The Sleeping Doll

by Jeffery Deaver

  "Whatever I can do, sure."

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

  The Pied Piper . . .

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

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

  Chapter 33

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

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

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

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

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

  Linda didn't get it, her brows furrowed.

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

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

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

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

  Samantha shrugged, blushing.

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

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

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

  "What's your new name?"

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

  "No problem with that."

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

  A shake of the head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "Yes."

  "Then how--?"

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

  "He believed that?"

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

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

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

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

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

  "Sure, Sam," Rebecca said.

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

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

  "Yes. The prints are his."

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

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

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

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

  "Who?" Rebecca asked.

  Dance explained.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "Well, he just mentioned it."

  "The Mouse scores." Rebecca laughed.

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

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

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

  Rebecca was clearly not convinced of this.

  Dance supposed that Pell had identified both Linda and Rebecca as more of a threat to him than Samantha. Linda was the mother of the Family and would have some authority. Rebecca was clearly brash and outspoken. But Samantha . . . he could control her much better and knew she could be trusted with the truth--well, some truth.

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

  She noticed that Samantha was looking at the coffeepot.

  "Like some?"

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

  "Welcome to the club," Rebecca said.

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

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

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

  Mouse . . .

  "Thanks. Milk."

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

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

  "He did?" Rebecca asked.

  Linda said nothing about this.

  "Did he ever mention Utah?"

  "No."

  "Where could he h
ave had in mind?"

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

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

  Samantha laughed. "An island? No way."

  "Why not?"

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

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

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

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

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

  "Impossible."

  "You're sure?"

  "Positive."

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

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

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

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

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

  "Well, hardly any," Linda corrected.

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

  "It was exaggerated."

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

  "It wasn't?" Dance asked.

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

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

  "I didn't mean it like that--"

  "We weren't a gang of thugs."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "But what about the Charles Manson connection?"

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

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

  "Well, you know the press."

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

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

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

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

  "Hitler?" Dance asked her.

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

  "The Russian monk?"

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

  "The Trilby book?" Dance asked.

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

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

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

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

  "Who?" Linda asked.

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

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

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

  "What was her last name?"

  "I don't know."

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "But the police let him go."

  Curious proof of innocence, Dance reflected.

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

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

  Linda looked unconvinced.

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

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

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

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

  Chapter 34

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

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

  You'd get to do something.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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