The Sleeping Doll

by Jeffery Deaver

  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 conf
erence--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 crossfire. 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.