Kathryn Dance Ebook Boxed Set : Roadside Crosses, Sleeping Doll, Cold Moon (9781451674217)

by Deaver, Jeffery

  “And now look at me—I’m thirty-three and I’ve dated four different men this year and, you know, I can’t remember the name of the second one. Oh, and guess what—every one of them was at least fifteen years older than me. . . . No, I’m not any better than you guys. And everything I said to you, I mean it twice for myself.

  “But come on, Linda, look at him for who he is and what he did to us. Daniel Pell’s the worst thing you can possibly imagine. Yes, it was all that bad . . . Sorry, I’m drunk and this’s brought up more crap than I was prepared to deal with.”

  Linda said nothing. Sam could see the conflict in her face. After a moment she said, “I’m sorry for your misfortune. I’ll pray for you. Now please excuse me, I’m going to bed.”

  Clutching her Bible, she went off to the bedroom.

  “That didn’t go over very well,” Rebecca said. “Sorry, Mouse.” She leaned back, eyes closed, sighing. “Funny about trying to escape the past. It’s like a dog on a tether. No matter how much he runs, he just can’t get away.”

  Chapter 38

  Dance and Kellogg were in her office at CBI headquarters, where they’d briefed Overby, working late for a change, on the events at Reynolds’s house—and learned from TJ and Carraneo that there were no new developments. The hour was just after 11:00 P.M.

  She put her computer on standby. “Okay, that’s it,” she said. “I’m calling it a night.”

  “I’m with you there.”

  As they walked down the dim hallway, Kellogg said, “I was thinking, they really are a family.”

  “Back there? At the lodge?”

  “Right. The three of them. They’re not related. They don’t even like each other particularly. But they are a family.”

  He said this in a tone suggesting that he defined the word from the perspective of its absence. The interaction of the three women, which she’d noted clinically and found revealing, even amusing, had touched Kellogg in some way. She didn’t know him well enough either to deduce why or to ask. She noted his shoulders lift very slightly and two fingernails of his left hand flicked together, evidence of general stress.

  “You going to pick up the children?” he asked.

  “No, they’ll stay at their grandparents’ tonight.”

  “They’re great, they really are.”

  “And you never thought about having kids?”

  “Not really.” His voice faded. “We were both working. I was on the road a lot. You know. Professional couples.”

  In interrogation and kinesic analysis the content of speech is usually secondary to the tone—the “verbal quality”—with which the words are delivered. Dance had heard many people tell her they’d never had children, and the resonance of the words explained whether that fact was inconsequential, a comfortable choice, a lingering sorrow.

  She’d sensed something significant in Kellogg’s statement. She noted more indications of stress, little bursts of body language. Maybe a physical problem on his part or his wife’s. Maybe it had been a big issue between them, the source of their breakup.

  “Wes has his doubts about me.”

  “Ah, he’s just sensitive about Mom meeting other men.”

  “He’ll have to get used to it someday, won’t he?”

  “Oh, sure. But just now . . .”

  “Got it,” Kellogg said. “Though he seemed to be comfortable when you’re with Michael.”

  “Oh, that’s different. Michael’s a friend. And he’s married. He’s no threat.” Aware of what she’d just said, Dance added quickly, “It’s just, you’re the new kid in town. He doesn’t know you.”

  There was a faint hesitation before Kellogg answered. “Sure, I can see that.”

  Dance glanced at him to find the source of the pause. His face gave nothing away.

  “Don’t take Wes’s reaction personally.”

  Another pause. “Maybe it’s a compliment.”

  His face remained neutral after this exploratory venture too.

  They walked outside. The air was so crisp it would signal impending autumn in any other region. Dance’s fingers were quivering from the chill but she liked the sensation. It felt, she decided, like ice numbing an injury.

  The mist coalesced into rain. “I’ll drive you to yours,” she said. Kellogg’s car was parked behind the building.

  They both got in and she drove to his rental.

  Neither of them moved for a minute. She put the transmission in park. She closed her eyes, stretched and pressed her head back against the rest. It felt good.

  She opened her eyes and saw him turning toward her and, leaving one hand on the dash, touched the shoulder closest to him—both firmly yet somehow tentatively. He was waiting for some signal. She gave him none, but looked into his eyes and remained silent. Both of which, of course, were signals in themselves.

