"

A nod. Tears again. Through clenched teeth she began, "And…"

"What, Tare?"

"He said when we got home, if Mom asked, we were supposed to say he was with us." Her face was flushed now.

Dance recalled that Reynolds hinted Croyton was a womanizer.

A bitter laugh escaped the girl's trembling lips. "I saw him. Brenda and me, we were supposed to stay on the boardwalk but we went to an ice cream place across Beach Street. And I saw him. There was this woman getting into his car and he was kissing her. And she wasn't the only one. I saw him later, with somebody else, going into her apartment or house by the beach. That's why I didn't want him to go there. I wanted him to go back home and be with Mommy and us. I didn't want him to be with anybody else." She wiped her face. "And so I lied," she said simply. "I pretended I was sick."

So he'd meet his mistresses in Santa Cruz-and take his own children with him to allay his wife's suspicion, abandoning them till he and his lover were finished.

"And my family got killed. And it was my fault."

Dance leaned forward and said, "No, no, Tare. It's not your fault at all. We're pretty sure Daniel Pell intended to kill your father. It wasn't random. If he'd come by that night and you weren't there, he would've left and come back when your dad was home."

She grew quiet. "Yeah?"

Dance wasn't sure about this at all. But she absolutely couldn't let the girl live with the terrible burden of her guilt. "Yeah."

Theresa calmed at this tentative comfort. "Stupid." She was embarrassed. "It's all so stupid. I wanted to come help you catch him. And I haven't done anything except act like a baby."

"Oh, we're doing fine," Dance said with significance, reflecting some intriguing thoughts she'd just had.

"We are?"

"Yep…In fact, I've just thought of some more questions. I hope you're up for them." Dance's stomach gave a peculiar, and opportune, growl just at that moment. They both laughed, and the agent added, "Provided there're two Frappuccinos and a cookie or two in the near future."

Theresa wiped her eyes. "I could go for that, yeah."

Dance called Rey Carraneo and set him on the mission of collaring some sustenance from Starbucks. She then made another call. This one was to TJ, telling him to remain in the office; she believed there'd be a change of plans.

A to B to X…

Chapter 48

Parked up the road from the Point Lobos Inn, out of sight of the guards, Daniel Pell continued to stare at a space between the cypress trees. "Come on," he muttered.

And then, just a few seconds later, there she was, Rebecca, hurrying through the bushes with her backpack. She climbed into the car and kissed him firmly.

She sat back. "Shitty weather," she said, grinned and kissed him again. "Sorry I'm late."

"Nobody saw you?"

A laugh. "Climbed out the window. They think I went to bed early."

He put the car in gear and they started up the highway.

This was Daniel Pell's last night in the Monterey Peninsula-and, in a way, his last night on earth. Later, they'd steal another car-an SUV or truck-and head north, winding along the increasingly narrow and rugged roads of Northern California until they came to Pell's mountain property. He'd be king of the mountain, king of a new Family, not answering to anybody, no one to interfere. No one to challenge him. A dozen young people, two dozen, seduced by the Pied Piper.

Heaven…

But first his mission here. He had to make certain his future was guaranteed.

Pell handed her the map of Monterey County. She opened a slip of paper and read the street and number as she studied the map. "It's not too far. Shouldn't take us more than fifteen minutes."

Edie Dance glanced out the window of the front of her house and observed the police car.

It certainly made her feel comfortable, with an escaped killer somewhere in the area, and she appreciated the fact that Katie was looking out for them.

Still, it wasn't Daniel Pell who occupied her thoughts, but Juan Millar.

Edie was tired, the old bones not behaving, and she was grateful she'd decided not to work overtime-it was always available for any nurse who wanted it. Death and taxes weren't the only certain aspects of life; the need for health care was a third, and Edie Dance would have a career for as long as she wished, anywhere she wished. She couldn't understand her husband's preference for marine, over human, life. People were so fascinating, helping them, reassuring them, taking away their pain.

Kill me…

Stuart would be back with the children soon. She loved her grandchildren, of course, but she also truly enjoyed their company. Edie knew how lucky she was that Katie lived nearby; so many of her friends had children hundreds, even thousands, of miles away.

Yes, she was happy Wes and Mags were staying here, but she'd be a lot happier when that terrible man was arrested again and thrown back in jail. Katie's becoming a CBI agent had always bothered her a lot-Stu actually seemed pleased, which irritated her all the more. Edie Dance would never suggest a woman give up a career-she'd worked all her life-but, my God, carrying around a gun and arresting murderers and drug dealers?

Edie would never say it, but her secret desire was that her daughter would meet another man, remarry and abandon police work. Katie had been a successful jury consultant. Why not go back to that? And she and Martine Christensen had that wonderful website, which actually made a little money. If the women devoted themselves to it full-time, think how successful it could be.

Edie had loved her son-in-law dearly. Bill Swenson was sweet, funny, a great father. And the accident that had taken his life was a true tragedy. But that was several years ago. Now it was time for her daughter to move on.

Too bad Michael O'Neil wasn't available; he and Katie were a perfect match (Edie couldn't see why on earth he was with that prima donna Anne, who seemed to treat her children like Christmas decorations and cared more about her gallery than her home). Then that FBI agent at Stu's party, Winston Kellogg, seemed pretty nice too. He reminded Edie of Bill. And then there was Brian Gunderson, the man Katie'd dated recently.

Edie never worried about her daughter's good sense when it came to picking partners. Her problem was like the one plaguing Edie's golf swing-the follow-through. And she knew the source. Katie'd told her about Wes, his unhappiness at his mom's dating. Edie had been in nursing for a long time, both pediatric and adult. She'd seen how controlling children can be, how clever and manipulative, even subconsciously. Her daughter had to approach the subject. But she simply wouldn't. Her approach was duck and cover…

But it wasn't Edie's role to talk to the boy directly. Grandparents have the unqualified joy of children's company, but the price for that is abdicating much of the right to parental intervention. Edie'd said her piece to Katie, who'd agreed but, apparently, ignored her completely by breaking up with Brian and-

The woman cocked her head.

A noise from outside, the backyard.

She glanced up to see if Stu had arrived. No, the carport was empty, except for her Prius. Looking out the front window she saw the police officer was still there.

Then she heard the sound again… The clatter of rocks.

Edie and Stu lived off Ocean, on the long hill descending from downtown to Carmel Beach. Their backyard was a stepped series of gardens, boarded by rock walls. Walking the short path to or from the neighbor's adjoining backyard sometimes set loose a tiny spill of gravel down the face of those walls. That's what the noise sounded like.

She walked to the back deck and opened the door, stepped outside. She couldn't see anyone and heard nothing else. Probably just a cat or a dog. They weren't supposed to run free; Carmel had strict pet laws. But the town was also very animal friendly (the actress Doris Day owned a wonderful hotel here, where pets were welcome), and several cats and dogs roamed the neighborhood.

She closed the door and, hearing Stu's car pull into the driveway, forgot all about the noise. Edie Dance walked to the refrigerator to find a snack for the children.

The interview with the Sleeping Doll had come to an intriguing conclusion.

Back in her office, Dance called and checked up on the girl and her aunt, both safely ensconced in the motel and protected by a 250-pound monolith of a CBI agent who carried two large weapons. They were fine, Albert Stemple reported, then added, "The girl's nice. I like her. The aunt you can keep."

Dance read over the notes she'd taken in the interview. Then read them again. Finally she called TJ.

"Your genie awaits, boss."

"Bring me what we've got so far on Pell."

"The whole ball of wax? Whatever that means."

"All the wax."

Dance was reviewing James Reynolds's notes from the Croyton murder case when TJ arrived-only three or four minutes later, breathless. Maybe her voice had sounded more urgent than she'd realized.

She took the files he carted and spread them out until they covered her desk an inch thick. In a short time they'd accumulated an astonishing amount of material. She began riffling through the pages.

"The girl, was she helpful?"

"Yep," the agent replied absently, staring at a particular sheet of paper.

TJ made another comment but she wasn't paying any attention. Flipping through more reports, more pages of handwritten notes, and looking over Reynolds's time line and his other transcriptions. Then returning to the piece of paper she held.

Finally she said, "I've got a computer question. You know a lot about them. Go check this out." She circled some words on the sheet.

He glanced down. "What about it?"

"It's fishy."

"Not a computer term I'm familiar with. But I'm on the case, boss. We never sleep."

"We've got a situation."

Dance was addressing Charles Overby, Winston Kellogg and TJ. They were in Overby's office and he was playing with a bronze golf ball mounted on a wooden stand, like a gearshift in a sports car. She wished Michael O'Neil were here.

Dance then dropped the bomb. "Rebecca Sheffield's working with Pell."

"What?" Overby blurted.

"It gets better. I think she was behind the whole escape."

Her boss shook his head, the theory troubling him. He was undoubtedly wondering if he'd authorized something he shouldn't have.

But Winston Kellogg encouraged her. "Interesting. Go on."

"Theresa Croyton told me a few things that made me suspicious. So I went back and looked over the evidence so far. Remember that email we found in the Sea View? Supposedly Pell sent it to Jennie from prison. But look." She showed the printout. "The email address says Capitola Correctional. But it has a 'dot com' extension. If it was really a Department of Corrections address it would've had 'dot ca dot gov.'"

Kellogg grimaced. "Hell, yes. Missed that completely."

"I just had TJ check out the address."

The young agent explained, "The company's a service provider in Denver. You can create your own domain, as long as the name's not taken by somebody else. It's an anonymous account. But we're getting a warrant to look at the archives."

