“At the airport I bought a newspaper to see what was going on?”
Dance wondered about the absence of a TV in her brother’s house; was it an ethical or cultural decision? Or an economic one? You could get a cable ready set for a few hundred bucks nowadays. Still, Dance noted that the heels of Linda’s shoes were virtually worn away.
“It said there was no doubt he killed those guards.” She set down the tea. “I was surprised by that. Daniel wasn’t violent. He’d only hurt someone in self-defense.”
Though, looked at from Pell’s point of view, that was exactly why he’d slaughtered the guards. “But,” Linda continued, “he did let somebody go. That driver.”
Only because it served his interest.
“How did you meet Pell?”
“It was about ten years ago. In Golden Gate Park. San Francisco. I’d run away from home and was sleeping there. Daniel, Samantha and Jimmy were living in Seaside, along with a few other people. They’d travel up and down the coast, like gypsies. They’d sell things they’d bought or made. Sam and Jimmy were pretty talented; they’d make picture frames, CD holders, tie racks. Things like that.
“Anyway, I’d run away that weekend—no big deal, I did it all the time—and Daniel saw me near the Japanese Garden. He sat down and we started talking. Daniel has this gift. He listens to you. It’s like you’re the center of the universe. It’s really, you know, seductive.”
“And you never went back home?”
“No, I did. I always wanted to run away and just keep going. My brother did. He left home at eighteen and never looked back. But I wasn’t brave enough to. My parents—we lived in San Mateo—they were real strict. Like drill instructors. My father was head of Santa Clara Bank and Trust.”
“Wait, that Whitfield?”
“Yep. The multimillionaire Whitfield. The one who financed a good portion of Silicon Valley and survived the crash. The one who was going into politics—until a certain daughter of his made the press in a big way.” A wry smile. “Ever met anybody who’s been disowned by her parents? You have now. . . . Anyway, when I was growing up they were very authoritarian. I had to do everything the way they insisted. How I made my room, what I wore, what I was taking in school, what my grades were going to be. I got spanked until I was fourteen and I think he only stopped because my mother told my father it wasn’t a good idea with a girl that age. . . . They claimed it was because they loved me, and so on. But they were just control freaks. They were trying to turn me into a little doll for them to dress up and play with.
“So I go back home but all the time I was there I couldn’t get Daniel out of my head. We’d only talked for, I don’t know, a few hours. But it was wonderful. He treated me like I was a real person. He told me to trust my judgment. That I was smart, I was pretty.” A grimace. “Oh, I wasn’t really—not either of those things. But when he said it I believed him.
“One morning my mother came to my room and told me to get up and get dressed. We were going to visit my aunt or somebody. And I was supposed to wear a skirt. I wanted to wear jeans. It wasn’t a formal thing—we were just going to lunch. But she made a big deal out of it. She screamed at me. ‘No daughter of mine . . . ’ You get the idea. Well, I grabbed my backpack and just left. I was afraid I’d never find Daniel but I remembered he’d told me he’d be in Santa Cruz that week, at a flea market on the boardwalk.”
The boardwalk was a famous amusement park on the beach. A lot of young people hung out there, at all hours of the day. Dance reflected that it’d make a good hunting ground if Daniel Pell was on the prowl for victims.
“So I hitched a ride down Highway One, and there he was. He looked happy to see me. Which I don’t think my parents ever did.” She laughed. “I asked if he knew a place I could stay. I was nervous about that, hinting. But he said, ‘You bet I do. With us.’ ”
“In Seaside?”
“Uh-huh. We had a little bungalow there. It was nice.”
“You, Samantha, Jimmy and Pell?”
“Right.”
Her body language told Dance that she was enjoying the memory: the easy position of the shoulders, the crinkles beside the eyes and the illustrator hand gestures, which emphasize the content of the words and suggest the intensity of the speaker’s reaction to what he or she is saying.
