The Sleeping Doll

by Jeffery Deaver

  "Not in the camera."

  TJ said he could on his computer, though, no problem. Nagle gave the memory card to him, and Dance sent TJ back to CBI headquarters, reminding him, "And Samantha McCoy. Track her down. The aunt too. Bakersfield."

  "You bet, boss."

  Rey Carraneo was still outside, canvassing for witnesses. But Dance believed that the accomplice had fled too; now that Pell had probably eluded the roadblocks there was no reason for the partner to stay around. She sent him back to headquarters as well.

  Nagle said, "I'll get started on the copies. . . . Oh, don't forget." He handed her the autographed paperback. "I know you'll like it."

  When he was gone Dance held it up. "In all my free time." And gave it to O'Neil for his collection.

  Chapter 9

  At lunch hour a woman in her midtwenties was sitting on a patio outside the Whole Foods grocery store in Monterey's Del Monte Center.

  A disk of sun was slowly emerging as the blanket of fog melted.

  She heard a siren in the distance, a dove cooing, a horn, a child crying, then a child laughing.

  Jennie Marston thought, Angel songs.

  The scent of pine filled the cool air. No breeze. Dull light. A typical California day on the coast, but everything about it was intensified.

  Which is what happens when you're in love and about to meet your boyfriend.

  Anticipation . . .

  Some old pop song, Jennie thought. Her mother sang it from time to time, her smoker's voice harsh and off-key, often slurred.

  Blond, authentic California blond, Jennie sipped her coffee. It was expensive but good. This wasn't her kind of store (the twenty-four-year-old part-time caterer was an Albertsons girl, a Safeway girl) but Whole Foods was a good meeting place.

  She was wearing close-fitting jeans, a light pink blouse and, underneath, a red Victoria's Secret bra and panties. Like the coffee, the lingerie was a luxury she couldn't afford. But some things you had to splurge on. (Besides, Jennie reflected, the garments were really a gift in a way: for her boyfriend.) Which made her think of other indulgences. Rubbing her nose, flick, flick, on the bump.

  Stop it, she told herself.

  But she didn't. Another two flicks.

  Angel songs . . .

  Why couldn't she have met him a year later? She'd've had the cosmetic work done by then and be beautiful. At least she could do something about the nose and boobs. She only wished she could fix the toothpick shoulders and boyish hips but fixing those was beyond the talents of talented Dr. Ginsberg.

  Skinny, skinny, skinny . . . And the way you eat! Twice what I do and look at me. God gave me a daughter like you to test me.

  Watching the unsmiling women wheeling their grocery carts to their mommy vans, Jennie wondered, Do they love their husbands? They couldn't possibly be as much in love as she was with her boyfriend. She felt sorry for them.

  Jennie finished her coffee and returned to the store, looking at massive pineapples and bins of grain and heads of funny-shaped lettuce and perfectly lined up steaks and chops. Mostly she studied the pastries--the way one painter examines another's canvas. Good. . . . Not so good. She didn't want to buy anything--it was way expensive. She was just too squirrelly to stay in one place.

  That's what I should've named you. Stay Still Jennie. For fuck's sake, girl. Sit down.

  Looking at the produce, looking at the rows of meat.

  Looking at the women with boring husbands.

  She wondered if the intensity she felt for her boyfriend was simply because it was all so new. Would it fade after a while? But one thing in their favor was that they were older; this wasn't that stupid passion of your teenage years. They were mature people. And most important was their souls' connection, which comes along so rarely. Each knew exactly how the other felt.

  "Your favorite color's green," he'd shared with her the first time they'd spoken. "I'll bet you sleep under a green comforter. It soothes you at night."

  Oh my God, he was so right. It was a blanket, not a comforter. But it was green as grass. What kind of man had that intuition?

  Suddenly she paused, aware of a conversation nearby. Two of the bored housewives weren't so bored at the moment.

  "Somebody's dead. In Salinas. It just happened."

  Salinas? Jennie thought.

  "Oh, the escape from that prison or whatever? Yeah, I just heard about it."

  "David Pell, no, Daniel. That's it."