"Anonymous? Then why do you think it was Rebecca?" Overby asked.

"Look at the email. That phrase. 'Who could ask for anything more in a girl?' It's not that common. It stuck with me because it echoes a line in an old Gershwin song."

"Why is that important?"

"Because Rebecca used the exact expression the first time I met her."

Overby said, "Still-"

She pushed forward, not in the mood to be obstructed. "Now, let's look at the facts. Jennie stole the Thunderbird from that restaurant in L.A. on Friday and checked into the Sea View on Saturday. Her phone and credit card records show she was in Orange County all last week. But the woman who checked out the You Mail It office near the courthouse was there on Wednesday. We faxed a warrant to Rebecca's credit card companies. She flew from San Diego to Monterey on Tuesday, flew back on Thursday. Rented a car here."

"Okay," Overby allowed.

"Now, I'm guessing that in Capitola it wasn't Jennie that Pell was talking to; it was Rebecca. He must've given her Jennie's name and street and email address. Rebecca took over from there. They picked her because she lived near Rebecca, at least close enough to check her out."

Kellogg added, "So she knows where Pell is, what he's doing here."

"Has to."

Overby said, "Let's pick her up. You can work your magic, Kathryn."

"I want her in custody, but I need some more information before I interrogate her. I want to talk to Nagle."

"The writer?"

She nodded. Then said to Kellogg, "Can you bring Rebecca in?"

"Sure, if you can get some backup for me."

Overby said he'd call the MCSO and have another officer meet Kellogg outside the Point Lobos Inn. The agent in charge surprised Dance by pointing out something she hadn't thought of: They had no reason to think Rebecca was armed, but since she'd driven from San Diego and not gone through airport security she could have a weapon with her.

Dance said, "Good, Charles." Then, a nod at TJ. "Let's go see Nagle."

Dance and the younger agent were en route to their destination when her phone rang.

"Hello?"

Winston Kellogg said in an uncharacteristically urgent voice, "Kathryn, she's gone."

"Rebecca?"

"Yes."

"Are the others okay?"

"They're fine. Linda said Rebecca wasn't feeling well, went to lie down. Didn't want to be disturbed. We found her bedroom window open but her car's still at CBI."

"So Pell picked her up?"

"I'm guessing."

"How long ago?"

"She went to bed an hour ago. They don't know when she slipped out."

If Rebecca had wanted to hurt the other women, she could've done it herself or snuck Pell in through the window. Dance decided they weren't at immediate risk, especially with the guards.

"Where are you now?" she asked Kellogg.

"Going back to CBI. I think Pell and Rebecca are making a run for it. I'll talk to Michael about getting roadblocks set up again."

When they hung up, she called Morton Nagle.

"Hello?" he answered.

"It's Kathryn. Listen, Rebecca's with Pell."

"What? He kidnapped her?"

"They're working together. She was behind the escape."

"No!"

"They might be headed out of town but there's a chance you're in danger."

"Me?"

"Lock your doors. Don't let anybody in. We're on our way. I'll be there in five minutes."

It took them closer to ten, even with TJ's aggressive-he called it "assertive"-driving; the roads were crowded with tourists getting an early start on the weekend. They skidded to a stop in front of the house and walked to the front door. Dance knocked. The writer answered a moment later. He glanced past her at TJ, then scanned the street. The agents stepped inside.

Nagle closed the door. His shoulders slumped.

"I'm sorry." The writer's voice broke. "He told me if I gave anything away on the phone, he'd kill my family. I'm so sorry."

Daniel Pell, standing behind the door, touched the back of her head with a pistol.

Chapter 49

"It's my friend. The cat to my mouse. With the funny name. Kathryn Dance…"

Nagle continued, "When you phoned, your number came up on caller ID. He made me tell him who it was. I had to say everything was fine. I didn't want to. But my children. I-"

"It's all right-" she began.

"Shhhhh, Mr. Writer and Ms. Interrogator. Shush."

In the bedroom to the left, Dance could see Nagle's family lying belly-down on the floor, their hands on top of their heads. His wife, Joan, and the children-teenage Eric and young, round Sonja. Rebecca was sitting on the bed over them, holding a knife. She gazed at Dance without a fleck of emotion.

The only reason the family weren't dead, Dance knew, was that Pell was controlling Nagle through them.

Patterns…

"Come on out here, baby, lend a hand."

Rebecca slid off the bed and joined them.

"Get their guns and phones." Pell held the gun to Dance's ear while Rebecca took her weapon. Then Pell told her to cuff herself.

She did.

"Not tight enough." He squeezed the bracelets and Dance winced.

They did the same with TJ and pushed both of them down on the couch.

"Watch it," TJ muttered.

Pell said to Dance, "Listen to me. You listening?"

"Yes."

"Is anybody else coming?"

"I didn't call anyone."

"That's not what I asked. You, being the ace interrogator, ought to know that." The essence of calm.

"As far as I know, no. I was coming here to ask Morton some questions."

Pell set their phones on a coffee table. "If anybody calls you, tell them that everything's fine. You'll be back at your headquarters in an hour or so. But you can't talk now. We clear on that? If not, I pick one of the kiddies in there and-"

"Clear," she said.

"Now, no more words from anybody. We've-"

"This is not smart," TJ said.

No, no, Dance thought. Let him control you! With Daniel Pell you can't be defiant.

Pell stepped up to him and, almost leisurely, touched his gun to the man's throat. "What did I tell you?"

The young man's flippancy was gone. "Not to say a word."

"But you did say something. Why would you do that? What a stupid, stupid thing to do."

He's going to kill him, Dance thought. Please, no. "Pell, listen to me-"

"You're talking too," the killer said, and swung the gun toward her.

"I'm sorry," TJ whispered.

"That's more words."

Pell turned to Dance. "I've got a few questions for you and your little friend here. But in a minute. You sit tight, enjoy the scene of domestic bliss." Then he said to Nagle, "Keep going."

Nagle returned to what was apparently the task Dance and TJ had interrupted: It seemed he was burning all of his notes and research material.

Pell watched the bonfire and added absently, "And if you miss something and I find it, I will cut your wife's fingers off. Then start on your kids'. And quit crying. It's not dignified. Have some control."

Ten agonizing minutes of silence passed as Nagle found his notes and tossed them into the fire.

Dance knew that as soon as he finished, and Pell learned from her and TJ what he needed to know, they'd be dead.

Nagle's wife was sobbing. She said, "Leave us alone, please, please, anything…I'll do anything. Please…"

Dance glanced into the bedroom, where she lay beside Sonja and Eric. The little girl was crying pathetically.

"Quiet there, Mrs. Writer."

Dance glanced at her watch, partly obscured by the cuffs. She imagined what her own children were doing now. The thought was too painful, though, and she forced herself to concentrate on what was happening in the room.

Was there anything she could do?

Bargain with him? But to bargain you need something of value the other person wants.

Resist? But to resist you need weapons.

"Why are you doing this?" Nagle moaned, as the last of the notes went up in flames.

"Hush there."

Pell rose and stirred the fire with a poker to keep the pages burning. He dusted his hands off. He held up his sooty fingers. "Makes me feel at home. I've been fingerprinted probably fifty times in my life. I can always tell the new clerks. Their hands shake when they roll your fingers. Okay, then." He turned to Dance. "Now, I understand from your call earlier to Mr. Writer here you figured out about Rebecca. Which is what I have to talk to you about. What do you know about us? And who else knows it? We've got to make some plans and we need to know what to do next. And understand this, Agent Dance, you're not the only one who can spot liars at fifty paces. I have that gift too. You and me, we're naturals."

Whether she lied or not didn't matter. They were all dead.

"Oh, and I should say that Rebecca found another address for me. The home of one Stuart Dance."

Dance felt this news like a slap in the face. She struggled to keep from being sick. A wash of heat, scalding water, enveloped her face and chest.

"You son of a bitch," TJ raged.

"And if you tell me the truth, your mom and pop and kiddies'll be fine. I was right about your brood, wasn't I? At our first get-together. And no husband. You, a poor widow, Rebecca tells me. Sorry about that. Anyway, I'll bet the kiddies're with the grandfolks right now."

At that moment Kathryn Dance came to a decision.

It was a gamble, and under other circumstances it would have been a difficult, if not impossible, choice. Now, although the consequences would probably be tragic, one way or the other, there was no option.

No weapons-except words, and her intuition. A to B to X…

They would have to do.

Dance shifted so she was facing Pell directly. "Aren't you curious why we're here?"

"That's a question. I didn't want a question. I wanted an answer."

Make sure he remains in charge-Daniel Pell's trademark. "Please, let me go on. I am answering your question. Please, let me."

Pell looked her over with a frown. He didn't object.

"Now think about it. Why would we come here in such a big hurry?"

Normally she would have used a subject's first name. But doing so could be interpreted as an attempt to dominate, and Daniel Pell needed to know he was in control.

He grimaced impatiently. "Get to the point."

Rebecca scowled. "She's stalling. Let's go, baby."

Dance said, "Because I had to warn Morton-"

Rebecca whispered, "Let's just finish up and get going. Jesus, we're wasting-"

"Quiet, lovely." Pell turned his bright blue eyes back to Dance, just as he'd done in Salinas during their interview on Monday. It seemed like years ago. "Yeah, you wanted to warn him about me. So?"

"No. I wanted to warn him about Rebecca."

"What're you talking about?"

