"Oh, that. Don't take it seriously. I never said you were."
"I stood up to him once. I told him no." She gave a laugh. "Ought to get a T-shirt printed up: 'I told Daniel Pell no.' "
Linda's lips pressed together. The attempt at humor fell leaden between them.
Walking to the TV, Sam shut it off. Sat down in an armchair, leaning forward. Linda's voice was wary as she said, "This is going somewhere. I can tell. But I'm not in the mood to get beat up again."
"It's about beating me up, not you."
"What?"
A few deep breaths. "About the time I said no to Daniel."
"Sam--"
"Do you know why I came down here?"
A grimace. "To help capture the evil escapee. To save lives. You felt guilty. You wanted a nice drive in the country. I don't have any idea, Sam. Why did you come?"
"I came because Kathryn said you'd be here, and I wanted to see you."
"You've had eight years. Why now?"
"I thought about tracking you down before. I almost did once. But I couldn't. I needed an excuse, some motivation."
"You needed Daniel to escape from prison for motivation? What's this all about?" Linda set the Bible down, open. Samantha kept staring at the pencil notes in the margins. They were dense as bees clustered in a hive.
"You remember that time you were in the hospital?"
"Of course." In a soft voice. The woman was gazing steadily at Sam. Wary.
The spring before the Croyton murders Pell had told Sam he was serious about retreating to the wilderness. But he wanted to increase the size of the Family first.
"I want a son," Pell had announced with all the bluntness of a medieval king bent on heirs. A month later Linda was pregnant.
And a month after that she'd miscarried. Their absence of insurance relegated them to a line at a lower-tier hospital in the barrio, frequented by pickers and illegals. The resulting infection led to a hysterectomy. Linda was devastated; she'd always wanted children. She'd told Sam often that she was meant to be a mother, and, aware of how badly her parents had raised her, she knew how to excel at the role.
"Why are you bringing this up now?"
Sam picked up a cup filled with tepid tea. "Because it wasn't supposed to be you who got pregnant. It was supposed to be me."
"You?"
Sam nodded. "He came to me first."
"He did?"
Tears stung Sam's eyes. "I just couldn't go through with it. I couldn't have his baby. If I did he'd have control over me for the rest of my life." No point in holding back, Sam reflected. She gazed at the table and said, "So I lied. I said you weren't sure you wanted to stay in the Family. Ever since Rebecca joined, you were thinking about leaving."
"You what?"
"I know. . . ." She wiped her face. "I'm sorry. I told him that if you had his baby it'd show how much he wanted you to stay."
Linda blinked. She looked around the room, picked up and rubbed the cover of the holy book.
Sam continued, "And now you can't have children at all. I took them away from you. I had to choose between you and me, and I chose me."
Linda stared at a bad picture in a nice frame. "Why are you telling me this now?"
"Guilt, I guess. Shame."
"So this confession then, that's about you too, right?"
"No, it's about us. All of us. . . ."
"Us?"
"All right, Rebecca's a bitch." The word felt alien in her mouth. She couldn't remember the last time she'd used it. "She doesn't think before she says things. But she was right, Linda. None of us're leading normal lives. Rebecca should have a gallery and be married to some sexy painter and be flying around the world. But she's jumping from older man to older man--we know why now. And you should have a real life, get married, adopt kids, a ton, and spoil 'em like crazy. Not spend your time in soup kitchens and caring for children you see for two months and never again. And maybe you could even give your dad and mom a call. . . . No, Linda, it isn't a rich life you're living. And you're miserable. You know you are. You're hiding behind that." A nod at the Bible. "And me?" She laughed. "Well, I'm hiding even deeper than you are."
Sam rose and sat next to Linda, who leaned away. "The escape, Daniel coming back like this . . . it's a chance for us to fix things. Look, here we are! The three of us in a room together again. We can help each other."
"And what about now?"
Sam wiped her face. "Now?"
"Do you have children? You haven't told us a thing about your mysterious life."
A nod. "I have a son."
"What's his name?"
"My--?"
"What's his name?"
Sam hesitated. "Peter."
"Is he a nice boy?"
"Linda--"
"Is he a nice boy, I asked."
