“How’d it go, lovely? See any police?”
“None.” She pulled her cap off and rubbed her scalp. Pell kissed her head, smelled sweat and the sour scent of the dye.
Another glance out the window. After a long moment Daniel Pell came to a decision. “Let’s get out of here for a bit, lovely.”
“Outside? I thought you didn’t think it was a good idea.”
“Oh, I know a place. It’ll be safe.”
She kissed him. “Like we’re going on a date.”
“Like a date.”
They put their caps on and walked to the door. Her smile gone, Jennie paused and looked him over. “You okay, sweetheart?”
Sweetheart.
“Sure am, lovely. Just that scare back at the motel. But everything’s fine now. Fine as could be.”
They drove along a complicated route of surface streets to a beach on the way to Big Sur, south of Carmel. Wooden walkways wound past rocks and dunes cordoned off with thin wires to protect the fragile environment. Sea otters and seals hovered in the raging surf and, at ebb, the tidal pools displayed whole universes in their saltwater prisms.
It was one of the most beautiful stretches of beach on the Central Coast.
And one of the most dangerous. Every year three or four people died here, wandering out onto the craggy rocks for photos, only to be swept breathlessly into the forty-five-degree water by a surprise wave. Hypothermia could kill, though most didn’t last that long. Usually the screaming victims were smashed on the rocks or drowned, tangled in the mazelike kelp beds.
Normally the place would be crowded, but now, with the day’s sweeping fog, wind and mist, the area was deserted. Daniel Pell and his lovely walked from the car down to the water. A gray wave exploded on rocks fifty feet away.
“Oh, it’s beautiful. But it’s cold. Put your arm around me.”
Pell did. Felt her shivering.
“This is amazing. Near my house, the beaches there? They’re all flat. It’s, like, just sand and surf. Unless you go down to La Jolla. Even then, it’s nothing like this. It’s very spiritual here. . . . Oh, look at them!” Jennie sounded like a schoolgirl. She was staring at the otters. A large one balanced a rock on his chest and pounded something against it.
“What’s he doing?”
“He’s breaking open a shell. Abalone or a clam or something.”
“How’d they figure out how to do that?”
“Got hungry, I guess.”
“Where we’re going, your mountain? Is it as pretty as this?”
“I think it’s prettier. And a lot more deserted. We don’t want tourists, do we?”
“Nope.” Her hand went to her nose. Was she sensing something was wrong? She muttered something, the words lost in the relentless wind.
“What was that?”
“Oh, I said ‘angel songs.’ ”
“Lovely, you keep saying that. What do you mean?”
Jennie smiled. “I do that too much. It’s like a prayer, or a mantra. I say it over and over to help me feel better.”
“And ‘angel song’ is your mantra?”
Jennie laughed. “When I was little and Mother’d get arrested—”
“For what?”
“Oh, I don’t have time to tell you everything.”
Pell looked around again. The area was deserted. “That bad, huh?”
“You name it, she did it. Shoplifting, menacing, stalking. Assault too. She attacked my father. And boyfriends who were breaking up with her—there were a lot of those. If there was a fight, the police came to our house or wherever we were and a lot of times they’d be in a hurry and use the siren. Whenever I’d hear it, I’d think, Thank God, they’re going to take her away for a while. It’s like the angels were coming to save me. I got to think of sirens like that. Angel songs.”
“Angel songs. I like that.” Pell nodded.
Suddenly he turned her around and kissed her on the mouth. He leaned back and looked at her face now.
The same face that had been on the motel TV screen a half-hour earlier while she’d been out shopping.
“There’s been a new development in the Daniel Pell escape. His accomplice has been identified as Jennie Ann Marston, twenty-five, from Anaheim, California. She’s described as about five foot five, weighing a hundred and ten pounds. Her driver’s license picture is in the upper left-hand corner of your screen and the photos to the right and below show what she might look like now, after cutting and dyeing her hair. If you see her, do not attempt to apprehend. Call 911 or the hotline you see at the bottom of your screen.”
