The Sleeping Doll (18 page)

“Really? What?”

“It’s an online role–playing game. You know those?”

“For a computer, right? One of those big boxes with wires in it?”

“Touché, boss. It’s set in the Middle Ages and what you do is kill trolls and dragons and nasty things and rescue damsels. Kind of what we do for a living, when you think about it. Anyway, the reason it didn’t show up at first is that it’s spelled differently —
N–i–X–m–u–e.
The logo is the word
Nimue
with a big red
X
in the middle, it. It’s one of the hottest games online nowadays. Hundreds of millions in sales … Ah, whatever happened to Ms. Pac–Man, my personal favorite?”

“I don’t think Pell’s the sort who’s into computer games.”

“But he
is
the sort who killed a man who wrote software.”

“Good point. Look into that. But I’m still leaning toward it being a name or screen name.”

“Don’t worry, boss. I can check ‘em both out, thanks to all the leisure time you give me.”

“Enjoying the band?”

“Double touché.”

Dance let Dylan and Patsy out for their bedtime business, then made a fast search of the property. No unrecognized cars were parked nearby. She got the animals back inside. Normally they’d sleep in the kitchen but tonight she let them have the run of the house; they made a huge racket when strangers came around. She also armed the window and door alarms.

Dance went into Maggie’s room and listened to her play a brief Mozart piece on the keyboard. Then kissed her good–night and shut out the light.

She sat for a few minutes with Wes while he told her about a new kid at the camp who’d moved to town with his parents a few months ago. They’d enjoyed playing some practice matches today.

“You want to ask him and his folks over tomorrow? To Grandpa’s birthday?”

“Naw. I don’t think so.”

After his father’s death Wes had also grown more shy and reclusive.

“You sure?”

“Maybe later. I don’t know … Mom?”

“Yes, dearest son.”

An exasperated sigh.

“Yes?”

“How come you’ve still got your gun?”

Children … nothing whatsoever gets by them.

“Forgot all about it. It’s going in the safe right now.”

“Can I read for a while?”

“Sure. Ten minutes. What’s the book?”

“
Lord of the Rings.
” He opened, then closed it. “Mom?”

“Yes?”

But nothing more was forthcoming. Dance thought she knew what was on his mind. She’d talk if he wanted to. But she hoped he didn’t; it’d been a really long day.

Then he said, “Nothing,” in a tone she understood to mean: There
is
something but I don’t want to talk about it yet. He returned to Middle Earth.

She asked, “Where are the hobbits?” A nod at the book.

“In the Shire. The horsemen are looking for them.”

“Fifteen minutes.”

“’Night, Mom.”

Dance slipped the Glock into the safe. She reset the lock to a simple three–digit code, which she could open in the dark. She tried it now, with her eyes closed. It took no more than two seconds.

She showered, donned sweats and slipped under the thick comforter, the sorrows of the day wafting around her like the scent of lavender from the potpourri dish nearby.

Where are you? she thought to Daniel Pell. Who’s your partner?

What are you doing at this moment? Sleeping? Driving through neighborhoods, looking for someone or something? Are you planning to kill again?

How can I figure out what you have in mind, staying close?

Drifting off to sleep, she heard in her mind lines from the tape she and Michael O’Neil had just listened to.

“
And I don’t have any children myself, either. That’s a regret, I must say … But I’m a young man. I’ve got time, right?
”
“
Oh, if you get your act together, Daniel, there’s no reason in the world you couldn’t have a family of your own.
”

Dance’s eyes opened. She lay in bed for a few minutes, staring at a configuration of shadows on the ceiling. Then, pulling on slippers, she made her way into the living room. “Go back to sleep,” she said to the two dogs, who nonetheless continued to watch her attentively for the next hour or so as she prowled once again through the box that Morton Nagle had prepared for her.

“I need something, Charles.”

“What’s that?”

“An okay for some expenses.”

“For what?”