Linda picked up her tea again and sipped it. “Whatever the papers said—cult, drug orgies—that was wrong. It was really homey and comfortable. I mean, no drugs at all, or liquor. Some wine at dinner sometimes. Oh, it was nice. I loved being around people who saw you for who you were, didn’t try to change you, respected you. I ran the house. I was sort of the mother, I guess you could say. It was so nice to be in charge for a change, not getting yelled at for having my own opinion.”
“What about the crimes?”
Linda grew tense. “There was that. Some. Not as much as people say. A little shoplifting, things like that. And I never liked it. Never.”
A few negation gestures here, but Dance sensed she wasn’t being deceptive; the kinesic stress was due to her minimizing the severity of the crimes. The Family had done much worse than just shoplifting, Dance knew. There were burglary counts, and grand larceny, as well as purse snatching and pickpocketing—both crimes against persons, and under the penal code more serious than those against property.
“But we didn’t have any choice. To be in the Family you had to participate.”
“What was it like living with Daniel?”
“It wasn’t as bad as you’d think. You just had to do what he wanted.”
“And if you didn’t?”
“He never hurt us. Not physically. Mostly, he’d . . . withdraw.”
Dance recalled Kellogg’s profile of a cult leader.
He’ll threaten to withhold himself from them, and that’s a very powerful weapon.
“He’d turn away from you. And you’d get scared. You never knew if that was the end for you and you’d get thrown out. Somebody in the church office was telling me about these reality shows? Big Brother, Survivor?”
Dance nodded.
“She was saying how popular they were. I think that’s why people’re obsessed with them. There’s something terrifying about the idea of being kicked out of your family.” She shrugged and fondled the cross on her chest.
“You got a longer sentence than the others. For destroying evidence. What was that story?”
The woman’s lips grew tight. “It was stupid. I panicked. All I knew was that Daniel called and said Jimmy was dead and something had gone wrong at this house where they’d had a meeting. We were supposed to pack up and get ready to leave, the police might be after him soon. Daniel kept all these books about Charles Manson in the bedroom and clippings and things. I burned some before the police got there. I thought it’d look bad if they knew he had this thing for Manson.”
Which it had, Dance reflected, recalling how the prosecutor had used the Charles Manson theme to help him win a conviction.
Responding to Dance’s questions, Linda mentioned more about her recent life. In jail she’d become devoutly religious and, after her release, moved to Portland, where she’d gotten a job working for a local Protestant church. She’d joined it because her brother was a deacon there.
She was seeing a “nice Christian” man in Portland and was the nanny, in effect, for her brother and sister-in-law’s foster children. She wanted to become a foster parent herself—she’d had medical problems and could have no children of her own—but that was hard with the prison conviction. She added, in a tone of conclusion, “I don’t have many material things, but I like my life. It’s a rich life, in the good sense of the word.”
A knock on the door intruded. Dance’s hand strayed toward her heavy pistol.
“It’s TJ, boss. I forgot the secret password.”
Dance opened the door and the young agent entered with another woman. Slim and tall, in her midthirties, she carried a leather backpack slung over her shoulder.
Kat
hryn Dance rose to greet the second member of the Family.
Chapter 28
Rebecca Sheffield was a few years older than her fellow Family member. She was athletic-looking and gorgeous, though Dance thought that the short crop of prematurely gray hair, the brash jewelry and the absence of makeup made her look austere. She wore jeans and a white silk T-shirt under a brown suede jacket.
Rebecca shook Dance’s hand firmly but she immediately turned her attention to Linda, who was rising and gazing at her with a steady smile.
“Well, look who it is.” Rebecca stepped forward and hugged Linda.
“After all these years.” Linda’s voice choked. “My, I think I’m going to cry.” And she did.
They dropped the embrace but Rebecca continued to hold the other woman’s hands tightly. “It’s good to see you, Linda.”
“Oh, Rebecca . . . I’ve prayed for you a lot.”
“You’re into that now? You didn’t used to know a cross from a Star of David. Well, thanks for the prayers. Not sure they took.”
“No, no, you’re doing such good things. Really! The church office has a computer. I saw your website. Women starting their own businesses. It’s wonderful. I’m sure it does a lot of good.”