"Linda, you think it wasn't so bad back then, in the Family. And you're right. But not because of Daniel. Because of us. We filled all those gaps in our lives that Rebecca was talking about. We helped each other! And then it fell apart and we're back to where we started. But we can help each other again! Like real sisters." Sam leaned forward and gripped the Bible. "You believe in this, right? You think things happen for a purpose. Well, I think we were meant to get back together. To give us this chance to fix our lives."
"Oh, but mine is perfectly fine," Linda said evenly, pulling the Bible away from Sam's trembling fingers. "Work on yours as much as you want."
*
Daniel Pell parked the Camry in a deserted lot off Highway 1, near Carmel River State Beach, beside a sign that warned of the dangerous waters here. He was alone in the car.
He caught a whiff of Jennie's perfume.
Slipping his pistol into a pocket of the windbreaker, he climbed out of the car.
That perfume again.
Noticing Jennie Marston's blood in the crescent of his nails. He spit on his fingers and wiped it, but couldn't remove all of the crimson stain.
Pell looked around at the meadows, the cypress and pine and oak woods and the rugged outcroppings of granite and Carmelo formation rock. In the gray ocean sea lions, seals and otters swam and played. A half-dozen pelicans flew in perfect formation over the uneasy surface, and two gulls fought relentlessly for a scrap of food washed up on the shore.
Head down, Pell moved south through the thick trees. There was a path nearby but he didn't dare take it, though the park seemed deserted; he couldn't risk being seen as he headed for his destination: the Point Lobos Inn.
The rain had stopped but the overcast was heavy and more sprinkles seemed likely. The air was cold and thick with the scent of pine and eucalyptus. After ten minutes he came to the dozen cabins of the inn. Crouching, he circled to the rear of the place and continued, pausing to get his bearings and look for police. He froze, gripping his gun, when a deputy appeared, surveyed the grounds, then returned to the front of the cabin.
Easy, he told himself. Now's not the time to be careless. Take your time.
He walked for five minutes through the fragrant misty forest. About a hundred yards away, invisible to the cabins and the deputy, was a small clearing, inside which was a shelter. Someone sat at a picnic bench underneath it.
Pell's heart gave an uncharacteristic thud.
The woman was looking out over the ocean. A pad of paper was in her hand, and she was sketching. Whatever she was drawing, he knew it would be good. Rebecca Sheffield was talented. He remembered when they'd met, a cool, clear day by the beach. She'd squinted up from the low chair in front of her easel near where the Family had a booth at a flea market.
"Hey, how'd you like me to do your portrait?"
"I guess. How much?"
"You'll be able to afford it. Take a seat."
He looked around once more and, not seeing anyone else, made his way toward the woman, who was oblivious to his approach. Wholly focused on the scenery, on the motion of her pencil.
Pell closed the distance quickly, until he was right behind her. He paused.
/> "Hello," he whispered.
She gasped, dropped the pad and stood, turning quickly. "Jesus." A moment of silence.
Then Rebecca's face lurched into a smile as she stepped forward. The wind slapped them hard and nearly carried off her words, "Damn, I missed you."
"Come here, lovely," he said and pulled her toward him.
Chapter 46
They'd moved into the grove of trees, so there was no chance of being spotted by anyone at the motel.
"They know about Jennie," Rebecca said.
"I know. I saw it on the TV." He grimaced. "She left something in the room. They tracked her down."
"And?"
He shrugged. "She won't be a problem." Glanced down at the blood in his nails.
"Lovely, if you hadn't called, I don't know what would've happened."
Pell had left a message on Rebecca's voice mail at home, giving her the name of the Sea View motel. The call he'd received there, supposedly from housekeeping, was from Rebecca, telling him in a frantic whisper that the police were on their way--Kathryn Dance had asked if the women would help out in the event Pell took hostages. He hadn't wanted Jennie to know about Rebecca yet so he'd come up with the story about the maids.
"That was lucky," Rebecca said, wiping a coating of mist from her face. Pell thought she did look pretty good. Jennie was fine in bed, but less of a challenge. Rebecca could keep you going all night. Jennie needed sex to validate herself; Rebecca simply needed sex. He got a twist inside him, the bubble expanding.