“We’re not making any headway. There’re no leads from Capitola, the forensics aren’t giving us any answers, no sightings of him … and most important I don’t know why he’s staying in the area.”

“What do you mean, expenses?” Charles Overby was a man of focus.

“I want the three women who were in the Family.”

“Arrest them? I thought they were in the clear.”

“No, I want to interview them. They lived with him; they’ve got to know him pretty well.”

Oh, if you get your act together, Daniel, there’s no reason in the world you couldn’t have a family of your own …

It was this line from the police interview tape that had inspired the idea.

A to B to X …

“We want to hold a Family reunion,” said cheerful TJ. She knew he’d been partying late but his round face, under the curly red hair, was as fresh as if he’d walked out of a spa.

Overby ignored him. “But why would they want to help us? They’d be sympathetic to him, wouldn’t they?”

“No. I’ve talked to two of them, and they have no sympathy for Pell. The third changed her identity, to put that whole life behind her.”

“Why bring them here? Why not interview them where they live?”

“I want them together. It’s a gestalt interviewing approach. Their memories would trigger each other’s. I was up till two reading about them. Rebecca wasn’t with the Family very long — just a few months — but Linda lived with Pell for over a year, and Samantha for two.”

“Have you already talked to them?” The question was coy, as if he suspected her of pulling an end run.

“No,” Dance said. “I wanted to ask you first.”

He seemed satisfied that he wasn’t being outmaneuvered. Still, he shook his head. “Airfare, guards, transportation … red tape. I really doubt I could get it through Sacramento. It’s too out of the box.” He noticed a frayed thread on his cuff and plucked it out. “I’m afraid I have to say no. Utah. I’m sure that’s where he’s headed now. After the scare at Moss Landing. It’d be crazy for him to stay around. Is the USP surveillance team up and running?”

“Yep,” TJ told him.

“Utah’d be good. Real good.”

Meaning, Dance understood:
They
nail him and CBI gets the credit, with no more loss of life in California. USP misses him, it’s
their
flub.

“Charles, I’m sure Utah’s a false lead. He’s not going to point us there and —”

“Unless,” her boss said triumphantly, “it’s a double twist. Think about it.”

“I did, and it’s not Pell’s profile. I really want to go forward with my idea.”

“I’m not sure … ”

A voice from behind her. “Can I ask what that idea is?”

Dance turned to see a man in a dark suit, powder blue shirt and striped blue–and–black tie. Not classically handsome — he had a bit of a belly, prominent ears and, if he were to look down, a double chin would blossom. But he had unwavering, amused brown eyes and a flop of hair, identical brown, that hung over his forehead. His posture and appearance suggested an easy–going nature. He had a faint smile on narrow lips.

Overby asked, “Can I help you?”

Stepping closer, the man offered an FBI identification card. Special Agent Winston Kellogg.

“The babysitter is in the building,” TJ said, sotto voce, his hand over his mouth. She ignored him.

“Charles Overby. Thanks for coming, Agent Kellogg.”

“Please, call me Win. I’m with the bureau’s MVCC.”

“That’s —”

“Multiple Victims Coercive Crimes Division.”

“That’s the new term for cults?” Dance asked.

“We used to call it Cult Unit actually. But that wasn’t PCP.”

TJ frowned. “Drugs?”

“Not a politically correct phrase.”

She laughed. “I’m Kathryn Dance.”

“TJ Scanlon.”

“Thomas Jefferson?”

TJ gave a cryptic smile. Even Dance didn’t know his full name. It might even have been just TJ.

Addressing all of the CBI agents, Kellogg offered, “I want to say something up front. Yeah, I’m the Fed. But I don’t want to ruffle feathers. I’m here as a consultant — to give you whatever insights I can about how Pell thinks and acts. I’m happy to take the backseat.”

Even if he didn’t mean it 100 percent, Dance gave him credit for the reassurance. It was unusual in the world of law enforcement egos to hear one of the Washington folk say something like this.