Dance held Pell's eyes as she said, "I wanted to warn him that she was going to use you to kill him. Just like she used you at William Croyton's house eight years ago."

Chapter 50

Dance saw the flicker in Daniel Pell's otherworldly eyes.

She'd touched something close to the god of control.

She used you…

"This is such bullshit," Rebecca snapped.

"Probably," Pell said.

Dance noted the conditional word, not an absolute one. The agent eased forward. We believe that those who are physically closer to us tell the truth more than those leaning away. "She set you up, Daniel. And you want to know why? To kill William Croyton's wife."

He was shaking his head, but he was listening to every word.

"Rebecca was Croyton's lover. And when his wife wouldn't give him a divorce she decided to use you and Jimmy Newberg to kill her."

Rebecca laughed harshly.

Dance said, "You remember the Sleeping Doll, Daniel? Theresa Croyton?"

Now she was using his first name. She'd established a bond-by suggesting a common enemy.

He said nothing. His eyes flicked to Rebecca, then back to Dance, who continued, "I just talked to the girl."

Rebecca was shocked. "You what?"

"We had a long conversation. It was quite revealing."

Rebecca tried to recover. "Daniel, she didn't talk to her at all. She's bluffing to save her ass."

But Dance asked, "Was Jeopardy! on the TV in the den the night you and Newberg broke into the Croytons'? She told me it was. Who else would have known that?"

What is Quebec?…

The killer blinked. Dance saw she had his complete attention. "Theresa told me that her father was having affairs. He'd drop the children off at the Santa Cruz boardwalk and then meet his lovers there. One night Croyton spotted Rebecca doing sketches and picked her up. They started an affair. She wanted him to get a divorce but he wouldn't, or couldn't, because of his wife. So Rebecca decided to kill her."

"Oh, this is ridiculous," Rebecca raged. "She doesn't know any of this."

But Dance could see it was posed. The woman was flushed and her hands and feet were flashing subtle but clear affect displays from the stress. There was now no doubt that Dance was on to something.

Dance looked at him with steady eyes. "The boardwalk…Rebecca would've heard about you there, wouldn't she, Daniel? That's where the Family went to sell things at flea markets and to steal and shoplift. Caused kind of a stir, this cult of criminals. Gypsies, they called you. It made the news. She needed a fall guy, a killer. Linda told me you two met on the boardwalk. You thought you seduced her? No, it was the other way around."

Rebecca's voice remained calm. "Shut up! She's lying, Dan-"

"Quiet!" Pell snapped.

"She joined your clan when? Not long before the Croyton murders. A few months?" Dance pressed forward relentlessly. "Rebecca talked her way into the Family. Didn't it seem a little sudden? Didn't you wonder why? She wasn't like the others. Linda and Samantha and Jimmy, they were children. They'd do what you wanted. But Rebecca was different. Independent, aggressive."

Dance recalled Winston Kellogg's comment about cult leaders.

…women can be just as effective and as ruthless as men. And often they're more devious…

"Once she was in the Family she saw right away that she could use Jimmy Newberg too. She told him that Croyton had something valuable in his house and he suggested that the two of you break in and steal it. Right?"

Dance saw that she was. "But Rebecca had made other plans with Jimmy. Once you were in the Croytons' house, he was supposed to kill Croyton's wife, then kill you. With you gone, he and Rebecca could be in charge. Of course, her idea was to turn Jimmy in after the killings-or maybe even kill him herself. William Croyton would go through a suitable period of mourning and he'd marry her."

"Honey, no. This is-"

Pell lunged forward and grabbed Rebecca's short hair, pulled her close. "Don't say another word. Let her talk!"

Moaning in pain, cringing, she slipped to the floor.

With Pell's attention elsewhere, Dance caught TJ's eye. He nodded slowly.

She continued, "Rebecca thought only Croyton's wife would be home. But the whole family was there because Theresa said she was sick. Whatever happened that night-only you know that, Daniel-whatever happened, everybody ended up dead.

"And when you called the Family to tell them what happened, Rebecca did the only thing she could to save herself: She turned you in. She's the one who made the call that got you arrested."

"That's bullshit," Rebecca said. "I'm the one who got him out of jail now!"

Dance laughed coldly. She said to Pell, "Because she needed to use you again, Daniel. To kill Morton. A few months ago she got a call from him and he tells her about the book The Sleeping Doll, how he's going to write about the Croytons-their life before the murders and Theresa's life afterward. She knows he'd learn about the affairs Croyton had. It was just a matter of time before somebody put the pieces together-that she was behind a plot to murder Croyton's wife.

"So Rebecca came up with the plan to break you out of Capitola… One thing I don't know," she added, "is what she said to you, Daniel, to convince you to murder him." She glanced angrily at Rebecca, as if she were offended by what the woman had done to her good friend Daniel Pell. "So what lies did you tell him?"

Pell shouted at Rebecca, "What you told me-is it true or not?" But before she could speak, Pell grabbed Nagle, who cringed. "That book you're writing! What were you going to say about me?"

"It wasn't about you. It was about Theresa and the Croytons and the girls in the Family. That's all. It was about your victims, not you."

Pell pushed the man to the floor. "No, no! You were going to write about my land!"

"Land?"

"Yes!"

"What're you talking about?"

"My land, my mountaintop. You found out where it was, you were going to write about it in your book!"

Ah, Dance finally understood. Pell's precious mountaintop. Rebecca had convinced him that the only way to keep it secret was to kill Morton Nagle and destroy the notes.

"I don't know anything about that, I swear."

Pell looked him over closely. He believed the writer, Dance could see.

"As soon as you killed Nagle and his family, Daniel, you know what was coming next, don't you? Rebecca was going to murder you. Claim you kidnapped her from the inn."

Dance gave a sad laugh. "Daniel, you thought all along you were in charge. But, no, she was Svengali. She was the Pied Piper."

Pell blinked at her words, then rose and charged toward Rebecca, knocking a table over as he lifted the gun.

The woman cringed but suddenly she too leapt forward, swinging the knife madly, slicing into Pell's arm, grabbing at his gun. The weapon went off, the bullet digging a chunk of rosy brick out of the fireplace.

Instantly Dance and TJ were on their feet.

The young agent kicked Rebecca hard in the ribs and grabbed Pell's gun hand. They wrestled for control of the weapon, sliding to the floor.

"Call nine-one-one," Dance shouted to Nagle, who scrabbled for a phone.

She started for the guns on the table, recalling: Check your backdrop, aim, squeeze in bursts, count the rounds, at twelve drop the clip, reload. Check your backdrop…

Screaming from Nagle's wife, wailing from his daughter.

"Kathryn," TJ shouted breathlessly. She saw that Pell was twisting the gun toward her.

It fired.

The bullet streaked past her.

TJ was young and strong, but his wrists were still cuffed and Pell had desperation and adrenaline coursing through him. With his free hand he pounded at TJ's neck and head. Finally the killer broke away, holding the gun, as the young agent rolled desperately for cover under a table.

Dance struggled forward but knew she'd never make it to the weapons in time. TJ was dead…

Then a huge explosion.

Another.

Dance dropped to her knees and looked behind her.

Morton Nagle had picked up one of their guns and was firing the weapon toward Pell. Clearly unfamiliar with guns, he jerked the trigger and the bullets were wide. Still he stood his ground and kept firing. "You son of a bitch!"

Crouching, hands up in a futile effort to protect himself, Pell cringed, hesitated a moment, fired one round into Rebecca's belly and then flung the door open and ran outside.

Dance took the gun from Nagle, grabbed TJ's as well and shoved it into his cuffed hands.

The agents got to the half-open door just as a round slammed into the jamb, peppering them with splinters. They jumped back, crouching. She fished the cuff keys from her jacket and undid the bracelets. TJ did the same.

Cautiously they glanced outside at the empty street. A moment later they heard the screech of an accelerating car.

Calling back to Nagle, "Keep Rebecca alive! We need her!" Dance ran to her car and grabbed the microphone off the dash. It slipped out of her shaking hands. She took a breath, controlled the tremors and called the Monterey Sheriff's Office.

Chapter 51

An angry man is a man out of control.

But Daniel Pell couldn't staunch the rage as he sped away from Monterey, replaying what had just happened. Kathryn Dance's voice, Rebecca's face.

Replaying the events of eight years ago too.

Jimmy Newberg, the goddamn computer freak, the doper, had said that he had inside information about William Croyton-thanks to a programmer who'd been fired six months earlier. He'd managed to find out Croyton's alarm code and had a key to the back door (though Pell now knew where he'd gotten those-from Rebecca, of course). Jimmy'd said too that the eccentric Croyton kept huge amounts of cash in the house.

Pell would never rob a bank or check-cashing operation, nothing big. But, still, he needed money to expand the Family and to move to his mountaintop. And here was a chance for a once-in-a-lifetime break-in. No one was going to be home, Jimmy said, so there'd be no risk of injuries. They'd walk away with a hundred thousand dollars, and Croyton would make a routine call to the police and the insurance company, then forget the matter.

Just what Kathryn Dance had figured.

The two men had snuck through the backyard and made their way to the house through the sumptuous landscaping. Pell had seen the lights on, but Jimmy told him they were on a timer for security. They slipped into the house through a side utility door.

But something wasn't right. The alarm was off. Pell turned to Jimmy to tell him that somebody must be home after all, but the young man was already hurrying into the kitchen.

Walking right up to the middle-aged woman cooking dinner, her back to him. No! Pell remembered thinking in shock. What was he doing?

