Glancing at the TV screen, Dance asked, "You heard?"
Linda said, "I'm so happy he's all right. His family was there too?"
"They're all fine."
"On the news, they mentioned a deputy was hurt?" Rebecca asked.
Kellogg said, "He'll be all right." He went on to explain how Pell and his partner had planned the man's murder, killing the other woman, Susan Pemberton, yesterday solely to find out where Reynolds lived.
Sam thought of what had struck her years ago: the obsessed, unstoppable mind of Daniel Pell.
Dance said, "Well, I wanted to thank you. The information you gave us saved his life."
"Us?" Linda asked.
"Yep." She explained how the observations they'd offered earlier--particularly about Pell's reaction to being laughed at and about disguises--had let her deduce what the killer might be up to.
Rebecca was shaking her head, her expressive lips tight. She said, "But he did get away from you, I noticed."
Sam was embarrassed at Rebecca's abrasive comment. It always amazed her how people wouldn't hesitate to criticize or insult, even when there was no purpose to it.
"He did," Dance said, looking the taller woman in the eyes. "We didn't get there in time."
"The newscaster said Reynolds tried to capture him himself," Rebecca said.
"That's right," Kellogg said.
"So maybe he's the reason Pell got away."
Dance held her eye easily. Sam was so envious of that ability. Her husband would often say, "Hey, what's the matter? Look at me." It seemed that her eighteen-month-old son was the only person in the world she could look in the eye.
Dance said to Rebecca, "Possibly. But Pell was at the front door with a gun. James didn't really have any choice."
Rebecca shrugged. "Still. One of him, all of you."
"Come on," Linda snapped. "They're doing the best they can. You know Daniel. He thinks out everything. He's impossible to get ahead of."
The FBI agent said, "No, you're right, Rebecca. We have to work harder. We're on the defensive. But we will get him, I promise."
Samantha noticed Kellogg glance at Kathryn Dance and Sam thought: Damn, he's sweet on her, the phrase from one of the hundreds of old-time books she'd spent her summers reading as a girl. As for the policewoman? Hm, could be. Sam couldn't tell. But she didn't waste much time thinking about the romantic life of two people she'd known for one day. They were part of a world she wanted to leave behind as fast as possible.
Rebecca relented. "Well, if we got you that close last time, maybe we'll get you there five minutes earlier the next."
Dance nodded. "Thank you for that. And everything. We really appreciate it. Now, a couple of things. Just to reassure you, I've added another deputy outside. There's no reason to believe that Pell has any clue you're here, but I thought it couldn't hurt."
"Won't say no to that," Rebecca said.
The agent glanced at the clock. It was 10:15. "I'm proposing we call it quits for tonight. If you think of anything else about Pell or the case and want to talk about it, I can be here in twenty minutes. Otherwise, we'll reconvene in the morning. You've got to be exhausted."
Samantha said, "Reunions have a way of doing that."
*
Parking in the back of the Sea View, Jennie shut off the Toyota's engine. Daniel Pell didn't get out. He felt numb and everything seemed surreal: the lights ghostly auras in the fog, the slow-motion sound of the waves piling up on Asilomar Beach.
An alternate world, out of some weird movie the cons would watch in Capitola and talk about for months afterward.
All because of the bizarre incident at the prosecutor's house.
"Are you all right, sweetie?"
He said nothing.
"I don't like it that you're unhappy." She rested a hand on his leg. "I'm sorry things didn't work out for you."
He was thinking of that instant eight years ago, at the Croyton trial, when he had turned his blue eyes, blue like ice, on prosecutor James Reynolds, to intimidate, to make him lose his concentration. But Reynolds had glanced his way and snickered. Then turned to the jury with a wink and a sour joke.
And they had laughed too.
All his efforts were wasted. The spell was broken. Pell had been convinced that he could will his way to an acquittal, to make the jury believe that Jimmy Newberg was the killer, that Pell was a victim too; all he'd done was act in self-defense.
Reynolds, laughing, like Pell was some kid making faces at adults.
Calling him the Son of Manson . . .