"How are my little gals holding up under the pressure?"
"Bickering and driving me fucking crazy. I mean, it's like not a day's gone by. Same as eight years ago. Except Linda's a Bible-thumper and Sam isn't Sam. Changed her name. And she's got boobs too."
"And they're helping the cops, they're actually doing that?"
"Oh, you bet. I tried to lead things off as best I could. But I couldn't be too obvious about it."
"And they don't guess anything about you?"
"Nope."
Pell kissed her again. "You're the best, baby. I'm free only 'cause of you."
Jennie Marston had been just a pawn in the escape; it was Rebecca who'd planned everything. After his appeal was finally rejected, Pell had begun thinking about escape. He'd managed some unsupervised phone time in Capitola and spoken to Rebecca. For some time she'd been considering how to break Pell out. But there'd been no opportunities until recently, when Rebecca told him she'd come up with an idea.
She had read about the unsolved Robert Herron killing--which Pell had nothing to do with--and decided to make him the prime suspect so he'd be transferred to a lower-security facility for the indictment and trial. Rebecca had found some of his tools, which she'd had from the days of the Family in Seaside, and slipped them into his aunt's garage in Bakersfield.
Pell had sifted through his fan letters to look for a candidate who'd help. He settled on Jennie Marston, a woman in Southern California who suffered from the disease of bad-boy worship. She seemed wonderfully desperate and vulnerable. Pell had limited access to computers, so Rebecca had set up an untraceable email address and masqueraded as Pell to win Jennie's heart and work out the plan. One reason they'd picked her was that Jennie lived only an hour or so away from Rebecca, who could check her out and learn details of her life to make it seem that she and Pell had some spiritual connection.
Oh, you're so much like me, honey, it's like we're two sides of the same coin.
The love of cardinals and hummingbirds, the color green, Mexican comfort food. . . . It doesn't take much, in this mean world, to make somebody like Jennie Marston your soul mate.
Finally Rebecca, as Pell, convinced Jennie that he was innocent of the Croyton killings and got her to agree to help him escape. Rebecca had come up with the idea for the gas bombs after scoping out the Salinas lockup and the delivery-service schedules at the You Mail It franchise. She'd sent the woman instructions: stealing the hammer, making up the fake wallet, planting them in Salinas. And then how to construct the gas bomb and where to buy the fire suit and bag. Rebecca had checked with Jennie, via email, and then, when everything seemed in order, posted the message on the "Manslaughter" bulletin board that everything was in place.
Pell now asked her, "That was Sam when I phoned, wasn't it?"
The call--thirty minutes ago--purporting to be the guard checking up on them was Pell. The arrangement he'd made with Rebecca was that he'd ask whoever answered--if she didn't--to check the window locks. That meant he'd be there soon and Rebecca was supposed to go to the shelter and wait for him.
"She didn't catch on. The poor thing's still a little mouse. She just doesn't get it."
"I want to get out of here as soon as possible, lovely. What's our time like?"
"Won't be long now."
Pell said, "I've got her address. Dance's."
"Oh, one thing you'll want to know. Her kids aren't at home. She didn't say where they are but I found a Stuart Dance--probably her father or brother--in the phone book. I'd guess they're there. Oh, and there's a cop guarding them. There's no husband."
"A widow, right?"
"How'd you know?"
"Just did. How old are the kids?"
"I don't know. Does it matter?"
"No."
Rebecca eased back and studied him. "For an undocumented alien you look pretty damn good. You really do." Her arms looped him. The nearness of her body, bathed in air fragrant with ripe sea vegetation and pine, added to his already stoked arousal. He slipped his hand into the small of her back. The pressure inside him growing. He kissed her hungrily, tongue slipping into her mouth. "Daniel . . . not now. I have to get back."
But Pell hardly heard the words. He led her farther into the forest, put his hands on her shoulders and started to push her down. She held up a finger. Then set her sketchpad on the wet ground, cardboard base down. She knelt on it. "They'd wonder how I got wet knees." And began to unzip his jeans.
That was Rebecca, he reflected. Always thinking.
