O’Neil whispered, “What the hell’re we up against here?”
Echoing Dance’s exact thought.
“Detective, I’ve got a phone,” an MCSO deputy called as he joined them. “Was up the street in a trash can. The battery was in another can, across the street.”
“Good catch,” O’Neil told the man.
Dance took a pair of latex gloves from TJ, pulled them on, then took the phone and replaced the battery. She turned it on and scrolled through recent calls. None had been received but five had been made since the escape. She called them out to O’Neil, who was on the phone with his tech people again. They did a reverse lookup.
The first wasn’t a working number; it wasn’t even a real exchange prefix—which meant that the call to the accomplice about Billy’s family had never occurred. It was simply to frighten him into cooperating.
The second and third calls were to another number, which turned out to be a prepaid mobile phone. It was presently off, probably destroyed; there was no signal to triangulate on.
The last two numbers were more helpful. The first was a 555-1212 call, directory assistance. The area code was Utah. The last number—the one Pell had presumably gotten from the operator—was an RV campsite outside Salt Lake City.
“Bingo,” TJ said.
Dance called the number and identified herself. She asked if they’d received a call forty minutes ago. The clerk said that she had, a man from Missouri, driving west, who was curious how much it cost to park a small Winnebago there by the week.
“Any other calls around that time?”
“My mother and two of the guests here, complaining about something or other. That was all.”
“Did the man say when he’d be arriving?”
“No.”
Dance thanked the woman and told her to call them immediately if he contacted them again. She explained to O’Neil and TJ what the RV camp manager had said and then phoned the Utah State Police—she was friends with a captain in Salt Lake City—and told him the situation. The USP would immediately send a surveillance team to the campsite.
Dance’s eyes slipped to the miserable driver, staring at the ground again. The man would live for the rest of his life with the horror he’d experienced today—perhaps less the kidnapping itself than the degradation of Pell’s deal.
She thought again of Morton Nagle; Billy had escaped with his life, but was yet another victim of Daniel Pell.
“Should I tell Overby about Utah?” TJ asked. “He’ll want to get word out.”
She was interrupted, though, by a phone call. “Hold on,” she told the young agent. She answered. It was the computer specialist from Capitola prison. Excited, the young man said that he’d managed to find one site that Pell had visited. It had to do with the Helter Skelter search.
“It was pretty smart,” the man said. “I don’t think he had any interest in the term itself. He used it to find a bulletin board where people post messages about crime and murder. It’s called ‘Manslaughter.’ There’re different categories, depending on the type of crimes. One’s ‘The Bundy Effect,’ about serial killers. You know, after Ted Bundy. ‘Helter Skelter’ is devoted to cult murders. I found a message that had been posted on Saturday, and I think it was meant for him.”
Dance said, “And he didn’t type the URL to Manslaughter dot com directly, in case we checked the computer and would find the website.”
“Right. He used the search engine instead.”
“Clever. Can you find out who posted it?”
“It was anonymous. No way to trace it.”
“And what did it say?”
He read her the short message, only a few lines long. There was no doubt it was intended for Pell; it gave the last-minute details of the escape. The poster of the message added something else at the end, but, as Dance listened, she shook her head. It made no sense.
“I’m sorry, could you repeat that?”
He did.
“Okay,” Dance said. “Appreciate it. Forward me a copy of that.” She gave her email address.
“Anything else I can do, let me know.”
Dance disconnected and stood silently for a moment, trying to fathom the message. O’Neil noticed her troubled face but didn’t disturb her with questions.
She debated and then came to a decision. She called Charles Overby and told him about the camper park in Utah. Her boss was delighted at the news.
Then, thinking about the conversation with Eddie Chang about her imaginary date with Pell, she called Rey Carraneo back and sent him on another assignment.
As the young agent digested her request he said uncertainly, “Well, sure, Agent Dance. I guess.”
She didn’t blame him; the task was unorthodox, to say the least. Still, she said, “Pull out all the stops.”
“Um.”