“Appreciate that,” Overby said.

Kellogg turned to the CBI chief. “Have to say that was a good call of yours yesterday, checking out the restaurants. I never would’ve thought of that one.”

Overby hesitated, then said, “Actually, I think I told Amy Grabe that
Kathryn
here came up with that idea.”

TJ softly cleared his throat and Dance didn’t dare look his way.

“Well, whoever, it was a good idea.” He turned to Dance. “And what were you suggesting just now?”

Dance reiterated it.

The FBI agent nodded. “Getting the Family back together. Good. Very good. They’ve gone through a process of deprogramming by now. Even if they haven’t seen therapists, the passage of time alone would take care of any remnants of Stockholm syndrome. I really doubt they’d have any loyalty to him. I think we should pursue it.”

There was silence for a moment. Dance wasn’t going to bail out Overby, who finally said, “It
is
a good idea. Absolutely. The only problem is our budget. See, recently we —”

“We’ll pay,” Kellogg said. Then he shut up and simply stared at Overby.

Dance wanted to laugh.

“You?”

“I’ll get a bureau jet to fly them here, if we need one. Sound okay to you?”

The CBI chief, robbed of the only argument he could think of on such short notice, said, “How can we refuse a Christmas present from Uncle Sam? Thanks, amigo.”

“No more hits on the forensics from Moss Landing,” he said, “but we’re hopeful about the Pastures of Heaven and vineyards. We’ve got health department people sampling products too. In case he’s adulterated them with acid.” He explained to Kellogg about the trace found in the Thunderbird during Pell’s escape.

“Any reason why he’d do that?”

“Diversion. Or maybe he just wants to hurt people.”

“Physical evidence isn’t my expertise, but sounds like a good lead.” Dance noted that the FBI agent had been looking aside as O’Neil gave him the details, concentrating hard as he memorized them.

Then Kellogg said, “It might be helpful to give you some insights into the cult mentality. At MVCC we’ve put together a general profile, and I’m sure some or all of it applies to Pell. I hope it’ll help you formulate a strategy.”

“Good,” O’Neil said. “I don’t think we’ve ever seen anybody quite like this guy.”

Dance’s initial skepticism about a cult expert’s usefulness had faded now that it was clear Pell had an agenda they couldn’t identify. She wasn’t sure that the killer was, in fact, like any other perp she’d come across.

Kellogg leaned against her desk. “First, like the name of my unit suggests, we consider the members of a cult victims, which they certainly are. But we have to remember that they can be just as dangerous as the leader. Charles Manson wasn’t even present at the Tate–La Bianca killings. It was the members who committed the murders.”

“Now, in speaking of the leader, I’ll tend to say ‘he,’ but women can be just as effective and as ruthless as men. And often they’re more devious.”

“So here’s the basic profile. A cult leader isn’t accountable to any authority except his own. He’s always in charge one hundred percent. He dictates how the subjects spend every minute of their time. He’ll assign work and keep them occupied, even if it’s just busywork. They should never have any free time to think independently.”

“A cult leader creates his own morality — which is defined solely as what’s good for him and what will perpetuate the cult. External laws are irrelevant. He’ll make the subjects believe it’s morally right to do what he tells them — or what he suggests. Cult leaders are masters at getting their message across in very subtle ways, so that even if they’re caught on a wiretap their comments won’t incriminate them specifically. But the subjects understand the shorthand.”

“He’ll polarize issues and create conflicts based on them versus us, black and white. The cult is right and anyone who’s not in the cult is wrong and wants to destroy them.”

“He won’t allow any dissent. He’ll take extreme views, outrageous views, and wait for a subject to question him — to test loyalty. Subjects are expected to give everything to him — their time, their money.”

Dance recalled the prison conversation, the $9,200. She said, “Sounds like the woman is financing Pell’s whole escape.”

Kellogg nodded. “They’re also expected to make their bodies available. And hand over their children sometimes.”