The picture was unsmiling, as if she was upset that the Motor Vehicles camera would capture her flawed nose and make it more prominent than her eyes, ears and lips.
Apparently Jennie had left something in the Sea View Motel room after all.
He turned her around to face the raging ocean, stood behind her.
“Angel songs,” she whispered.
Pell held her tight for a moment, then kissed her on the cheek.
“Look at that,” he said, gazing at the beach.
“What?”
“That rock there, in the sand.”
He bent down and unearthed a smooth stone, which weighed maybe ten pounds. It was luminescent gray.
“What do you think it looks like, lovely?”
“Oh, when you hold it that way it’s like a cat, don’t you think? A cat sleeping all curled up. Like my Jasmine.”
“That was your cat?” Pell hefted it in his hand.
“When I was a little girl. My mother loved it. She’d never hurt Jasmine. She’d hurt me, she’d hurt a lot of people. But never Jasmine. Isn’t that funny?”
“That’s exactly what I was thinking, lovely. It looks just like a cat.”
• • •
Dance called O’Neil first with the news.
He didn’t pick up, so she left a message about Theresa. It wasn’t like him not to answer but she knew he wasn’t screening. Even his outburst—well, not outburst, okay—even his criticism earlier had been grounded in a law enforcer’s desire to run a case most efficiently.
She wondered now, as she occasionally did, what it would be like to live with the cop/book-collector/seafarer. Good and bad, each in large quantities, was her usual conclusion, and she now hung up on that thought at the same time she did the phone.
Dance found Kellogg in the conference room. She said, “We’ve got Theresa Croyton. Nagle just called from Napa. Get this. She bailed him out.”
“How ’bout that? Napa, hm? That’s where they moved to. Are you going up there to talk to her?”
“No, she’s coming here. With her aunt.”
“Here? With Pell still loose?”
“She wanted to come. Insisted, in fact. It was the only way she’d agree.”
“Gutsy.”
“I’ll say.”
Dance called massive Albert Stemple and arranged for him to take over Theresa’s guard detail when they arrived.
She looked up and found Kellogg studying the pictures on her desk, the ones of her children. His face was still. She wondered again if there was something about the fact that she was a mother that touched, or troubled, him. This was an open question between them, she noted, wondering if there were others—or, more likely, what the others would be.
The great, complicated journey of the heart.
She said, “Theresa won’t be here for a while. I’d like to go back to the inn, see our guests again.”
“I’ll leave that up to you. I think a male figure’s a distraction.”
Dance agreed. The sex of each participant makes a difference in how an interrogator handles a session, and she often adjusted her behavior along the androgyny scale depending on the subject. Since Daniel Pell had been such a powerful force in these women’s lives, the presence of a man might throw off the balance. Kellogg had backed off earlier and let her pursue the questioning, but it would be better for him not to be there at all. She told him this
and said she appreciated his understanding.
She started to rise but he surprised her by saying, “Wait, please.”
Dance sat back. He gave a faint laugh and looked into her eyes.
“I haven’t been completely honest with you, Kathryn. And it wouldn’t mean anything . . . except for last night.”
What was this? she wondered. An ex who isn’t exactly an ex. Or a girlfriend who’s very much present?
Neither of which made any difference at this point. They hardly knew each other and the emotional connection was potentially significant but negligible so far. Whatever it might be, better to air the issue now, up front.
“About children.”
Dance dropped the it’s-about-me line of thought, and sat forward, giving him her full attention.
“The fact is my wife and I did have a child.”
The tense of the verb made Kathryn Dance’s stomach clench.
“She died in a car accident when she was sixteen.”
“Oh, Win . . .”