*
Michael O'Neil finally called.
She was glad to hear his voice, though the tone was purely professional, and she knew he didn't want to talk about their fight earlier. He was, she sensed, still angry. Which was odd for him. It bothered her, but there was no time to consider their grievances, given his news.
"Got a call from CHP," O'Neil said. "Some hikers halfway to Big Sur found a purse and some personal effects on the beach. Jennie Marston's. No body yet, but there was blood all over the sand. And blood and some hairs and scalp tissue on a rock that crime scene found. Pell's prints're on the rock. The Coast Guard has two boats out looking. There wasn't anything helpful in the purse. ID and credit cards. If that's where she kept what's left of the ninety-two hundred dollars, Pell's got it now."
He killed her. . . .
Dance closed her eyes. Pell had seen her picture on TV and knew she'd been identified. She'd become a liability to him.
A second suspect logarithmically increases the chances for detection and arrest. . . .
"I'm sorry," O'Neil said. He'd understand what she was thinking--that Dance never would have guessed releasing the woman's picture would result in her death.
I believed it would be just another way to help find this terrible man.
The detective said, "It was the right call. We had to do it."
We, she noted. Not you.
"How long ago?"
"Crime scene's estimating an hour. We're checking along One and the cross roads, but no witnesses."
"Thanks, Michael."
She said nothing more, waiting for him to say something else, something about their earlier discussion, something about Kellogg. Didn't matter what, just some words that would give her a chance to broach the subject. But he said merely, "I'm making plans for a memorial service for Juan. I'll let you know the details."
"Thanks."
" 'Bye."
Click.
She called Kellogg and Ove
rby with the news. Her boss was debating whether it was good or bad. Someone else had been killed on his watch, but at least it was one of the perps. On the whole, he suggested, the press and public would receive the development as a score for the good guys.
"Don't you think, Kathryn?"
Dance had no chance to formulate an answer, though, because just then the CBI's front desk called on the intercom to tell her the news that Theresa Croyton, the Sleeping Doll, had arrived.
*
The girl didn't resemble what Kathryn Dance expected.
In baggy sweats, Theresa Croyton Bolling was tall and slim and wore her light brown hair long, to the middle of her back. The strands had a reddish sheen. Four metallic dots were in her left ear, five in the other, and the majority of her fingers were encircled by silver rings. Her face, free of makeup, was narrow and pretty and pale.
Morton Nagle ushered the girl and her aunt, a solid woman with short, gray hair, into Dance's office. Mary Bolling was somber and cautious and it was obvious that this was the last place in the world she wanted to be. Hands were shaken and greetings exchanged. The girl's was casual and friendly, if a bit nervous; the aunt's stiff.
Nagle would want to stay, of course--talking to the Sleeping Doll had been his goal even before Pell's escape. But some bargain had apparently been struck that he'd take a backseat for the time being. He now said he'd be at home if anybody needed him.
Dance gave him a sincere "Thank you."
"Good-bye, Mr. Nagle," Theresa said.
He nodded a friendly farewell to both of them--the teenager and the woman who'd tried to gun him down (she looked as if she'd like a second opportunity). Nagle gave one of his chuckles, tugged up his saggy pants and left.
"Thank you for coming. You go by 'Theresa'?"
"Mostly Tare."
Dance said to her aunt, "Do you mind if I talk to your niece alone?"
"It's okay." This was from the girl. The aunt hesitated. "It's okay," the girl repeated more firmly. A hit of exasperation. Like musicians with their instruments, young people can get an infinite variety of sounds out of their voices.
Dance had arranged a room at a chain motel near CBI headquarters. It was booked under one of the fictional names she sometimes used for witnesses.
TJ escorted the aunt to the office of Albert Stemple, who would take her to the motel and wait with her.
When they were alone, Dance came out from around the desk and closed her door. She didn't know if the girl had hidden memories to be tapped, some facts that could help lead them to Pell. But she was going to try to find out. It would be difficult, though. Despite the girl's strong personality and her gutsy foray here, she'd be doing what every other seventeen-year-old in the universe would do at a time like this: raising subconscious barriers to protect herself from the pain of recollection.