  In any case, he didn’t hesitate any longer but leaned forward and kissed her, aiming straight for her lips. She tasted mint; he’d subtly dropped a Tic Tac or Altoid when she wasn’t looking. Slick, she thought, laughing to herself. She’d done the same with Brian that day on the beach, in front of the sea otter and seal audience. Kellogg now backed off slightly, regrouping and waiting for intelligence about the first skirmish.

  This gave Dance a moment to figure how she was going to handle it.

  She made a decision and, when he eased in again, met him halfway; her mouth opened. She kissed back fervently. She slipped her arms up to his shoulders, which were as muscular as she’d thought they’d be. His beard stubble troubled her cheek.

  His hand slipped behind her neck, pulling her harder into him. She felt that uncurling within her, heart stepping up its pace. Mindful of the bandaged wound, she pressed her nose and lips against the flesh beneath his ear, the place where, with her husband, she’d rested her face when they’d made love. She liked the smooth plane of skin there, the smell of shave cream and soap, the pulse of blood.

  Then Kellogg’s hand detached itself from her neck and found her chin, easing her face to him again. Their whole mouths participated now, and their breathing came fast. She felt his fingers moving tentatively to her shoulder, locating the satin strap and, using it as a road map, beginning to move down, outside her blouse. Slowly, ready to divert at the least sign of reluctance.

  Her response was to kiss him harder. Her arm was near his lap, and she could feel his erection flirting with her elbow. He shifted away, perhaps so he wouldn’t seem too eager, too forward, too much of a teenager.

  But Kathryn Dance pulled him closer as she reclined—kinesically, an agreeable, submissive position. Images of her husband came to mind once or twice, but she observed them from a distance. She was completely with Winston Kellogg at this moment.

  Then his hand reached the tiny metal hoop where the strap transitioned to the white Victoria’s Secret cup.

  And he stopped.

  The hand retreated, though the evidence near her elbow was undiminished. The kisses became less frequent, like a merry-go-round slowing after the power’s shut off.

  But this seemed to her exactly right. They’d arrived at the highest pinnacle they could under the circumstances—which included the manhunt for a killer, the short time they’d known each other and the terrible deaths that had recently occurred.

  “I think—” he whispered.

  “No, it’s okay.”

  “I—”

  She smiled and lightly kissed away any more words.

  He sat back and squeezed her hand. She curled against him, feeling her heart rate slow as she found within herself a curious balance: the perfect stasis of reluctance and relief. Rain pelted the windshield. Dance reflected that she always preferred to make love on rainy days.

  “But one thing?” he said.

  She glanced at him.

  Kellogg continued, “The case won’t go on forever.”

  From his mouth to God’s ear . . .

  “If you’d be interested in going out afterward. How does that sound?”

&
nbsp; “ ‘Afterward’ has a nice ring to it. Real nice.”

  • • •

  A half-hour later Dance was parking in front of her house.

  She went through the standard routine: a check of security, a glass of Pinot Grigio, two pieces of cold flank steak left over from last night and a handful of mixed nuts enjoyed to the sound track of phone messages. Then came canine feeding and their backyard tasks and stowing her Glock—without the kids home she kept the lockbox open, though she still stashed the gun inside, since imprinted memory would guide her hand there automatically no matter how deep a sleep she awoke from. Alarms on.

  She opened the window to the guards—about six inches—to let in the cool, fragrant night air. Shower, a clean T-shirt and shorts. She dropped into bed, protecting herself from the mad world by an inch-thick down comforter.

  Thinking: Golly damn, girl, making out in a car—with a bench front seat, no buckets, just made for reclining with the man of the hour. She recalled mint, recalled his hands, the flop of hair, the absence of aftershave.

  She also heard her son’s voice and saw his eyes earlier that day. Wary, jealous. Dance thought of Linda’s comments earlier.

  There’s something terrifying about the idea of being kicked out of your family. . . .

  Which was ultimately Wes’s fear. The concern was unreasonable, of course, but that didn’t matter. It was real to him. She’d be more careful this time. Keep Wes and Kellogg separate, not mention the word “date,” sell the idea that, like him, she had friends who were both male and female. Your children are like suspects in an interrogation: It’s not smart to lie but you don’t need to tell them everything.

  A lot of work, a lot of juggling.

  Time and effort . . .