Murdering her, it turned out.

Using a paper towel, Jimmy pulled a steak knife from his pocket-one from the Family's house, with Pell's fingerprints on it, he realized-and, gripping the woman around the mouth, stabbed her deeply. She slumped to the floor.

Enraged, Pell whispered, "What the hell are you doing?"

Newberg turned and hesitated, but his face was telegraphing what was coming. When he lunged, Pell was already leaping aside. He just managed to dodge the vicious blade. Pell swept up a frying pan, smashed it into Newberg's head. He crashed to the floor, and, with a butcher knife from the counter, Pell killed him.

A moment later William Croyton hurried into the kitchen, hearing the noise of the struggle. His two older children were behind him, screaming as they stared at their mother's body. Pell pulled his gun out and forced the hysterical family into the pantry. He finally calmed Croyton down enough to ask about the money, which the businessman said was in the desk in the ground-floor office.

Daniel Pell had found himself looking at the sobbing, terrified family as if he were looking at weeds in a garden or crows or insects. He'd had no intention of killing anyone that night, but to stay in control of his life he had no choice. In two minutes they were all dead; he used the knife so the neighbors would hear no gunshots.

Pell had then wiped what fingerprints he could, taken Jimmy's steak knife and all his ID, then run to the office, where he found, to his shock, that, yes, there was money in the desk, but only a thousand dollars. A fast search of the master bedroom downstairs revealed only pocket change and costume jewelry. He never even got upstairs, where that little girl was in bed, asleep. (He was now glad she'd been up there; ironically, if he'd killed her then, he never would've learned about Rebecca's betrayal.)

And, yes, to the sound track of Jeopardy! he'd run back to the kitchen, where he pocketed the dead man's wallet and his wife's diamond cocktail ring.

Then outside, to his car. And only a mile later he was pulled over by the police.

Rebecca…

Thinking back to meeting her for the first time-the "coincidental" meeting that she'd apparently engineered near the boardwalk in Santa Cruz.

Pell remembered how much he loved the boardwalk, all the rides. Amusement parks fascinated him, people giving up complete control to somebody else-either risking harm on the roller coasters and parachute drops or becoming mindless laboratory rats on rides like the boardwalk's famous hundred-year-old Looff carousel, round and round…

Remembered too Rebecca eight years ago, near that very same merry-go-round, gesturing him over.

"Hey, how'd you like me to do your portrait?"

"I guess. How much?"

"You'll be able to afford it. Take a seat."

And then after five minutes, with only the basic features of his face sketched in, she'd lowered the charcoal stick, looked him over and asked, challenging, if there was someplace private to go. They'd walked to the van, Linda Whitfield watching them with a solemn, jealous face. Pell hardly noticed her.

And a few minutes later, after kissing frantically, his hands all over her, she'd eased back.

"Wait…"

What? he'd wondered. Clap, AIDS?

Breathless, she'd said, "I…have to say something." She'd paused, looking down.

"Go on."

"You might not like this, and if not, okay, we'll just call it quits and you get a picture for free. But I feel this connection with you, even after just a little while, and I've got to say…"

"Tell me."

"When it comes to sex, I don't really enjoy it…unless you hurt me. I mean, really hurt me. A lot of men don't like that. And it's okay…"

His response was to roll her over on her taut little belly.

And pull off his belt.

He gave a grim laugh now. It was all bullshit, he realized. Somehow in that ten minutes on the beach and five minutes in the van she'd tipped to his fantasy and played it for all it was worth.

Svengali and Trilby…

He now continued driving until his right arm began to throb with pain from Rebecca's knife slash at Nagle's house. He pulled over, opened his shirt and looked at it. Not terrible-the bleeding was slowing. But, damn, it hurt.

Nothing like the slash of her betrayal, though.

He was at the edge of the quiet portion of town and would have to continue through populated areas, where the police would be looking for him everywhere.

He made a U-turn and drove through the streets until he found an Infiniti, pausing at a stoplight ahead of him. Only one person inside. No other cars were around. Pell slowed but didn't hit the brakes until he was right on top of the luxury car. The bumpers tapped with a resonant thud. The Infiniti rolled forward a few feet. The driver glared in his rearview mirror and got out.

Pell, shaking his head, climbed out too. He stood, studying the damage.

"Weren't you looking?" The driver of the Infiniti was a middle-aged Latino man. "I just bought it last month." He glanced up from the cars and frowned at the blood on Pell's arm. "Are you hurt?"

His eyes followed the stain down to Pell's hand, where he saw the gun.

But by then it was too late.

Chapter 52

The first thing Kathryn Dance had done at Nagle's house-while TJ called in the escape-was to phone the deputy guarding her parents and children and have him take them, under guard, to CBI headquarters. She doubted Pell would waste time at this point carrying out his threats, but she wasn't going to take any chances.

She now asked the writer and his wife if Pell had said anything about where he might be fleeing, especially his mountaintop. Nagle had been honest with Pell; he'd never heard anything about an enclave in the wilderness. He, his wife and children could add nothing more. Rebecca was badly wounded and unconscious. O'Neil had sent a deputy with her in the ambulance. The moment she was able to talk, he'd call the detective.

Dance now joined Kellogg and O'Neil, who stood nearby, heads bowed, as they discussed the case. Whatever personal reservations O'Neil had about the FBI man, and vice versa, you couldn't tell it from their posture and gesturing. They were efficiently and quickly coordinating roadblocks and planning a search strategy.

O'Neil took a phone call. He frowned. "Okay, sure. Call Watsonville… I'll handle it." He hung up and announced, "Got a lead. Carjacking in Marina. Man fitting Pell's description-and bleeding-snatched a black Infiniti. Had a gun." He added grimly, "Witness said he heard a gunshot, and when he looked, Pell was closing the trunk."

Dance closed her eyes and sighed in disgust. Yet another death.

O'Neil said, "There's no way he's staying on the Peninsula anymore. He jacked the car in Marina so he's headed north. Probably aiming for the One-oh-one." He climbed into his car. "I'll set up a command post in Gilroy. And Watsonville, in case he sticks to the One."

She watched him drive off.

"Let's get up there too," Kellogg said, turning to his car.

Following him, Dance heard her phone ring. She took the call. It was from James Reynolds. She briefed him on what had just happened, and then the former prosecutor said he'd been through the files from the Croyton murders. He'd found something that might be helpful. Did Dance have a minute now?

"You bet."

Sam and Linda huddled together, watching the news reports about yet another attempted murder by Daniel Pell: the writer, Nagle. Rebecca, described as an accomplice of Pell's, had been badly wounded. And Pell had once again escaped. He was in a stolen car, most likely heading north, the owner of the car another victim.

"Oh, my," Linda whispered.

"Rebecca was with him all along." Sam stared at the TV screen, her face a mask of shock. "But who shot her? The police? Daniel?"

Linda closed her eyes momentarily. Sam didn't know if this was a prayer or a reaction to the exhaustion from the ordeal they'd been through in the past few days. Crosses to bear, Sam couldn't help but think. Which she didn't tell to her Christian friend.

Another newscaster devoted a few minutes to describing the woman who'd been shot, Rebecca Sheffield, founder of Women's Initiatives in San Diego, one of the women in the Family eight years ago. She mentioned that Sheffield had been born in Southern California. Her father had died when she was six and she'd been raised by her mother, who had never remarried.

"Six years old?" Linda muttered.

Sam blinked. "She lied. None of that stuff with her father ever happened. Oh, boy, were we taken in."

"This is all way too much for me. I'm packing."

"Linda, wait."

"I don't want to talk about anything, Sam. I've had it."

"Just let me say one thing."

"You've said plenty."

"I don't think you were really listening."

"And I wouldn't be listening if you said it again." She headed toward her bedroom.

Sam jumped when the phone rang. It was Kathryn Dance.

"Oh, we just heard-"

But the agent said, "Listen to me, Sam. I don't think he's headed north. I think he's coming for you."

"What?"

"I just heard from James Reynolds. He found a reference to Alison in his old case files. It seems that during his interrogation after the Croyton deaths, Pell assaulted him. Reynolds was questioning him about the incident in Redding, the Charles Pickering murder, and was talking about Alison, his girlfriend you mentioned. Pell went crazy and attacked him, or tried to-the same thing that happened to me in Salinas-because he was getting close to something important.

"James thinks he killed Pickering because the man knew about Pell's mountaintop. And that's why he was trying to find Alison. She'd know about it too."

"But why hurt us?"

"Because Pell told you about Alison. Maybe you wouldn't make the connection between her and his property, maybe you wouldn't even remember. But that place is so important to him-his kingdom-that he's willing to murder anybody who's a risk to it. That means you. Both of you."

"Linda, come here!"

The woman appeared in the doorway, frowning angrily.

Dance continued, "I've just radioed the officers outside. They're going to take you to CBI headquarters. Agent Kellogg and I are on our way to the inn now. We're going to wait in the cabin and see if Pell shows up."

Breathlessly Sam said to Linda, "Kathryn thinks Daniel might be coming this way."

"No!" The curtains were drawn, but the women instinctively looked toward the windows. Then Sam glanced toward Rebecca's bedroom. Had she remembered to lock the window after finding that the woman had climbed out? Yes, Sam recalled, she had.

There was a knock on the door. "Ladies, it's Deputy Larkin."