  "Isn't he, like, Charles Manson's kid or something?"

  "I don't know. But I heard some people got killed."

  "He's not Manson's kid. No, he just called himself that."

  "Who's Charles Manson?"

  "Are you kidding me? Remember Sharon Tate?"

  "Who?"

  "Like, when were you born?"

  Jennie approached the women. "Excuse me, what's that you're talking about? An escape or something?"

  "Yeah, from this jail in Salinas. Didn't you hear?" one of the short-haired housewives asked, glancing at Jennie's nose.

  She didn't care. "Somebody was killed, you said?"

  "Some guards and then somebody was kidnapped and killed, I think."

  They didn't seem to know anything more.

  Her palms damp, heart uneasy, Jennie turned and walked away. She checked her phone. Her boyfriend had called a while ago but nothing since then. No messages. She tried the number. He didn't answer.

  Jennie returned to the turquoise Thunderbird. She put the radio on the news, then twisted the rearview mirror toward her. She pulled her makeup and brush from her purse.

  Some people got killed. . . .

  Don't worry about it, she told herself. Working on her face, concentrating the way her mother had taught her. It was one of the nice things the woman had done for her. "Put the light here, the dark here--we've got to do something with that nose of yours. Smooth it in . . . blend it. Good."

  Though her mother often took away the nice as fast as shattering a glass.

  Well, it looked fine until you messed it up. Honestly, what's wrong with you? Do it again. You look like a whore.

  *

  Daniel Pell was strolling down the sidewalk from the small covered garage connected to an office building in Monterey.

  He'd had to abandon Billy's Honda Civic earlier than he'd planned. He'd heard on the news that the police had found the Worldwide Express truck, which meant they would probably assume he was in the Civic. He'd apparently evaded the roadblocks just in time.

  How 'bout that, Kathryn?

  Now he continued along the sidewalk, with his head down. He wasn't concerned about being out in public, not yet. Nobody would expect him here. Besides, he looked different. In addition to the civilian clothes he was smooth-shaven. After dumping Billy's car he'd slipped into the back parking lot of a motel, where he'd gone through the trash. He'd found a discarded razor and a tiny bottle of the motel's giveaway body lotion. Crouching by the Dumpster, he'd used them to shave off the beard.

  He now felt the breeze on his face, smelled something in the air: ocean and seaweed. First time in years. He loved the scent. In Capitola prison the air you smelled was the air they decided to send to you through the air conditioner or heating system and it didn't smell like anything.

  A squad car went past.

  Hold fast . . .

  Pell was careful to maintain his pace, not looking around, not deviating from his route. Changing your behavior draws attention. And that puts you at a disadvantage, gives people information about you. They can figure out why you changed, then use it against you.

  That's what had happened at the courthouse.

  Kathryn . . .

  Pell had had the interrogation all planned out: If he could do so without arousing suspicion, he was going to get information from whoever was interviewing him, learn how many guards were in the courthouse and where they were, for instance.

  But then to his astonishment she'd learned exactly what he was doing.

  Where else
could somebody find a hammer of yours? . . . Now let's think about the wallet. Where could that've come from? . . .

  So he'd been forced to change his plans. And fast. He'd done the best he could but the braying alarm told him she'd anticipated him. If she'd done that just five minutes earlier, he would've been back in the Capitola prison van. The escape plan would've turned to dust.

  Kathryn Dance . . .

  Another squad car drove quickly past.

  Still no glances his way and Pell kept on course. But he knew it was time to get out of Monterey. He slipped into the crowded open-air shopping center. He noted the stores, Macy's, Mervyns and the smaller ones selling Mrs. See's Candy, books (Pell loved and devoured them--the more you knew, the more control you had), video games, sports equipment, cheap clothes and cheaper jewelry. The place was packed. It was June; many schools were out of session.

  One girl, college age, came out of a store, a bag over her shoulder. Beneath her jacket was a tight red tank top. One glance at it, and the swelling began inside him. The bubble, expanding. (The last time he'd intimidated a con, and bribed a guard, to swing a conjugal visit with the con's wife in Capitola was a year ago. A long, long year . . .) He stared at her, following only a few feet behind, enjoying the sight of the hair and her tight jeans, trying to smell her, trying to get close enough to brush against her as he walked past, which is an assault just as surely as being dragged into an alley and stripped at knifepoint.