She deduced he hadn’t heard the expression.
“Move fast.”
Chapter 14
“We’re getting sand dabs.”
“Okay,” Jennie agreed. “What’s that?”
“These little fish. Like anchovies, but they’re not salty. We’ll get sandwiches. I’m having two. You want two?”
“Just one, honey.”
“Put vinegar on them. They have that at the tables.”
Jennie and Pell were in Moss Landing, north of Monterey. On the land side was the massive Duke Power plant, its steam stacks soaring high into the air. Across the highway was a small spit of land, an island really, accessible only by bridge. On this strip of sandy soil were marine service companies, docks and the rambling, massive structure where Pell and Jennie now sat: Jack’s Seafood. It had been in business for three-quarters of a century. John Steinbeck, Joseph Campbell and Henry Miller—as well as Monterey’s most famous madam, Flora Woods—would sit around the stained, scarred tables, arguing, laughing and drinking till the place closed, and sometimes until much later.
Now Jack’s was a commercial fishery, seafood market and cavernous restaurant, all rolled into one. The atmosphere was much less bohemian and volatile than in the forties and fifties, but in compensation the place had been featured on the Food Channel.
Pell remembered it from the days when the Family lived not far from here, in Seaside. The Family didn’t go out to eat much, but he’d send Jimmy or Linda to buy sand dab sandwiches and fries and coleslaw. He just loved the food and he was real happy the restaurant hadn’t closed up.
He had some business to take care of on the Peninsula but there’d be a little delay before he could proceed with that. Besides, he was starving and figured he could take a chance being out in public. The police wouldn’t be looking for a happy tourist couple—especially here, since they believed he was halfway to Utah by now, according to the news story he’d heard on the radio, some pompous ass named Charles Overby making the announcement.
Jack’s had an outdoor patio with a view of the fishing boats and the bay, but Pell wanted to stay inside and keep an eye on the door. Carefully avoiding the urge to adjust the uncomfortable automatic pistol in his back waistband, Pell sat down at the table, Jennie beside him. She pressed her knee against his.
Pell sipped his iced tea. He glanced at her and saw her watching a revolving carousel with tall cakes in it.
“You want dessert after the sand dabs?”
“No, honey. They don’t look very good.”
“They don’t?” They didn’t to him; Pell didn’t have a sweet tooth. But they were some pretty damn big hunks of cake. Inside, in Capitola, you could bargain one piece for a whole carton of cigarettes.
“They’re just sugar and white flour and flavorings. Corn syrup and cheap chocolate. They look good and they’re sweet but they don’t taste like anything.”
“For your catering jobs, you wouldn’t make those?”
“No, no, I’d never do that.” Her voice was lively as she nodded toward the merry-go-round of pastry. “People eat a lot of that stuff because it’s not satisfying, and they want more. I make a choco
late cake without any flour at all. It’s chocolate, sugar, ground nuts, vanilla and egg yolks. Then I pour a little raspberry glaze on the top. You just need a few bites of that and you’re happy.”
“Sounds pretty good.” He thought it was repulsive. But she was telling him about herself, and you always encouraged people to do that. Get ’em drunk, let ’em ramble. Knowledge was a better weapon than a knife. “Is that what you do mostly? Work for bakeries?”
“Well, I like baking best, ’cause I have more control. I make everything myself. On the other food lines you have people prepping part of the dishes.”
Control, he reflected. Interesting. He filed that fact away.
“Then sometimes I serve. You get tips when you serve.”
“I’ll bet you get good ones.”
“I can, yeah. Depends.”
“And you like it? . . . What’re you laughing at?”
“Just . . . I don’t know the last time anybody—I mean a boyfriend—asked me if I like my job. . . . Anyway, sure, serving’s fun. Sometimes I pretend I’m not just serving. I pretend it’s my party, with my friends and family.”
Outside the window a hungry seagull hovered over a piling, then landed clumsily, looking for scraps. Pell had forgotten how big they were.