Sam glanced at Linda. They froze. Then Linda slowly walked to the peephole and looked out. She nodded and opened the door. The MCSO deputy stepped inside. "I've been asked to take you to CBI. Just leave everything and come with me." The other deputy was outside, looking around the parking lot.

Sam said into the phone, "It's the deputy, Kathryn. We're leaving now."

They hung up.

Samantha grabbed her purse. "Let's go." Her voice was shaking.

The deputy, hand near his pistol, nodded them forward.

At that moment a bullet struck him in the side of his head. Another shot, and the second deputy grabbed his chest, slumping to the ground, crying out. A third bullet struck him as well. The first officer crawled toward his car and collapsed on the sidewalk.

Linda gasped. "No, no!"

Footsteps were running on the pavement. Daniel Pell was sprinting toward the cabin.

Sam was paralyzed.

Then she leapt forward and slammed the door, managed to get the chain on and step aside just as another bullet snapped through the wood. She lunged for the phone.

Daniel Pell gave two solid kicks. The second one cracked the lock on the door, though the chain held. It opened only a few inches.

"Rebecca's room!" Sam cried. She ran to Linda and grabbed her arm but the woman stood rooted in the doorway.

Sam assumed she was frozen in panic.

But her face didn't look frightened at all.

She pulled away from Sam. "Daniel," she called.

"What are you doing?" Sam screamed. "Come on!"

Pell kicked the door again, but the chain continued to hold. Sam dragged Linda a step or two closer to Rebecca's bedroom but she pulled away. "Daniel," Linda repeated. "Please, listen to me. It's not too late. You can give yourself up. We'll get you a lawyer. I'll make sure you're-"

Pell shot her.

Simply lifted the gun, aimed through the gap in the door and shot Linda in the abdomen as casually as if he were swatting a fly. He tried to shoot again but Sam dragged her into the bedroom. Pell kicked the door once more. This time it crashed open, smashing into the wall and shattering a picture of a seashore.

Sam closed and locked Rebecca's door. She whispered fiercely, "We're going outside, now! We can't wait here."

Pell tested the bedroom knob. Kicked the panel. But this door opened outward and it now held firmly against his blows.

Feeling a horrifying tickle on her back, sure that at any moment he'd shoot through the door and hit her by chance, Sam helped Linda to the windowsill, pushed her out, then tumbled after her onto the damp, fragrant earth. Linda was whimpering in pain and clutching her side.

Sam helped her up and, holding her arm in a bruising grip, guided her, jogging, toward Point Lobos State Park.

"He shot me," Linda moaned, still astonished. "It hurts. Look…Wait, where are we going?"

Sam ignored her. She was thinking only of getting as far away as she could from the cabin. As for their destination, Sam couldn't say. All she could see ahead of them was acres of trees, formations of harsh rock and, at the end of the world, the explosive, gray ocean.

Chapter 53

"No," Kathryn Dance gasped. "No…"

Win Kellogg skidded the car to a stop beside the two deputies, sprawled on the sidewalk in front of the cabin.

"See how they are," Kellogg told her and pulled out his cell phone to call for backup.

Gun in her sweating hand, Dance knelt beside the deputy, saw he was dead, his blood a huge stain, slightly darker than the dark asphalt that was his deathbed. The other officer as well. She glanced up and mouthed, "They're gone."

Kellogg folded up his phone and joined her.

Though they'd had no tactical training together, they approached the cabin like seasoned partners, making sure they offered no easy target and checking out the half-open door and the windows. "I'm going in," Kellogg said.

Dance nodded.

"Just back me up. Keep an eye on the doorways inside. Scan. Constantly scan them. He'll lead with the gun. Look for metal. And if there're bodies inside, ignore them until the place is clear." He touched her arm. "That's important. Okay? Ignore them even if they're screaming for help. We can't do anything for anyone if we're wounded. Or dead."

"Got it."

"Ready?"

No, not the least bit. But she nodded. He squeezed her shoulder. Then took several deep breaths and pushed through the doorway fast, weapon up, swinging it back and forth, covering the inside of the cabin.

Dance was right behind him, remembering to target the doors-and to raise her muzzle when he passed in front of her.

Scan, scan, scan…

She glanced behind them from time to time, checking out the open doorway, thinking Pell could easily have circled around and be waiting for them.

Then Kellogg called, "Clear."

And inside, thank God, no bodies. Kellogg, though, pointed out bloodstains, fresh ones on the sill of an open window in the bedroom Rebecca had been using. Dance noticed some on the carpet too.

She looked outside, saw more blood and footprints in the dirt beneath it. She told Kellogg this and added, "Think we have to assume they got away and he's after them."

The FBI agent said, "I'll go. Why don't you wait here for the backup?"

"No," she said automatically; there was no debate. "The reunion was my idea. And I'm not letting them die. I owe them that."

He hesitated. "All right."

They ran to the back door. Inhaling deeply, she flung it open; with Kellogg behind her, Dance sprinted outside, expecting at any moment to hear the crack of a gunshot and feel the numbing slap of a bullet.

He hurt me.

My Daniel hurt me.

Why?

The pain in Linda's heart was nearly as bad as the pain in her side. The good Christian within her had forgiven Daniel for the past. She was ready to forgive him for the present.

Yet he'd shot me.

She wanted to lie down. Let Jesus cloak them, let Jesus save them. She whispered this to Sam, but maybe she didn't. Maybe it was in her imagination.

Samantha said nothing. She kept them jogging, Linda in agony, along the twisty paths of the beautiful yet stern park.

Paul, Harry, Lisa…the names of the foster children reeled through her mind.

No, that was last year. They were gone now. She had others now.

What were their names?

Why don't I have a family?

Because God our Father has another plan for me, that's why.

Because Samantha betrayed me.

Mad thoughts, rolling through her mind like the nearby sea cycled over the bony rocks.

"It hurts."

"Keep going," was Sam's whisper. "Kathryn and that FBI agent'll be here any minute."

"He shot me. Daniel shot me."

Her vision crinkled. She was going to faint. Then what'll the Mouse do? Lug my 162 pounds over her shoulder?

No, she'll betray me like she did before.

Samantha, my Judas.

Through the sound of the troubled waves, the wind hissing through the slippery pines and cypress, Linda heard Daniel Pell behind them. The snap of a branch occasionally, a rustle of leaves. They hurried on. Until the root of a scrub oak caught her foot and she went down hard, her wound burning with pain. She screamed.

"Shhhhh."

"It hurts."

Sam's voice, shaking with fear. "Come on, get up, Linda. Please!"

"I can't."

More footfalls. He was closer now.

But then it occurred to Linda that maybe the sounds were the police. Kathryn and that cute FBI agent.

She winced in agony as she turned to look.

But, no, it wasn't the police. She could see, fifty feet away, Daniel Pell. He spotted them. He slowed, caught his breath and continued forward.

Linda turned to Samantha.

But the woman was no longer there.

Sam had left her yet again, just like she'd done years ago.

Abandoned her to those terrible nights in Daniel Pell's bedroom.

Abandoned then, abandoned now.

Chapter 54

"My lovely, my Linda."

He approached slowly.

She winced at the pain. "Daniel, listen to me. It's not too late. God will forgive you. Turn yourself in."

He laughed, as if this were a joke of some sort. "God," he repeated. "God forgives me… Rebecca told me you'd gone religious."

"You're going to kill me."

"Where's Sam?"

"Please! You don't need to do this. You can change."

"Change? Oh, Linda, people don't change. Never, never, never. Why, you're still the same person you were when I found you, all red-eyed and lumpy, under that tree in Golden Gate Park, a runaway."

Linda felt her vision turning to black sand and yellow lights. The pain ebbed as she nearly fainted. When she floated back to the surface, he was leaning forward with his knife. "I'm sorry, baby. I've got to do it this way." An absurd but genuine apology. "But I'll be fast. I know what I'm doing. You won't feel much."

"Our Father…"

He pushed her head to the side so that her neck was exposed. She tried to resist but she couldn't. The fog was burned away completely now and as he moved the blade toward her throat, it flashed with a red glint from the low sun.

"Who art in heaven. Hallowed be-"

And then a tree fell.

Or an avalanche of rock crashed onto the path.

Or a flock of gulls, screaming in rage, landed on him.

Daniel Pell grunted and slammed into the rocky ground.

Samantha McCoy leapt off the killer, climbed to her feet and, hysterical, swung the solid tree branch onto his head and arms. Pell seemed astonished to see his little Mouse attacking him, the woman who scurried off to do everything he told her, who never told him no.

Except once…

Daniel slashed at her with the knife but she was too fast for him. He grabbed for the gun, which had fallen to the trail. But the rough branch connected hard again and again, bouncing off his head, tearing his ear. He wailed in pain. "Goddamn." He struggled to his feet. Lashing out with his fist, he caught her in the knee with a solid blow and she dropped hard.

Daniel dove for the gun, grabbed it. He scrabbled back, rose to his feet once more and swung the pistol muzzle her way. But Samantha rolled to her feet and struck with the branch again, two-handed. It connected with his shoulder. He stepped back, flinching.

Two words from the past came back to Linda, seeing Sam fight. What Daniel used to say when he was proud of someone in the Family: "You held fast, lovely."

Hold fast…

Samantha lunged again, swinging the branch.

But now Daniel had a solid stance. He managed to catch the branch with his left hand. For a moment they stared at each other, three feet apart, the wooden stick connecting them like a live wire. Daniel gave a sad smile and lifted the gun.

"No," Linda croaked.