Controlling me!
That had been the unforgivable sin. Not prosecuting Pell--no, many people had done that. But controlling him. Jerking him about like a puppet to be laughed at.
And not long after that the jury foreman had read the verdict. He saw his precious mountaintop vanishing, his freedom, his independence, the Family. All gone. His whole life destroyed by a laugh.
And now Reynolds--a threat to Pell as serious as Kathryn Dance--would go underground, be far more difficult to find.
He shivered in rage.
"You okay, baby?"
Now, still feeling like he was in a different dimension, Pell told Jennie the story about Reynolds in court and the danger he represented--a story no one knew.
And, funny, she didn't seem to think it was so odd.
"That's terrible. My mother'd do that, laugh at me in front of other people. And she'd hit me too. I think the laughing was worse. A lot worse."
He was actually moved by her sympathy.
"Hey, lovely? . . . You held fast tonight."
She smiled and made fists--as if displaying the tattooed letters, H-O-L-D F-A-S-T.
"I'm proud of you. Come on, let's go inside."
But Jennie didn't move. Her smile slipped away. "I was thinking about something."
"What?"
"How did he figure it out?"
"Who?"
"The man tonight, Reynolds."
"Saw me, I suppose. Recognized me."
"No, I don't think so. It sounded like the sirens were coming, you know, before you knocked on the door."
"They were?"
"I think so."
Kathryn . . . Eyes as green as mine are blue, short pink nails, red rubber band around her braid, pearl on her finger and a polished shell at her throat. Holes in her lobes but no earrings.
He could picture her perfectly. He could almost feel her body next to him. The balloon within him began to expand.
"Well, there's this policewoman. She's a problem."
"Tell me about her."
Pell kissed Jennie and slipped his hand down her bony spine, past the strap of her bra, and kept going into the waistband of her slacks, felt the lace. "Not here. Inside. I'll tell you about her inside."
Chapter 37
"I've had enough of that," Linda Whitfield said, nodding toward the TV, where news stories about Pell kept looping over and over.
Samantha agreed.
Linda walked into the kitchen and made decaf coffee and tea, then brought out the cups and milk and sugar, along with some cookies. Rebecca took the coffee but set it down and continued to sip her wine.
Sam said, "That was nice, what you said at dinner."
Linda had said grace, apparently improvised, but articulate. Samantha herself wasn't religious but she was touched by Linda's words, intended for the souls of the people Daniel Pell had killed and their families, as well as gratitude for the chance to reunite with her sisters and a plea for a peaceful resolution of this sad situation. Even Rebecca--the steel magnolia among them--had seemed moved.
When she was young, Sam often wished her parents would take her to church. Many of her friends went with their families, and it seemed like something parents and a daughter could do together. But then, she'd have been happy if they'd taken her to grocery shop or for a drive to the airport to watch the planes take off and land while they ate hot dogs from a catering truck parked near the fence, like Ellie and
Tim Schwimmer from next door did with their folks.
Samantha, I'd love to go with you but you know how important the meeting is. The issue isn't just about Walnut Creek. It could affect all of Contra Costa. You can make a sacrifice too. The world's not all about you, dear. . . .
But enough of that, Sam commanded herself.
During dinner the conversation had been superficial: politics, the weather, what they thought of Kathryn Dance. Now Rebecca, who'd had plenty of wine, tried to draw Linda out some, find out what had happened in prison to make her so religious, but the woman might have sensed, as did Sam, that there was something challenging about the questions and deflected them. Rebecca had been the most independent of the three and was still the most blunt.
Linda did, though, explain about her day-to-day life. She ran the church's neighborhood center, which Sam deduced was a soup kitchen, and helped with her brother and sister-in-law's foster children. It was clear from the conversation--not to mention her shabby clothing--that Linda was struggling financially. Still, she claimed she had a "rich life" in the spiritual sense of the word, a phrase she'd repeated several times.
"You don't talk to your parents at all?" Sam asked.