Jennie continued, “It’s like when I bake a cake, say, a wedding cake. Sometimes I just think it’s the little happinesses that’re all we can count on. You bake the best cake you can and people enjoy it. Oh, not forever. But what on earth makes you happy forever?”
Good point. “I’ll never eat anybody’s cake but yours.”
She gave a laugh. “Oh, sure you will, sweetie. But I’m happy you said that. Thank you.”
These few words had made her sound mature. Which meant, in control. Pell felt defensive. He didn’t like it. He changed the subject. “Well, I hope you like your sand dabs. I love them. You want another iced tea?”
“No, I’m fine for now. Just sit close to me. That’s what I want.”
“Let’s look over the maps.”
She opened her bag and took them out. She unfolded one and Pell examined it, noticing how the layout of the Peninsula had changed in the past eight years. Then he paused, aware of a curious feeling within him. He couldn’t quite figure out the sensation. Except that it was real nice.
Then he realized: he was free.
His confinement, eight years of being under someone else’s control, was over, and he could now start his life over again. After finishing up his missions here, he’d leave for good and start another Family. Pell glanced around him, at the other patrons in the restaurant, noting several of them in particular: the teenage girl, two tables away, her silent parents hunched over their food, as if actually having a conversation would be torture. The girl, a bit plump, could be easily seduced away from home when she was alone in an arcade or Starbucks. It would take him two days, tops, to convince her it was safe to get into the van with him.
And at the counter, the young man of about twenty (he’d been denied a beer when he’d “forgotten” his ID). He was inked—silly tattoos, which he probably regretted—and wore shabby clothes, which, along with his meal of soup, suggested money problems. His eyes zipped around the restaurant, settling on every female older than sixteen or so. Pell knew exactly what it would take to sign the boy up in a matter of hours.
Pell noted too the young mother, single, if the naked ring finger told the truth. She sat slouching in a funk—man problems, of course. She was hardly aware of her baby in a stroller by her side. She never once looked down at the child, and good luck if it started crying; she’d lose patience fast. There was a story behind her defeated posture and resentful eyes, though Pell didn’t care what it might be. The only message of interest to him was that her connection to the child was fragile. Pell knew that if he could lure the woman to join them, it wouldn’t take much work to separate mother and child, and Pell would become an instant father.
He thought of the story his aunt Barbara had read him when he’d stayed with her in Bakersfield: the Pied Piper of Hamelin, the man who spirited away the children of a medieval German town, dancing as they followed, when the citizens refused to pay him for eliminating a rat infestation. The story had made a huge impression on Pell and stayed with him. As an adult he read more about the incident. The real facts were different from the Brothers Grimm and popular versions. There were probably no rats involved, no unpaid bills; a number of children simply disappeared from Hamelin and were never found again. The disappearance—and the parents’ reportedly apathetic response—remained a mystery.
One explanation was that the children, infected with plague or a disease that induced dancelike spasms, were led out of town to die because the adults feared contagion. Another was that the Pied Piper organized a religious pilgrimage for children, who died on the road in some natural disaster or when they were caught in a military conflict.
There was another theory, though, which Pell preferred. That the children left their parents willingly and followed the Pied Piper to Eastern Europe, then being colonized, where they created settlements of their own, with him as their absolute leader. Pell loved the idea that someone had the talent to lure away dozens of—some said more than a hundred—youngsters from their families and become their substitute parent. What sorts of skills had the Piper been born with, or perfected?
He was lulled from his daydreams by the waitress, who brought their food. His eyes strayed to her breasts, then down to the food.
“Looks scrumptious, sweetie,” Jennie said, staring at her plate.
Pell handed her a bottle. “Here’s the malt vinegar. You put that on them. Just sprinkle it on.”
“Okay.”
He took one more look around the restaurant: the sullen girl, the edgy boy, the distant mother . . . He wouldn’t pursue any of them now, of course. He was simply ecstatic to see that so many opportunities beckoned. After life was settled, in a month or so, he’d begin hunting again—the arcades, the Starbucks, the parks, the schoolyards and campuses, McDonald’s.