Samantha gave a smile too. And she pushed toward him, hard, and let go of the branch. Daniel stepped backward-into the air. He'd been standing on the edge of a cliff, twenty feet above another nature trail.

He cried out, fell backward and tumbled down the rough rock face.

Whether he survived or not, Linda didn't know. Not at first. But then she supposed he must have. Samantha glanced down with a grimace, helped Linda to her feet. "We've got to go. Now." And led her into the dense woods.

Exhausted, in agony, Samantha McCoy struggled to keep Linda upright.

The woman was pale, but the bleeding wasn't bad. The wound would be excruciating but she could at least walk.

A whisper.

"What?"

"Thought you left me."

"No way. But he had the gun-I had to trick him."

"He's going to kill us." Linda still sounded amazed.

"No, he's not. Don't talk. We have to hide."

"I can't go on."

"Down by the water, the beach, there're caves. We can hide in one. Until the police get here. Kathryn's on her way. They'll come after us."

"No, I can't. It's miles."

"It's not that far. We can make it."

They continued for another fifty feet, then Sam felt Linda start to falter.

"No, no…I can't. I'm sorry."

Sam found some reserve of strength and managed to get Linda another twenty feet. But then she collapsed-at the worst possible place, a clearing visible for a hundred yards from all around. She expected Pell to appear at any moment. He could easily pick them off.

A shallow trough in the rocks was nearby; it would hide them well enough.

Whispers floating from Linda's mouth.

"What?" Sam asked.

She leaned closer. Linda was speaking to Jesus, not her.

"Come on, we've got to go."

"No, no, you go on. Please. I mean it… You don't need to make up for what happened. You just saved my life a minute ago. We're even. I forgive you for what happened back in Seaside. I-"

"Not now, Linda!" Sam snapped.

The wounded woman tried to rise but then collapsed. "I can't."

"You have to."

"Jesus'll take care of me. You go on."

"Come on!"

Linda closed her eyes and began to whisper a prayer.

"You are not going to die here! Stand up!"

She took a deep breath, nodded and, with Sam's help, climbed to her feet. Together they staggered off the path, stumbling through brush and over roots as they made their way to the shallow ravine.

They were on a promontory about fifty feet above the ocean. The crashing of the surf was nearly constant, a jet engine, not a pulse. Deafening too.

The low sunlight hit them full on in a blinding, orange wash. Sam squinted and made out the ravine, very close now. They'd lie down in it, pull brush and leaves over themselves.

"You're doing fine. A few more feet."

Well, twenty.

But then they closed the distance to ten.

And finally they reached their sanctuary. It was deeper than Sam had thought and would be perfect cover.

She began to ease Linda into it.

Suddenly, with the sound of crackling underbrush, a figure pushed out of the woods, coming right at them.

"No," Sam cried. Letting Linda slump toward the ground, she grabbed a small rock, a pathetic weapon.

Then, gasping, she barked a hysterical laugh.

Kathryn Dance, crouching, whispered, "Where is he?"

Her heart slamming, Sam mouthed, "I don't know." Then repeated the words louder. "We saw him about fifty yards back that way. He's hurt. But I saw him walking."

"He's armed?"

A nod. "A gun. And a knife."

Dance scanned the area around them, squinting into the sun. She then assessed Linda's condition. "Get her down there." Nodding at the ravine. "Press something on the wound."

Together they eased the woman into the depression.

"Please, stay with us," Sam whispered.

"Don't worry," Dance said. "I'm not going anywhere."

Chapter 55

Winston Kellogg was somewhere to the south of them.

After they'd left the Point Lobos Inn, they'd lost track of the footprints and blood near a fork in the nature trails. Arbitrarily Dance had gone right, Kellogg left.

She'd moved silently through the brush-staying off the trail-until she saw motion by the edge of a cliff. She'd identified the women and approached them quickly.

Now, she called the FBI agent from her mobile phone.

"Win, I've got Sam and Linda."

"Where are you?"

"We're about a hundred yards from where we split up. I went due west. We're almost to the cliff. There's a round rock near us, about twenty feet high."

"Do they know where Pell is?"

"He was near here. Below us and to our left about fifty yards. And he's still armed. Pistol and knife."

Then she tensed, looking down, saw a man's form on the sand. "Win, where are you? Are you on the beach?"

"No. I'm on a path. The beach is below me, maybe two, three hundred feet away."

"Okay, he's there! You see that small island? Seals all over it. And gulls."

"Got it."

"The beach in front of that."

"I can't see it from here. But I'm moving that way."

"No, Win. There's no cover for your approach. We need tactical. Wait."

"We don't have time. He's gotten away too many times already. I'm not letting it happen again."

The gunslinger attitude…

It bothered her a lot. Suddenly she really didn't want anything to happen to Winston Kellogg.

…afterward. How does that sound?…

"Just…be careful. I lost sight of him. He was on the beach, but he's in the rocks now. There'd be perfect firing positions from there. He can cover all the approaches."

Dance stood up, shielding her eyes as she scanned the beach. Where is he?

She found out a second later.

A bullet slammed into the rocks not far from her, and then she heard the crack of Pell's pistol.

Samantha screamed and Dance dropped to cover in the recess, nicking her skin, furious that she'd presented a target.

"Kathryn," Kellogg called on the radio, "are you firing?"

"No, that was Pell."

"You okay?"

"We're fine."

"Where did it come from?"

"I couldn't see. Had to be the rocks near the beach."

"You stay down. He's got your position now."

She asked Samantha, "Does he know the park?"

"The Family spent a lot of time here. He knows it pretty good, I'd guess."

"Win, Pell knows Point Lobos. You could walk right into a trap. Really, why don't you wait?

"Hold on." Kellogg's voice was a quiet rasp. "I think I see something. I'll call you back."

"Wait… Win. Are you there?"

She changed position, moving some distance away so Pell wouldn't be looking for her. She glanced out fast between two rocks. Couldn't see a thing. Then she noticed Winston Kellogg making his way toward the beach. Against the massive rocks, gnarled trees, the expanse of ocean, he seemed so fragile.

Please…Dance sent him a silent message to stop, to wait.

But, of course, he kept on moving, her tacit plea as ineffectual as, she reflected, his would have been with her.

Daniel Pell knew more cops were on their way.

But he was confident. He knew this area perfectly. He'd robbed plenty of tourists in Point Lobos-many of them stupid to the point of being co-conspirators. They'd leave their valuables in their cars and at the picnic grounds, never thinking that anybody would conceive of robbing fellow humans in such a spiritual setting.

He and the Family had also spent plenty of time just relaxing here, camping out on the way back from Big Sur when they didn't feel like making the drive up to Seaside. He knew routes that would get him to the highway, or to the private residences nearby, invisible routes. He'd steal another car, head east into the back roads of the Central Valley, through Hollister, and work his way north.

To the mountaintop.

But now he had to deal with the immediate pursuers. There were just two or three, he believed. He hadn't seen them clearly. They must've stopped at the cabin, seen the dead deputies, then pursued him on their own. And it seemed that only one was actually nearby.

He closed his eyes momentarily against the pain. He pressed the stab wound, which had opened in the fall down the rocks. His ear was throbbing from Sam's blow.

Mouse…

He rested his head and shoulder against a cold, wet rock. It seemed to lessen the agony.

He wondered if one of the pursuers was Kathryn Dance. If so, he suspected that, no, it wasn't a coincidence she'd shown up at the cabin. She'd have guessed that he had stolen the Infiniti not to go north but to head here.

Well, one way or the other, she wasn't going to be a threat much longer.

But how to handle the immediate situation?

The cop pursuing him was getting close. There were only two approaches to where he was at the moment. Whoever came after him would either have to climb down a twenty-foot-high rock face, completely exposed to Pell below, or-taking the path-would turn a sharp corner from the beach and be a perfect target.

Pell knew that only a tactical officer would try the rock face and that his pursuer probably wouldn't be decked out in rappelling gear. They'd have to come from the beach. He hunkered down behind a cluster of rocks, hidden from above and from the beach, and waited for the officer to get close, resting the gun on a boulder.

He wouldn't shoot to kill. He'd wound. Maybe in the knee. And then, when he was down, Pell would blind him with the knife. He'd leave the radio nearby so the cop, racked by agony, would call for help, screaming and distracting the other officers. Pell could escape into a deserted area of the park.

He now heard someone approaching, trying to be quiet. But Pell had hearing like a wild animal's. He curled his hand around his gun.

The emotion was gone. Rebecca and Jennie and even the hateful Kathryn Dance were far, far from his thoughts.

Daniel Pell was in perfect control.

Dance, in yet another spot on the ridge, hidden by thick pines, looked out fast.

Winston Kellogg was on the beach now, close to where Pell must have been when he'd fired at her. The agent was moving slowly, looking around him, gun in both hands. He looked up at a cliff and seemed to be debating climbing it. But the walls were steep and Kellogg was in street shoes, impractical for the slippery stone. Besides, he'd undoubtedly be an easy target climbing down the other side.

Looking back to the path in front of him he seemed to notice marks in the sand, where she'd seen Pell. He crouched and moved closer to them. He paused at an outcropping.

"What's going on?" Samantha asked.

Dance shook her head.

She looked down at Linda. The woman was half-conscious and paler than before. She'd lost a lot of blood. She'd need emergency treatment soon.

Dance called MCSO central and asked for the status of the troops.

"First tac responders in five minutes, boats in fifteen."