  Or, she wondered, her thoughts spinning fast, was it better just to forget about Kellogg, wait a year or two before she dated? Age thirteen or fourteen is hugely different from twelve. Wes would be better then.

  Yet Dance didn’t want to. She couldn’t forget the complicated memories of his taste and touch. She thought too of his tentativeness about children, the stress he exhibited. She wondered if it was because he was uneasy around youngsters and was now forming a connection with a woman who came with a pair of them. How would he deal with that? Maybe—

  But, hold on here, let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

  You were making out. You enjoyed it. Don’t call the caterer yet.

  For a long time she lay in bed, listening to the sounds of nature. You were never very far from them around here—throaty sea animals, temperamental birds and the settling bed sheet of surf. Often, loneliness sprang into Kathryn Dance’s life, a striking snake, and it was at moments like this—in bed, late, hearing the sound track of night—that she was most vulnerable to it. How nice it was to feel your lover’s thigh next to yours, to hear the adagio of shallow breath, to awake at dawn to the thumps and rustling of someone’s rising: sounds, otherwise insignificant, that were the comforting heartbeats of a life together.

  Kathryn Dance supposed longing for these small things revealed weakness, a sign of dependency. But what was so wrong with that? My God, look at us fragile creatures. We have to depend. So why not fill that dependency with somebody whose company we enjoy, whose body we can gladly press against late at night, who makes us laugh? . . . Why not just hold on and hope for the best?

  Ah, Bill. . . . She thought to her late husband. Bill. . . .

  Distant memories tugged.

  But so did fresh ones, with nearly equal gravitation.

  . . . afterward. How does that sound?

  THURSDAY

  Chapter 39

  In her backyard again.

  Her Shire, her Narnia, her Hogwarts, her Secret Garden.

  Seventeen-year-old Theresa Croyton Bolling sat in the gray teak Smith & Hawken glider and read the slim volume in her hand, flipping pages slowly. It was a magnificent day. The air was as sweet as the perfume department at Macy’s, and the nearby hills of Napa were as peaceful as ever, covered with a mat of clover and grass, verdant grapevines and pine and gnarly cypress.

  Theresa was thinking lyrically because of what she was reading—beautifully crafted, heartfelt, insightful. . . .

  And totally boring poetry.

  She sighed loudly, wishing her aunt were around to hear her. The paperback drooped in her hand and she gazed over the backyard once more. A place where she seemed to spend half her life, the green prison, she sometimes called it.

  Other times, she loved the place. It was beautiful, a perfect setting to read, or practice her guitar (Theresa wanted to be a pediatrician, a travel writer or, in the best of all worlds, Sharon Isbin, the famous classical guitarist).

  She was here, not in school, at the moment because of an unplanned trip she and her aunt and uncle were going to be taking.

  Oh, Tare, we’ll have fun. Roger’s got this thing he has to do in Manhattan, a speech, or research, I don’t really know. Wasn’t paying attention. He was going on and on. You know your uncle. But won’t it be great, getting away, just on a whim? An adventure.

  Which was why her aunt had taken her out of school at 10:00 A.M. on Monday. Only, hello, they hadn’t left yet, which was a little odd. Her aunt explaining there were some “logistical difficulties. You know what I mean?”

  Theresa was eighth in her class of 257 students at Vallejo Springs High. She said, “Yes, I do. You mean ‘logistic.’ ”

  But what the girl didn’t understand was, since they were still not on a fucking airplane to New York, why couldn’t she stay in school until the “difficulties” were taken care of?

  Her aunt had pointed out, “Besides, it’s study week. So study.”

  Which didn’t mean study; what it meant was no TV.

  And meant no hanging with Sunny or Travis or Kaitlin.

  And meant not going to the big literacy benefit formal in Tiburon that her uncle’s company was a sponsor of (she’d even bought a new dress).

  Of course, it was all bullshit. There was no trip to New York, there were no difficulties, logistic, logistical or otherwise. It was just an excuse to keep her in the green prison.

  And why the lies?

  Because the man who’d killed her parents and her brother and sister had escaped from prison. Which her aunt actually seemed to believe she could keep secret from Theresa.

  Like, please . . . The news was the first thing you saw on Yahoo’s home page. And everybody in California was talking about it on MySpace and Facebook. (Her aunt had disabled the family’s wireless router somehow, but Theresa had simply piggybacked through a neighbor’s unsecured system.)

  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.