The Sleeping Doll

by Jeffery Deaver

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

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

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

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

  "No, I'm afraid not."

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

  "That's right."

  More muttering. Prayer again, Dance assumed.

  "Ms. Whitfield?"

  "I'm here."

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

  "Go on."

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

  "What?" she whispered.

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

  "Are they coming?"

  "You're the first one I've called."

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

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

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

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

  "Well . . ."

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

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

  "I don't think they could, no."

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

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

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

  "We'll fly you in a private jet."

  "Private?"

  "An FBI jet."

  "Oh, my."

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

  More silence.

  "I'll have to ask."

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

  "No, no, not them. I mean Jesus."

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

  "I'll call you back, Agent Dance."

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

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

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

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

  "I'm afraid so."

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

  "Catching on?"

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

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

  "Well, yeah."

  "Ms. Sheffield, there's something--"

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

  "Go ahead," Dance said uneasily.

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

  "Well, I appreciate--"

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

  "I do, yes."

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

  She wasn't.

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

  "No, not at all. It's a good idea."

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

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

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

  Chapter 22

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

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

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

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

  Oh, we're like, you know, soul mates. . . .

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

  Jennie Marston had been in charge a few times since the escape, no question about it: in the front seat of the T-bird, in bed with her trussed up by the stockings, and--more leisurely and much better--on the floor with some accessories that greatly appealed to Daniel Pell. (Jennie, of course, didn't care for that particular brand of sex but her reluctant acquiescence was a lot more exciting than if she'd really been turned on.) The spell she'd woven was now subdued, though. But a teacher never lets his student know he's inattentive. Pell grinned and looked over her body as if he were sorely t
empted. He sighed. "I wish I could, lovely. But you tired me out. Anyway, I need you to run an errand for me."

  "Me?"

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

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

  He said, "Now, go cut your hair."

  "My hair."

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

  "Oh. I thought that was for you."

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

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

  Ah, the information we give away . . .

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

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

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

  "Oh."

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

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

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

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

  Go ahead, lovely, do it!

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

  Pell was leaning forward, staring.

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

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

  Pell was wholly focused on her.

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

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

  He was, after all, the king of control.

  *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "No. Been out the whole time."

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

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

  "Katie."

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

  "Hey, Mom."

  O'Neil and Edie Dance smiled at each other.

  "No change?" Dance asked.

  "Not really."

  "Has he said anything?"

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

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

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

  "It's that bad?"

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

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

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

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

  "You'll be there, Michael?"

  "Plan to. Depending."

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

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

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

  "Hey, partner."

  "Juan?"

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

  "Can you hear me?"

  Another flutter.

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

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

  The man's head moved.

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

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

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

  Now, no motion.

  "Juan," she began, "did you--"

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

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

  "Julio," O'Neil said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "I'm sorry?"

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

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

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

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

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

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