Rebecca seemed surprised that Linda had kept up with her.
Dance pointed out the available bedroom and Rebecca carried her backpack into it, and used the restroom.
“You need me, boss, just holler.” TJ left and Dance locked the door behind him.
Linda picked up her teacup, fiddled with it, not taking a sip. How people love their props in stressful situations, Dance reflected. She’d interrogated suspects who clutched pens, ashtrays, food wrappers and even their shoes to dull the stress.
Rebecca returned and Dance offered her some coffee.
“You bet.”
Dance poured her some and set out milk and sugar. “There’s no public restaurant here, but they have room service. Order whatever you’d like.”
Sipping the coffee, Rebecca said, “I’ve got to say, Linda, you’re looking good.”
A blush. “Oh, I don’t know. I’m not in the shape I’d like. You’re glamorous. And thin! I love your hair.”
Rebecca laughed. “Hey, nothing like a couple years in prison to turn you gray, hm? Hey, no ring. You’re not married?”
“Nope.”
“Me either.”
“You’re kidding. You were going to marry some hunky Italian sculptor. I thought for sure you’d be hooked up now.”
“Not easy to find Mr. Right when men hear your boyfriend was Daniel Pell. I read about your father in BusinessWeek. Something about his bank expanding.”
“Really? I wouldn’t know.”
“You’re still not talking?”
Linda shook her head. “My brother doesn’t talk to them either. We’re two poor church mice. But it’s for the best, believe me. You still paint?”
“Some. Not professionally.”
“No? Really?” Linda turned to Dance, her eyes shining. “Oh, Rebecca was so good! You should see her work. I mean, she’s the best.”
“Just sketch for fun now.”
They spent a few minutes catching up. Dance was surprised that though they both lived on the West Coast they hadn’t communicated since the trial.
Rebecca glanced at Dance. “Samantha joining our coffee klatch? Or whatever her name is now?”
“No, just the two of you.”
“Sam was always the timid one.”
“ ‘Mouse,’ remember?” Linda said.
“That’s right. That’s what Pell called her. ‘My Mouse.’ ”
They refilled their cups and Dance got down to work, asking Rebecca the same basic questions she’d asked Linda.
“I was the last one to get suckered in by Mr. Pell,” the thin woman said sourly. “It was only . . . when?” A glance at Linda, who said, “January. Just four months before the Croyton situation.”
Situation. Not murders.
“How did you meet Pell?” Dance asked.
“Back then I was bumming around the West Coast, making money doing sketches of people at street fairs and on the beach, you know. I had my easel set up and Pell stopped by. He wanted his portrait done.”
Linda gave a coy smile. “I seem to remember you didn’t do much sketching. You two ended up in the back of the van. And were there for a long, long time.”
Rebecca’s smile was of embarrassment. “Well, Daniel had that side to him, sure. . . . In any case, we did spend time talking too. And he asked me if I wanted to hang out with them in Seaside. I wasn’t sure at first—I mean, we all knew about Pell’s reputation and the shoplifting and things like that. But I just said to myself, hell, I’m a bohemian, I’m a rebel and artist. Screw my lily white suburban upbringing . . . go for it. And I did. It worked out well. There were good people around me, like Linda and Sam. I didn’t have to work nine to five and could paint as much as I wanted. Who could ask for anything more in life? Of course, it turned out I’d also joined up with Bonnie and Clyde, a band of thieves. That wasn’t so good.”
Dance noticed Linda’s placid face darken at the comment.
After release from jail, Rebecca explained, she became involved in the women’s movement.
“I figured me kowtowing to Pell—treating him like the king of the roost—set the feminist cause back a few years and I wanted to make it up to them.”
Finally, after a lot of counseling, she’d started a consulting service to help women open and finance small businesses. She’d been at it ever since. She must do well for herself, Dance thought, to judge from the jewelry, clothes and Italian shoes, which if the agent’s estimate was right (Dance could be an expert footwear witness) cost the same as her best two pairs put together.