"No," Linda said softly. "My brother does every once in a while. But I don't." Sam couldn't tell whether the words were defiant or wistful. (Sam recalled that Linda's father had tried to run for some election following Linda's arrest and been defeated--after the opposing candidate ran ads implying that if Lyman Whitfield couldn't maintain law and order in his family he'd hardly be a good public servant.)
The woman added that she was dating a man from her church. "Nice" was how she described him. "He works at Macy's." Linda didn't go into specifics and Samantha wondered if she was actually dating him or they were merely friends.
Rebecca was much more forthcoming about her life. Women's Initiatives was doing well, with a staff of four full-time employees, and she lived in a condo overlooking the water. As for her romantic life, she described her latest boyfriend, a landscape designer, almost fifteen years older but handsome and pretty well off. Rebecca had always wanted to get married but, as she talked about their future, Sam deduced there were stumbling blocks and guessed that his divorce wasn't final (if the papers had even been filed). Rebecca mentioned other recent boyfriends too.
Which made Sam a bit envious. After prison she'd changed her identity and moved to San Francisco, where she hoped she could get lost in the anonymity of a big city. She'd avoided socializing for fear she'd let slip some fact about her real identity, or that somebody might recognize her, despite the surgery.
Finally the loneliness caught up and she started to go out. Her third date, Ron Starkey, was a Stanford electrical engineer grad. He was sweet and shy and a bit insecure--a classic nerd. He wasn't particularly interested in her past; in fact, he seemed oblivious to just about everything except avionics navigation equipment, movies, restaurants and, now, their son.
Not the sort of personality most women would go for, but Samantha decided it was right for her.
Six months later they were married, and Peter was born a year after that. Sam was content. Ron was a good father, a solid man. She only wished she'd met him a few years later, after she'd lived and experienced a bit more of life. She felt that meeting Daniel Pell had resulted in a huge hole in her life, one that could never be filled.
Both Linda and Rebecca tried to get Sam to talk about herself. She demurred. She didn't want anyone, least of all these women, to have any possible clues as to her life as Sarah Starkey. If word got out, Ron would leave her. She knew it. He'd broken up with her for a few months when she'd tearfully "confessed" about the fake embezzlement; he'd walk right out the door--and take their child with him, she knew--if he learned she'd been involved with Daniel Pell and been lying to him about it for years.
Linda offered the plate of cookies again.
"No, no," Samantha said. "I'm full. I haven't eaten that much for dinner in a month."
Linda sat nearby, ate half a cookie. "Oh, Sam, before you got here we were telling Kathryn about that Easter dinner. Our last one together. Remember that?"
"Remember it? It was fantastic."
It had been a wonderful day, Sam recalled. They'd sat outside around a driftwood table she and Jimmy Newberg had made. Piles of food, great music from Jimmy's complicated stereo, sprouting wires everywhere. They'd dyed Easter eggs, filling the house with the smell of hot vinegar. Sam tinted all of hers blue. Like Daniel's eyes.
The Family wouldn't survive long after that; six weeks later the Croyton family and Jimmy would be dead, the rest of them in jail.
But that had been a good day.
"That turkey," Sam said, shaking her head at the memory. "You smoked it, right?"
Linda nodded. "About eight hours. In that smoker Daniel made for me."
"The what?" Rebecca asked.
"That smoker out back. The one he made."
"I remember. But he didn't make it."
Linda laughed. "Yes, he did. I told him I'd always wanted one. My parents had one and my father'd smoke hams and chickens and ducks. I wanted to help but they wouldn't let me. So Daniel made me one."
Rebecca was confused. "No, no . . . he got it from what's-her-name up the street."
"Up the street?" Linda frowned. "You're wrong. He borrowed some tools and made it out of an old oil drum. He surprised me with it."
"Wait, it was . . . Rachel. Yeah, that was her name. Remember her? Not a good look--gray roots with bright red hair." Rebecca looked perplexed. "You have to remember her."
"I remember Rachel." Linda's response was stiff. "What's she got to do with anything?"