He gestured at the picture of Dance and her husband. “Bit of a parallel. Car crash . . . Anyway, I was a shit about it. Terrible. I couldn’t handle the situation at all. I tried to be there for Jill, but I really wasn’t, not the way I should’ve been. You know what it’s like being a cop. The job can fill up as much of your life as you want. And I let too much in. We got divorced and it was a really bad time for a few years. For both of us. We’ve patched it up and we’re friends now, sort of. And she’s remarried.
“But I just have to say, the kid thing. It’s hard for me to be natural with them. I’ve cut that out of my life. You’re the first woman I’ve gotten anywhere near close to who has children. All I’m saying is, if I act a little stiff, it’s not you or Wes or Maggie. They’re wonderful. It’s something I’m working on in therapy. So there.” He lifted his hands, which is usually an emblem gesture, meaning, I’ve said what I wanted to. Hate me or love me, but there it is. . . .
“I’m so sorry, Win.”
Without hesitation, she took his hand and pressed it. “I’m glad you told me. I know it was hard. And I did see something. I wasn’t sure what, though.”
“Eagle eye.”
She laughed. “I overheard Wes one time. He told his friend it sucks to have a mom who’s a cop.”
“Especially one who’s a walking lie detector.” He smiled too.
“I’ve got my own issues, because of Bill.”
And because of Wes, she thought, but said nothing.
“We’ll take things slow.”
“Slow is good,” she said.
He gripped her forearm, a simple, intimate and appropriate gesture.
“Now I should get back to the Family reunion.”
She walked him to his temporary office, then drove back to the Point Lobos Inn.
As soon as she walked inside, she knew the atmosphere had changed. The kinesics were wholly different from yesterday. The women were restless and edgy. She noted postures and facial expressions that suggestion tension, defensiveness and outright hostility. Interviews and interrogations were long-term processes, and it wasn’t unusual for a successful day to be followed by one that was a complete waste of time. Dance was discouraged and assessed that it might take long hours, if not days, to get them in a place mentally where they could once again provide helpful information.
Still, she gave it a shot. She ran through what they’d learned about Jennie Marston and asked if the women knew anything about her. They didn’t. Dance then tried to resume the conversation of yesterday but today the comments and recollections were superficial. Linda seemed to be speaking for all of them when she said, “I just don’t know how much more I can add. I’d like to go home.”
Dance believed they’d already proved invaluable; they’d saved the life of Reynolds and his family and had given insights into Pell’s MO and, more important, his goal to retreat to a “mountaintop” somewhere; with more investigation they might find out where. Still, Dance wanted them to stay until she’d interviewed Theresa Croyton, in the hope that something the girl said might be a springboard to help the women’s memories, though, as she’d promised the aunt, she said nothing of the impending visit. They agreed reluctantly to wait for a few more hours.
As Dance left, Rebecca accompanied her outside. They stood under an awning; a light drizzle was falling. The agent lifted an eyebrow. She was wondering if the woman was going to deliver another lecture on their incompetence.
But the message was different.
“Maybe it’s obvious but I thought I should mention something. Sam doesn’t appreciate how dangerous Pell is, and Linda thinks he’s a poor, misunderstood product of his childhood.”
“Go on.”
“What we were telling you yesterday about him—all that psychological stuff—well, it’s true. But I’ve been through plenty of therapy and I know it’s easy to focus on the jargon and the theory and forget about the person behind them. You’ve managed to stop Pell from doing what he wants to, a couple of times, and nearly caught him. Does he know your name?”
A nod. “But do you think he’d waste time coming after me?”
“Are you immune to him?” Rebecca asked, cocking an eyebrow.
And that answered the question right there. Yes, she was immune to his control. And therefore she was a risk.
Threats have to be eliminated. . . .
“I have a feeling he’s worried. You’re a real danger to him and he wants to stop you. And he gets to people through their family.”
“Patterns,” Dance said.
Rebecca nodded. “You have family in the area, I assume?”
“My parents and children.”
“Are the children with your husband?”