The Pied Piper of California . . .
Daniel Pell’s attention turned to his lunch and he began to eat.
• • •
The cars sped north on Highway 1.
Michael O’Neil was behind the wheel of his unmarked MCSO Ford, Dance beside him. TJ was in a CBI pool Taurus right behind them, and two Monterey Police cruisers were tailing them. The Highway Patrol was sending several cars to the party too, and the nearest town, Watsonville, was sending a squad car south.
O’Neil was doing close to eighty. They could’ve gone faster but traffic was heavy. Portions of the road were only two lanes. And they used only lights, no sirens.
They were presently en route to where they believed Daniel Pell and his blond accomplice were, against all odds, eating a leisurely lunch.
Kathryn Dance had had her doubts about Pell’s destination of Utah. Her intuition told her that, like Mexico, Utah was probably a false lead, especially after learning that Rebecca and Linda had never heard Pell mention the state, and after finding the mobile phone conveniently discarded near the Worldwide Express driver’s car. And, most important, he’d left the driver alive to report to the police about the phone and that he’d heard Pell making a call. The sexual game he’d played with Billy was one excuse for keeping him alive, but it struck Dance that, however kinky, no escapee would waste time on a porn encounter like that.
But then she’d heard from the computer tech at Capitola, who’d read to her the message that the accomplice had posted on the “Manslaughter” bulletin board in the “Helter Skelter” category: Package will be there about 9:20. WWE delivery truck at San Benito at 9:50. Orange ribbon on pine tree. Will meet in front of grocery store we mentioned.
This was the first part of the message, a final confirmation of the escape plan. What had been so surprising to Dance, though, was the final sentence.
Room all set and checking on those locations around Monterey you wanted.�
��Your lovely.
Which suggested, to everyone’s astonishment, that Pell might be staying nearby.
Dance and O’Neil could deduce no reason for this. It was madness. But if he was staying, Dance decided to make him feel confident enough to show himself. And so she’d done what she never would have otherwise. She’d used Charles Overby. She knew that once she told him about Utah, he’d run to the press immediately and announce that the search was now focused on the routes east. This would, she hoped, give Pell a false sense of security and make him more likely to appear in public.
But where might that be?
She hoped the answer to that question might be found in her conversation with Eddie Chang, getting a sense of what Daniel Pell had hinted appealed to him, his interests and urges. Sex figured prominently, Chang told her, which meant he might head for massage parlors, brothels or escort agencies, but there were few on the Peninsula. Besides, he had his female partner, who presumably would be satisfying him in that department.
“What else?” she’d asked Chang.
“Oh, hey, I remember one thing. Food.”
Daniel Pell, it seemed, had a particular love of seafood, especially a tiny fish known as the sand dab. He had mentioned on several occasions that there were only four or five restaurants in the Central Coast area that knew how to cook them right. And he was opinionated about how they should be prepared. Dance got the names of the restaurants Chang could remember. Three had closed in the years since Pell had gone into prison, but one at Fisherman’s Wharf in Monterey and one in Moss Landing were still open.
That was the unorthodox assignment Dance had given Rey Carraneo: calling those two restaurants—and any others up and down the Central Coast with similar menus—and telling them about the escaped prisoner, who might be in the company of a slight woman with blond hair.
It was a long shot, and Dance didn’t have much hope that the idea would pay off. But Carraneo had just heard back from the manager of Jack’s, the landmark restaurant at Moss Landing. A couple was in there at the moment, and he thought they were acting suspicious—sitting inside where they could see the front door, which the boyfriend kept looking at, when most patrons were outside. The man was clean-shaven and wearing sunglasses and a cap so they couldn’t really tell if he was Pell. The woman appeared to be blond, though she too had a cap and shades on. But the ages of the couple were right.
Kathryn Dance Ebook Boxed Set : Roadside Crosses, Sleeping Doll, Cold Moon (9781451674217) Page 53