Rachel was a stoner who'd caused serious disharmony within the Family because Pell had spent a lot of time at her house doing, well, what Daniel Pell loved to do most. Sam hadn't cared--anything to avoid Pell's unpleasantries in the bedroom was fine with her. But Linda had been jealous. Their last Christmas together Rachel had stopped by the Family's house on some pretense when Daniel was away. Linda had thrown the woman out of the house. Pell had heard about it and promised he wouldn't see her anymore.
"He got the smoker from her," said Rebecca, who'd arrived after the Yuletide blow-out and knew nothing about the jealousy.
"No, he didn't. He made it for my birthday."
Sam foresaw disaster looming. She said quickly, "Well, whatever, you made a real nice turkey. I think we had sandwiches for two weeks."
They both ignored her. Rebecca sipped more of the wine. "Linda, he gave it to you on your birthday because he was with her that morning and she gave it to him. Some surfer dude made it for her but she didn't cook."
"He was with her?" Linda whispered. "On my birthday?"
Pell had told Linda he hadn't seen Rachel since the incident at Christmas. Linda's birthday was in April.
"Yeah. And, like, three times a week or so. You mean you didn't know?"
"It doesn't matter," Sam said. "It was a long--"
"Shut up," Linda snapped. She turned to Rebecca. "You're wrong."
"What, you're surprised Daniel lied to you?" Rebecca was laughing. "He told you he had a retarded brother and he told me he didn't have a brother. Let's ask the authority. Sam, was Daniel seeing Rachel that spring?"
"I don't know."
"Wrong answer . . . Yes, you do," Rebecca announced.
"Oh, come on," Sam said. "What difference does it make?"
"Let's play who knows Daniel best. Did he say anything to you about it? He told everything to his Mouse."
"We don't need to--"
"Answer the question!"
"I don't have any idea. Rebecca, come on. Let it go."
"Did he?"
Yes, in fact, he had. But Sam said, "I don't remember."
"Bullshit."
"Why would he lie to me?" Linda growled.
"Because you told him that Mommy and Daddy didn't let you play at the cookout. That gave him something to work with. And he used it. And he didn't just b
uy you one. He claimed he made it! What a fucking saint!"
"You're the one who's lying."
"Why?"
"Because Daniel never made anything for you."
"Oh, please. Are we back in high school?" Rebecca looked Linda over. "Oh, I get it. You were jealous of me! That's why you were so pissed off then. That's why you're pissed off now."
This was true too, Sam reflected. After Rebecca joined the Family Daniel had spent far less time with the other women. Sam could handle it--anything as long as he was happy and didn't want to kick her out of the Family. But Linda, in the role of mother, was stung that Rebecca seemed to supplant her.
Linda denied it now. "I was not. How could anybody afford to be jealous living in that situation? One man and three women living together?"
"How? Because we're human, that's how. Hell, you were jealous of Rachel."
"That was different. She was a slut. She wasn't one of us, she wasn't part of the Family."
Sam said, "Look, we're not here about us. We're here to help the police."
Rebecca scoffed. "How could we not be here about us? The first time we've been together after eight years? What, you think we'd just show up, write a top-ten list--'Things I remember about Daniel Pell'--and go home? Of course, this's about us as much as him."
Angry too, Linda gazed at Sam. "And you don't have to defend me." A contemptuous nod toward Rebecca. "She's not worth it. She wasn't there from the beginning like we were. She wasn't a part of it, and she took over." Turning to Rebecca. "I was with him for more than a year. You? A few months."
"Daniel asked me. I didn't force my way in."
"We were going along fine, and then you show up."
" 'Going along fine'?" Rebecca set down her wineglass and sat forward. "Are you hearing what you're saying?"
"Rebecca, please," Sam said. Her heart was pounding. She thought she'd cry as she looked at the two red-faced women, facing each other across a coffee table of varnished yellowing logs. "Don't."
The lean woman ignored her. "Linda, I've been listening to you since I got here. Defending him, saying it wasn't so bad, we didn't steal all that much, maybe Daniel didn't kill so-and-so . . . Well, that's bullshit. Get real. Yes, the Family was sick, totally sick."
"Don't say that! It's not true."