“I’m a widow.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“But they’re not at home right now. And I’ve got a deputy guarding them.”
“Good, but watch your back.”
“Thank you.” Dance nodded back into the cabin. “Did something happen last night? Between all of you?”
She laughed. “I think we’ve had a little more past than we can handle. We aired some laundry. It should’ve been aired years ago. But I’m not sure everybody felt that way.”
Rebecca walked back inside and closed and locked the door. Dance glanced in through a gap in the curtain. She saw Linda reading the Bible, Samantha looking at her cell phone, undoubtedly thinking up some lie to tell her husband about her out-of-town conference. Rebecca sat down and began covering her sketchpad with broad, angry strokes.
The legacy of Daniel Pell and his Family.
Chapter 45
Kathryn Dance had been gone a half hour when one of the deputies called the cabin to check up on the women.
“Everything’s fine,” Sam replied—apart from the broiling tensions inside the suite.
He had her make sure the windows and doors were locked. She checked and confirmed that everything was secure.
Sealed in, nice and tight. She felt a burst of anger that Daniel Pell had them trapped once again, stuck in this little box of a cabin.
“I’m going stir crazy,” Rebecca announced. “I’ve got to get outside.”
“Oh, I don’t think you should.” Linda looked up. Sam noticed that the tattered Bible had many fingerprints on the page it was open to. She wondered what particular passages had given her so much comfort. She wished she could turn to something so simple for peace of mind.
Rebecca shrugged. “I’m just going out there a little ways.” She gestured toward Point Lobos State Park.
“Really, I don’t think you should.” Linda’s voice was brittle.
“I’ll be careful. I’ll wear my galoshes and look both ways.” She was trying to make a joke but it fell flat.
“It’s stupid but do what you want.”
Rebecca said, “Look, I’m sorry about last night. I drank too much.”
“Fine,” Linda said distractedly and continued to read her Bible.
&
nbsp; Sam said, “You’ll get wet.”
“I’ll go to one of the shelters. I want to do some drawing.” Rebecca pulled on her leather jacket, unlatched the back door and, picking up her sketchpad and box of pencils, stepped outside. Sam saw her looking back and could easily read the regret in the woman’s face for her vicious words last night. “Lock it after me.”
Sam went to the door and put the chain on, double locked it. She watched the woman walking down the path, wishing she hadn’t gone.
But for an entirely different reason than her safety.
She was now alone with Linda.
No more excuses.
Yes or no? Sam continued the internal debate that had begun several days ago, prompted by Kathryn Dance’s invitation to come to Monterey and help them.
Come back, Rebecca, she thought.
No, stay away.
“I don’t think she should’ve done that,” Linda muttered.
“Should we tell the guards?”
“What good would it do? She’s a big girl.” A grimace. “She’ll tell you so herself.”
Sam said, “Those things that happened to her, with her father. That’s so terrible. I had no idea.”
Linda continued to read. Then she looked up. “They want to kill him, you know.”
“What?”
“They’re not going to give Daniel a chance.”
Sam didn’t respond. She was still hoping Rebecca would return, hoping she wouldn’t.
With an edge to her voice Linda said, “He can be saved. He’s not hopeless. But they want to gun him down on sight. Be rid of him.”
Of course they do, Sam thought. As to the question of his redemption, that was unanswerable in her mind.
“That Rebecca . . . Just like I remember her.” Linda grunted.
Sam said, “What’re you reading?”
Linda asked, “Would you know if I told you the chapter and verse?”
“No.”
“So.” Linda started to read but then she looked up from the holy book again. “She was wrong. What Rebecca said. It wasn’t a nest of self-deception, or whatever she thinks.”
Sam was silent.
Okay, she told herself. Go ahead. Now’s the time.
Kathryn Dance Ebook Boxed Set : Roadside Crosses, Sleeping Doll, Cold Moon (9781451674217) Page 77