Dance sighed. Why was it taking the cavalry so damn long? She gave them her approximate position and explained how the med techs should approach, to stay out of the line of fire. Dance glanced out again and saw Winston Kellogg ease around the rock, glistening burgundy in the low sun. The agent was heading directly toward the spot where she'd seen Pell vanish a few minutes earlier.

A long minute passed. Two.

Where was he? What-

The boom of an explosion.

What the hell was that?

Then a series of gunshots from behind the outcropping, a pause, then several more pistol cracks.

"What happened?" Samantha called.

"I don't know." Dance pulled her radio out. "Win. Win! Are you there? Over."

But the only sounds she heard over the rush of the waves were the edgy cries of the frightened, fleeing gulls.

Chapter 56

Kathryn Dance hurried along the beach, her Aldo shoes, among her favorites, ruined by the salt water.

She didn't care.

Behind her, back on the ridge, medical technicians were trundling Linda to the ambulance parked at the Point Lobos Inn, Samantha with her. She nodded to two MCSO officers ringing yellow tape from rock to rock, though the only intruder to trouble the crime scene would be the rising tide. Dance ducked under the plastic tape and turned the corner, continuing to the scene of the death.

Dance paused. Then walked straight up to Winston Kellogg and hugged him. He seemed shaken and kept staring at what lay in front of them: the body of Daniel Pell.

He was on his back, his sand-stained knees in the air, arms out to the sides. His pistol lay nearby where it had flown from his hand. Pell's eyes were partly open, intensely blue no longer, but hazy in death.

Dance realized that her hand remained on Kellogg's back. She dropped it and stepped aside. "What happened?" she asked.

"I nearly walked right into him. He was hiding there." He pointed out a stand of rocks. "But I saw him just in time. I got under cover. I had one of the flash-bangs left from the motel. I pitched it his way and it stunned him. He started shooting. But I was lucky. The sun was behind me. Blinded him, I guess. I returned fire. And…" He shrugged.

"You're okay?"

"Oh, sure. Little scraped up from the rocks. Not used to mountain climbing."

Her phone rang. She answered, glancing at the screen. It was TJ.

"Linda's going to be fine. Lost some blood, but the slug missed the important stuff. Oh, and Samantha's not hurt bad."

"Samantha?" Dance hadn't noticed the woman was injured. "What happened?"

"Cuts and bruises is all. Had a boxing match with the deceased, prior to his deceasing, of course. She's hurting but she'll be peachy."

She'd fought with Pell?

Mouse…

Monterey County Sheriff's crime scene officers arrived and began working the site. Michael O'Neil, she noticed, wasn't here.

One of the CS officers said to Kellogg, "Hey, congrats." He nodded at the body.

The FBI agent smiled noncommitally.

A smile, kinesics experts know, is the most elusive signal that the human face generates. A frown, a perplexed gaze or an amorous glance means only one thing. A smile, though, can telegraph hate, indifference, humor or love.

Dance wasn't sure exactly what this smile meant. But she noticed that an instant later, as he stared at the man he'd just killed, the expression vanished, as if it had never existed.

Kathryn Dance and Samantha McCoy stopped by Monterey Bay Hospital to see Linda Whitfield, who was conscious and doing well. She'd spend the night in the hospital but the doctors said she could go home tomorrow.

Samantha was chauffeured by Rey Carraneo back to a new cabin in the Point Lobos Inn, where she'd decided to spend the night, rather than returning home. Dance asked Samantha to join her for dinner, but the woman said she wanted some "downtime."

And who could blame her?

Dance left the hospital and returned to CBI, where she saw Theresa and her aunt, standing by their car, apparently awaiting her return to say good-bye. The girl's face brightened when she saw Dance. They greeted each other warmly.

"We heard," the aunt said, unsmiling. "He's dead?" As if she couldn't have too much confirmation.

"That's right."

She gave them the details of the incident at Point Lobos. The aunt seemed impatient, though Theresa was eager to hear exactly what had happened. Dance didn't edit the account.

Theresa nodded and took the news unemotionally.

"We can't thank you enough," the agent said. "What you did saved lives."

The subject didn't come up of what had actually happened on the night her family was killed, Theresa's feigned illness. Dance supposed that would remain a secret between herself and the girl forever. But why not? Sharing with one person was often as cathartic as sharing with the world.

"You're driving back tonight?"

"Yeah," the girl said with a glance at her aunt. "But we're making a stop first."

Dance thinking: seafood dinner, shopping at the cute stores in Los Gatos?

"I want to see the house. My old house."

Where her parents and siblings had died.

"We're going to meet Mr. Nagle. He talked to the family who lives there now and they've agreed to let me see it."

"Did he suggest that?" Dance was ready to run interference for the girl and knew that Nagle would back down in an instant.

"No, it was my idea," Theresa said. "I just, you know, want to. And he's going to come to Napa and interview me. For that book. The Sleeping Doll. That's the title. Isn't it weird having a book written about you?"

Mary Bolling didn't say anything, though her body language-slightly lifted shoulders, a shift in the jaw-told Dance instantly that she didn't approve of the evening's detour and that there'd been an argument on the subject.

As often, following significant life incidents-like the Family's reunion or Theresa's journey here to help catch her family's killer-there's a tendency to look for fundamental changes in the participants. But that didn't happen very often and Dance didn't think it had here. She found herself looking at the same two people they'd undoubtedly been for some time: a protective middle-aged woman, blunt but stepping up to the difficult task of becoming a substitute parent, and a typically attitudinal teenage girl who'd impulsively done a brave thing. They'd had a disagreement about how to spend the rest of the evening and, in this case, the girl had won, undoubtedly with concessions.

Maybe, though, the very fact that the disagreement had occurred and been resolved was a step forward. This was, Dance supposed, how people change: incrementally.

She hugged Theresa, shook her aunt's hand and wished them a safe trip.

Five minutes later Dance was back in the GW side of CBI headquarters, accepting a cup of coffee and an oatmeal cookie from Maryellen Kresbach.

Walking into her office, she kicked off the damaged Aldos and dug in her closet for a new pair: Joan and David sandals. Then she stretched and sat, sipping the strong coffee and searching through her desk for the remainder of a pack of M amp;Ms she'd stashed there a few days ago. She ate them quickly, stretched again and enjoyed looking at the pictures of her children.

Photos of her husband too.

How she would have liked to lie in bed next to him tonight and talk about the Pell case.

Ah, Bill…

Her phone chirped.

She glanced at the screen and her stomach did a small jump.

"Hi," she said to Michael O'Neil.

"Hey. Just got the news. You okay? Heard there were rounds exchanged."

"Pell parked one near me. That's all."

"How's Linda?"

Dance gave him the details.

"And Rebecca?"

"ICU. She'll live. But she's not getting out any time soon."

He, in turn, told her about the phony getaway car-Pell's favorite means of diversion and distraction. The Infiniti driver wasn't dead. He had been forced by Pell to call and report his own murder and carjacking. He'd then driven home, put the car in the garage and sat in a dark room until he'd heard the news of Pell's death.

He added that he was sending her the crime scene reports from the Butterfly Inn, which Pell and Jennie had checked into after escaping from the Sea View and from Point Lobos.

She'd been glad to hear O'Neil's voice. But something was off. There was still the matter-of-fact tone. He wasn't angry, but he wasn't overly pleased to be speaking to her. She thought his earlier remarks about Winston Kellogg were out of line but, while she didn't want an apology, she did wish that the rough seas between them would calm.

She asked, "You all right?" With some people, you had to prime the pump.

"Fine," he said.

That goddamn word, which could mean everything from "wonderful" to "I hate you."

She suggested he come by the Deck that night.

"Can't, sorry. Anne and I have plans."

Ah. Plans.

That's one of those words too.

"Better go. Just wanted to let you know about the Infiniti driver."

"Sure, take care."

Click…

Dance grimaced for the benefit of no one and turned back to a file.

Ten minutes later Winston Kellogg's head appeared in the door. She gestured toward the chair and he dropped down into it. He hadn't changed; his clothes were still muddy and sandy. He saw her salt-stained shoes sitting by the door and gestured toward his own. Then laughed, pointing to a dozen pairs in her closet. "Probably nothing in there that'd work for me."

"Sorry," she answered, deadpan. "They're all a size six."

"Too bad, that lime-green number has a certain appeal."

They discussed the reports that needed to be completed and the shooting review board that would have to issue a report on the incident. She'd wondered how long he'd be in the area and realized that whether or not he followed through on asking her out he'd have to stay for four or five days; a review board could take that long to convene, hear testimony and write the report.

…afterward. How does that sound?…

Like Dance herself a few minutes ago, Kellogg stretched. His face gave a very faint signal-he was troubled. It would be the shootout, of course. Dance had never even fired her weapon at a suspect, let alone killed anyone. She'd been instrumental in tracking down dangerous perps, some of whom had been killed in the takedown. Others had gone to death row. But that was different from pointing a gun at someone and ending his life.

And here Kellogg had done so twice in a relatively short period of time.

"So what's next for you?" she asked.

"I'm giving a seminar in Washington on religious fundamentalism-it shares a lot with cult mentality. Then some time off. If the real world cooperates, of course." He slouched and closed his eyes.

In his smudged slacks, and with floppy hair and a bit of five-o'clock shadow, he was really an appealing man, Dance reflected.

"Sorry," he said, opening his eyes and laughing. "Bad form to fall asleep in colleagues' offices." The smile was genuine and whatever had been troubling him earlier was now gone. "Oh, one thing. I've got paperwork tonight, but tomorrow, can I hold you to that offer of dinner? It is afterward, remember?"