  Rape is in the eye of the beholder. . . .

  Ah, but then she turned into another store and vanished from his life.

  My loss, dear, he thought.

  But not yours, of course.

  In the parking lot, Pell saw a turquoise Ford Thunderbird. Inside he could just make out a woman, brushing her long blond hair.

  Ah . . .

  Walking closer. Her nose was bumpy and she was a skinny little thing, not much in the chest department. But that didn't stop the balloon within him growing, ten times, a hundred. It was going to burst soon.

  Daniel Pell looked around. Nobody else nearby.

  He walked forward through the rows of cars, closing the distance.

  *

  Jennie Marston finished with her hair.

  This particular aspect of her body she loved. It was shiny and thick and when she spun her head it flowed like a shampoo model's in a slo-mo TV commercial. She twisted the Thunderbird's rearview mirror back into position. Shut the radio off. Touched her nose, the bump.

  Stop it!

  As she was reaching for the door handle she gave a gasp. It was opening on its own.

  Jennie froze, staring up at the wiry man, who was leaning down.

  Neither of them moved for a moment. Then he pulled the door open. "You're the picture of delight, Jennie Marston," he said. "Prettier than I imagined."

  "Oh, Daniel." Overwhelmed with emotion--fear, relief, guilt, a big burning sun of feeling--Jennie Marston could think of nothing else to say. Breathless, she slipped out of the car and flew into her boyfriend's arms, shivering and holding him so tightly that she squeezed a soft, steady hiss from his narrow chest.

  Chapter 10

  They got into the T-bird and she pressed her head against his neck as Daniel carefully surveyed the parking lot and the road nearby.

  Jennie was thinking how difficult the past month had been, forging a relationship through email, rare phone calls and fantasy, never seeing her lover in person.

  Still, she knew that it was so much better to build love this way--from a distance. It was like the women on the home front during a war, the way her mother would talk about her father in Vietnam. That was all a lie, of course, she'd later learned, but it didn't take away the larger truth: that love should be first about two souls and only later about sex. What she felt for Daniel Pell was unlike anything she'd ever experienced.

  Exhilarating.

  Frightening too.

  She felt the tears start. No, no, stop it. Don't cry. He won't like it if you cry. Men get mad when that happens.

  But he asked gently, "What's the matter, lovely?"

  "I'm just so happy."

  "Come on, tell me."

  Well, he didn't sound mad. She debated, then said, "Well, I was wondering. There were some women. At the grocery store. Then I put the news on. I heard . . . somebody got burned real bad. A policeman. And then two people were killed, stabbed." Daniel had said he just wanted the knife to threaten the guards. He wasn't going to hurt anybody.

  "What?" he snapped. His blue eyes grew hard.

  No, no, what're you doing? Jennie asked herself. You made him mad! Why did you ask him that? Now you've fucked everything up! Her heart fluttered.

  "They did it again. They always do it! When I left, nobody was hurt. I was so careful! I got out the fire door just like we'd planned and slammed it shut. . . ." Then he nodded. "I know . . . sure. There were other prisoners in a cell near mine. They wanted me to let them out too, but I wouldn't. I'll bet they started to riot and when the guards went to stop them, that's when those two got killed. Some of them had shivs, I'll bet. You know what that is?"

  "A knife, right?"

  "Homemade knife. That's what happened. And if somebody got burned, it was because he was careless. I looked carefully--there was no one else out there when I got through the fire. And how could I attack three people all by myself? Ridiculous. But the police and the news're blaming me for it, like they always do." His lean face was red. "I'm the easy target."

  "Just like that family eight years ago," she said timidly, trying to calm him. Nothing takes away the danger faster than agreeing with a man.

  Daniel had told her how he and his friend had gone to the Croytons' house to pitch a business idea to the computer genius. But when they got there his friend, it seemed, had a whole different idea--he was going to rob the couple. He knocked Daniel out and started killing the family. Daniel had come to and tried to stop him. Finally he'd had to kill his friend in self-defense.