Another knock on the door. Winston Kellogg arrived. Dance was happy to see him—professionally and personally. She’d enjoyed getting to know him on the Deck last night. He’d been surprisingly social, for a hard-traveling Fed. Dance had attended a number of functions with her husband’s federal coworkers and found most of them quiet and focused, reluctant to talk. But Win Kellogg, along with her parents, had been the last to leave the party.
He now greeted the two women and, in keeping with protocol, showed them his ID. He poured himself some coffee. Up until now Dance had been asking background information but with Kellogg here it was time to get to the crux of the interview.
“All right, here’s the situation. Pell is probably still in the area. We can’t figure out where or why. It doesn’t make any sense; most escapees get as far away as they can from the site of the jail break.”
She told them in detail of how the plan at the courthouse had unfolded and the developments to date. The women listened with interest—and shock or revulsion—to the specifics.
“First, let me ask you about his accomplice.”
“That woman I read about?” Linda asked. “Who is she?”
“We don’t know. Apparently blond and young. Age is roughly midtwenties.”
“So he’s got a new girlfriend,” Rebecca said. “That’s our Daniel. Never without one.”
Kellogg said, “We don’t exactly know the relationship. She was probably a fan of his. Apparently prisoners, even the worst, get plenty of women throwing themselves at their feet.”
Rebecca laughed and glanced at Linda. “You get any love letters when you were inside? I didn’t.”
Linda gave a polite smile.
“There’s a chance,” Dance said, “that she isn’t a stranger. She’d’ve been very young at the time the Family was together but I was wondering if she could be somebody you know.”
Linda frowned. “Midtwenties now . . . she’d’ve been a teenager then. I don’t remember anyone like that.”
Rebecca added, “When I was in the Family, it was only the five of us.”
Dance jotted a note. “Now, I want to talk about what your life was like then. What Pell said and did, what interested him, what his plans were. I’
m hoping something you remember will give us a clue as to what he’s up to.”
“Step one, define the problem. Step two, get the facts.” Rebecca’s eyes were on Dance.
Both Linda and Kellogg looked blank. Dance, of course, knew what she was talking about. (And was thankful that the woman wasn’t in the mood to deliver another lecture, like yesterday.)
“Jump in with whatever you want. If you have an idea that sounds bizarre, go ahead and tell us. We’ll take whatever we can get.”
“I’m game,” Linda said.
Rebecca offered, “Shoot.”
Dance asked about the structure of life in the Family.
“It was sort of a commune,” Rebecca said, “which was weird for me, growing up in capitalistic, sitcom suburbia, you know.”
As they described it, the arrangement was a little different, though, from what a communist cadre might expect. The rule seemed to be: From each according to what Daniel Pell demanded of them; to each according to what Daniel Pell decided.
Still, the Family worked pretty well, at least on a practical level. Linda had made sure the household ran smoothly and the others contributed. They ate well and kept the bungalow clean and in good repair. Both Samantha and Jimmy Newberg were talented with tools and home improvement. For obvious reasons—stolen property stored in a bedroom—Pell didn’t want the owner to paint or fix broken appliances, so they had to be completely self-sufficient.
Linda said, “That was one of Daniel’s philosophies of life. ‘Self-Reliance’—the essay by Ralph Waldo Emerson. I read it out loud a dozen times. He loved to hear it.”
Rebecca was smiling. “Remember reading at night?”
Linda explained that Pell believed in books. “He loved them. He made a ceremony out of throwing out the TV. Almost every night I’d read something aloud, with everyone else gathered in a circle on the floor. Those were nice nights.”
“Were there any neighbors or other friends in Seaside he had a particular connection with?”
“We didn’t have friends,” Rebecca said. “Pell wasn’t like that.”
“But some people he’d met would come by, stay for a while, then leave. He was always picking up people.”
Kathryn Dance Ebook Boxed Set : Roadside Crosses, Sleeping Doll, Cold Moon (9781451674217) Page 65