She hesitated, thinking, You know counterinterrogation strategy: anticipate every question the interrogator's going to ask and be ready with an answer.

But even though she'd just been thinking about this very matter, she was caught off guard.

So what's the answer? she asked herself.

"Tomorrow?" he repeated, sounding shy-curiously, for a man who'd just nailed one of the worst perps in Monterey County history.

You're stalling, she told herself. Her eyes swept the pictures of her children, her dogs, her late husband. She thought of Wes.

She said, "You know, tomorrow'd be great."

Chapter 57

"It's over," she said in a low voice to her mother.

"I heard. Michael briefed us at CBI."

They were at her parents' house in Carmel. The family was back from the castle keep of headquarters.

"Did the gang hear?"

Meaning the children.

"I put some spin on it. Phrased it like, oh, Mom'll be home at a decent hour tonight because, by the way, that stupid case of hers is over with, they got the bad guy, I don't know the details. That sort of thing. Mags didn't pay any attention-she's working up a new song for piano camp. Wes headed right for the TV but I had Stu drag him outside to play Ping-Pong. He seems to've forgotten about the story. But the key word is 'seems.'"

Dance had shared with her parents that, where her children were concerned, she wanted to minimize news about death and violence, particularly as it involved her work. "I'll keep an eye on him. And thanks."

Dance cracked open an Anchor Steam beer and split it in two glasses. Handed one to her mother.

Edie sipped and then, with a frown, asked, "When did you get Pell?"

Dance gave her the approximate time. "Why?"

Glancing at the clock, her mother said, "I was sure I heard somebody in the backyard around four, four-thirty. I didn't think anything of it at first but then I got to wondering if Pell found out where we lived. Wanting to get even or something. I was feeling a little bit spooked. Even with the squad car out front."

Pell wouldn't hesitate to hurt them, of course-he'd planned to do so-but the timing was off. Pell was already at Morton Nagle's house by then, or on the way.

"It probably wasn't him."

"Must've been a cat. Or the Perkins' dog. They have to learn to keep it inside. I'll talk to them."

She knew her mother would do just that.

Dance rounded up the children and herded them into the family Pathfinder, where the dogs awaited. She hugged her father and they made plans for her to pick her parents up for his birthday party at the Marine Club on Sunday evening. Dance was the designated driver, so they could enjoy themselves and drink as much champagne and Pinot Noir as they wanted. She thought about inviting Winston Kellogg but decided to wait on that one. See how tomorrow's "afterward" date went.

Dance thought about dinner and could summon up zero desire to cook. "Can you guys live with pancakes at Bayside?"

"Woo-hoo!" Maggie called. And began debating aloud what kind of syrup she wanted. Wes was happy but more restrained.

When they got to the restaurant and were seated at a booth, she reminded her son it was his job to pick their Sunday afternoon adventure this week before the birthday party. "So, what's our plan? Movie? Hiking?"

"I don't know yet." Wes examined the menu for a long time. Maggie wanted a to-go order for the dogs. Dance explained that the pancakes weren't to celebrate the reunion with the canines; it was simply because she wasn't in the mood to cook.

As the large, steaming plates were arriving, Wes asked, "Oh, you hear about that festival thing? The boats?"

"Boats?"

"Grandpa was telling us about it. It's a boat parade in the bay and a concert. At Cannery Row."

Dance recalled something about a John Steinbeck festival. "Is that on Sunday? Is that what you'd like to do?"

"It's tomorrow night," Wes said. "It'd be fun. Can we go?"

Dance laughed to herself. There was no way he could've known about her dinner date with Kellogg tomorrow. Or could he? She had intuition when it came to the children; why couldn't it work the other way?

Dance dressed the pancakes with syrup and allowed herself a pat of butter. Stalling. "Tomorrow? Let me think."

Her initial reaction, on seeing Wes's unsmiling face, was to call Kellogg and postpone or even cancel the date.

Sometimes it's just easier…

She stopped Maggie from drowning her pancakes in a frightening avalanche of blueberry and strawberry syrups, then turned to Wes and said impulsively, "Oh, that's right, honey, I can't. I have plans."

"Oh."

"But I'm sure Grandpa'd want to go with you."

"What're you going to do? See Connie? Or Martine? Maybe they'd like to come too. We could all go. They could bring the twins."

"Yeah, the twins, Mom!" Maggie said.

Dance heard her therapist's words: Kathryn, you can't look at the substance of what he's saying. Parents tend to feel that their children raise valid objections about potential step-parents or even casual dates. You can't think that way. What he's upset with is what he sees as your betrayal of his father's memory. It has nothing to do with the partner himself.

She made a decision. "No, I'm going to have dinner with the man I've been working with."

"Agent Kellogg," the boy shot back.

"That's right. He has to go back to Washington soon, and I wanted to thank him for all the work he's done for us."

She felt a bit cheesy for gratuitously suggesting that because he lived so far away Kellogg was no long-term threat. (Though she supposed Wes's sensitive mind could easily jump to the conclusion that Dance was already planning to uproot them from friends and family here on the Peninsula and resettle them in the nation's capital.)

"Okay," the boy said, cutting up the pancakes, eating some, pensive. Dance was using his appetite as a barometer of his reaction.

"Hey, son of mine, what's the matter?"

"Nothing."

"Grandpa would love to go to see the boats with you."

"Sure."

Then she asked another impulsive question. "Don't you like Winston?"

"He's okay."

"You can tell me." Her own interest in food was flagging.

"I don't know… He's not like Michael."

"No, he's not. But there aren't many people like Michael." The dear friend who isn't returning my calls at the moment. "That doesn't mean I can't have dinner with them, does it?"

"I guess."

They ate for a few minutes. Then Wes blurted, "Maggie doesn't like him either."

"I didn't say that! Don't say things I didn't say."

"Yeah, you did. You said he's got a potbelly."

"Did not!" Though her blush told Dance that she had.

She smiled, put down her fork. "Hey, you two, listen up. Whether I have dinner with somebody or not, or even go out to the movies with them, nothing's going to change us. Our house, the dogs, our lives. Nothing. That's a promise. Okay?"

"Okay," Wes said. It was a bit knee-jerk, but he didn't seem completely unconvinced.

But now Maggie was troubled. "Aren't you ever going to get married again?"

"Mags, what brought that up?"

"Just wondering."

"I can't even imagine getting married again."

"You didn't say no," Wes muttered.

Dance laughed at the interrogator's perfect response. "Well, that's my answer. I can't even imagine it."

"I want to be best woman," Maggie said.

"Maid of honor," Dance corrected.

"No, I saw this after-school special. They do it different now."

"Differently," her mother corrected again. "But let's not get distracted. We've got pancakes and iced tea to polish off. And plans to make for Sunday. You've got to do some thinking."

"I will." Wes seemed reassured.

Dance ate the rest of her dinner, feeling elated at this victory: being honest with her son and receiving his acquiescence to the date. Oddly, this tiny step did a huge amount to take away the horror of the day's events.

On a whim she gave in to Maggie's final plea on behalf of the dogs and ordered one pancake and a side of sausage for each, minus the syrup. The girl served the food in the back of the Pathfinder. Dylan the shepherd devoured his in several gulps while the ladylike Patsy ate the sausage fastidiously, then carried the pancake to a space between the backseats, impossible to reach, and deposited it there for a rainy day.

At home, Dance spent the next few hours at domestic chores, fielding phone calls, including one from Morton Nagle, thanking her again for what she'd done for his family.

Winston Kellogg did not call, which was good (meaning the date was still on).

Michael O'Neil did not call either, which wasn't so good.

Rebecca Sheffield was in stable condition after extensive surgery. She'd be in the hospital, under guard, for the next six or seven days. More operations were needed.

Dance talked to Martine Christensen for some time about the "American Tunes" website, then, business disposed of, it was time for dessert: popcorn, which made sense after a sweet dinner. Dance found a Wallace and Gromit Claymation tape, cued it up and at the last minute managed to save the Redenbacher from the microwave of mass destruction before she set the bag ablaze, as she had last week.

She was pouring the contents into a bowl when her phone croaked yet again.

"Mom," Wes said impatiently. "I'm like starving." She loved his tone. It meant he'd snapped out of his unhappy mood.

"It's TJ," she announced, opening up her mobile.

"Say hi," the boy offered, shoving a handful of popcorn into his mouth.

"Wes says hi."

"Back at him. Oh, tell him I got to level eight on 'Zarg.'"

"Is that good?"

"You have no idea."

Dance relayed the message and Wes's eyes glowed. "Eight? No way!"

"He's impressed. So what's up?"

"Who's getting all the stuff?"

"'Stuff' would be?"

"Evidence, reports, emails, everything. The ball of wax, remember?"

He meant for the final disposition report. It would be massive in this case, with the multiple felonies and the interagency paperwork. She'd run the case and the CBI had primary jurisdiction.

"Me. Well, I should say us."

"I liked the first answer better, boss. Oh, by the way, remember 'Nimue'?"

The mystery word…

"What about it?"

"I just found another reference to it. You want me to follow up?"

"Think we better. Leave no t undotted. So to speak."

"Is tomorrow okay? It's not much of a date tonight, but Lucretia might be the woman of my dreams."

"You're going out with somebody named Lucretia? You may have to concentrate… Tell you what. Bring me all the wax. And the Nimue 'stuff.' I'll get started on it."

"Boss, you're the best. You're invited to the wedding."