  "They blamed me for that--because you know how we hate it when the killer dies. Somebody goes into a school and shoots students and kills himself. We want the bad guy alive. We need somebody to blame. It's human nature."

  He was right, Jennie reflected. She was relieved, but also terrified that she'd upset him. "I'm sorry, honey. I shouldn't've mentioned anything."

  She expected him to tell her to shut up, maybe even get out of the car and walk away. But to her shock he smiled and stroked her hair. "You can ask me anything."

  She hugged him again. Felt more tears on her cheek and touched them away. The makeup had clotted. She backed away, staring at her fingers. Oh, no. Look at this! She wanted to be pretty for him.

  The fears coming back, digging away.

  Oh, Jennie, you're going to be wearing your hair like that? You sure you want to? . . . You don't want bangs? They'd cover up that high forehead of yours.

  What if she didn't live up to his expectations?

  Daniel Pell took her face in his strong hands. "Lovely, you're the most beautiful woman on the face of the earth. You don't even need makeup."

  Like he could see right into her thoughts.

  Crying again. "I've been worried you wouldn't like me."

  "Wouldn't like you. Baby, I love you. What I emailed you, remember?"

  Jennie remembered every word he'd written. She looked into his eyes. "Oh, you're such a beautiful person." She pressed her lips against his. Though they made love in her imagination at least once a day, this was their first kiss. She felt his teeth against her lips, his tongue. They stayed locked together in this fierce embrace for what seemed like forever, though it could have been a mere second. Jennie had no sense of time. She wanted him inside her, pressing hard, his chest pulsing against hers.

  Souls are where love should start, but you've got to get the bodies involved pretty damn soon.

  She slipped her hand along his bare, muscular leg.

  He gave a laugh. "Tell you what, lovely, maybe we'd better get out of her
e."

  "Sure, whatever you want."

  He asked, "You have the phone I called you on?" Daniel had told her to buy three prepaid cell phones with cash. She handed him the one she'd answered when he'd called just after he'd escaped. He took it apart and pulled the battery and SIM card out. He threw them into a trash can and returned to the car.

  "The others?"

  She produced them. He handed her one and put the other in his pocket.

  He said, "We ought to--"

  A siren sounded nearby--close. They froze.

  Angel songs, Jennie thought, then recited this good-luck mantra a dozen times.

  The sirens faded into the distance.

  She turned back. "They might come back." Nodding after the sirens.

  Daniel smiled. "I'm not worried about that. I just want to be alone with you."

  Jennie felt a shiver of happiness down her spine. It almost hurt.

  *

  The west-central regional headquarters of the California Bureau of Investigation, home to dozens of agents, was a two-story modern structure, near Highway 68, indistinguishable from the other buildings around it--functional rectangles of glass and stone, housing doctors' and lawyers' offices, architectural firms, computer companies and the like. The landscaping was meticulous and boring, the parking lots always half-empty. The countryside rose and fell in gentle hills, which were at the moment bright green, thanks to recent rains. Often the ground was as brown as Colorado during a dry spell.

  A United Express regional jet banked sharply and low, then leveled off, vanishing over the trees for the touchdown at nearby Monterey Peninsula Airport.

  Kathryn Dance and Michael O'Neil were in the CBI's ground-floor conference room, directly beneath her office. They stood side by side, staring at a large map on which the roadblocks were indicated--this time with pushpins, not entomological Post-it notes. There had been no sightings of the Worldwide Express driver's Honda, and the net had been pushed farther back, now eighty miles away.

  Kathryn Dance glanced at O'Neil's square face and read in it a complicated amalgam of determination and concern. She knew him well. They'd met years ago when she was a jury consultant, studying the demeanor and responses of prospective jurors during voir dire and advising lawyers which to choose and which to reject. She'd been hired by federal prosecutors to help them select jurors in a RICO trial in which O'Neil was a chief witness. (Curiously, she'd met her late husband under parallel circumstances: when she was a reporter covering a trial in Salinas and he was a prosecution witness.)