“He’ll exercise absolute control over the subjects. They have to give up their pasts. He’ll give them new names, something he chooses. He’ll tend to pick vulnerable people and play on their insecurities. He looks for loners and makes them abandon their friends and family. They come to see him as a source of support and nurture. He’ll threaten to withhold himself from them — and that’s his most powerful weapon.”

“Okay, I could go on for hours but that gives you a rough idea of Daniel Pell’s thought processes.” Kellogg lifted his hands. He seemed like a professor. “What does all this mean for us? For one thing, it says something about his vulnerabilities. It’s tiring to be a cult leader. You have to monitor your members constantly, look for dissension, eradicate it as soon as you find it. So when external influences exist — like out on the street — they’re particularly wary. In their own environments, though, they’re more relaxed. And therefore more careless and vulnerable.”

“Look at what happened at that restaurant. He was constantly monitoring, because he was in public. If he’d been in his own house, you probably would’ve gotten him.”

“The other implication is this: The accomplice, that woman, will believe Pell is morally right and that he’s justified in killing. That means two things: We won’t get any help from her, and she’s as dangerous as he is. Yes, she’s a victim, but that doesn’t mean she won’t kill you if she has a chance … Well, those are some general thoughts.”

Dance glanced at O’Neil. She knew he had the same reaction as hers: impressed with Kellogg’s knowledge of his specialty. Maybe, for once, Charles Overby had made a good decision, even if his motive was to cover his ass.

Still, though, thinking of what he’d told them about Pell, she was dismayed at what they were up against. She had firsthand knowledge of the killer’s intelligence, but if Kellogg’s profile was even partially correct the man seemed a particularly dangerous threat.

Dance thanked Kellogg, and the meeting broke up — O’Neil headed for the hospital to check on Juan Millar, TJ to find a temporary office for the FBI agent.

Dance pulled out her mobile and found Linda Whitfield’s phone number in the recent–calls log. She hit redial.

“Oh, Agent Dance. Have you heard anything new?”

“No, I’m afraid not.”

“We’ve been listening to the radio … I heard you almost caught him yesterday.”

“That’s right.”

More muttering. Prayer again, Dance assumed.

“Ms. Whitfield?”

“I’m here.”

“I’m going to ask you something and I’d like you to think about it before you answer.”

“Go on.”

“We’d like you to come here and help us.”

“
What?
” she whispered.

“Daniel Pell is a mystery to us. We’re pretty sure he’s staying on the Peninsula. But we can’t figure out why. Nobody knows him better than you, Samantha and Rebecca. We’re hoping you can help us figure it out.”

“Are they coming?”

“You’re the first one I’ve called.”

A pause. “But what could I possibly do?”

“I want to talk to you about him, see if you can think of anything that suggests what his plans might be, where he might be going.”

“But I haven’t heard from him in seven or eight years.”

“There could be something he said or did back then that’ll give us a clue. He’s taking a big risk staying here. I’m sure he has a reason.”

“Well … ”

Dance was familiar with how mental defense processes work. She could imagine the woman’s brain frantically looking for — and rejecting or holding on to — reasons why she couldn’t do what the agent asked. She wasn’t surprised when she heard, “The problem is I’m helping my brother and sister–in–law with their foster children. I can’t just up and leave.”

Dance remembered that she lived with the couple. She asked if they could handle the children for a day or two. “It won’t be any longer than that.”

“I don’t think they could, no.”

The verb “think” has great significance to interrogators. It’s a denial flag expression — like “I don’t remember” or “probably not.” Its meaning: I’m hedging but not flatly saying no. The message to Dance was that the couple could easily handle the children.

“I know it’s a lot to ask. But we need your help.”

After a pause the woman offered excuse two: “And even if I could get away I don’t have any money to travel.”

“We’ll fly you in a private jet.”

“Private?”

“An FBI jet.”

“Oh, my.”

Dance dealt with excuse three before it was raised: “And you’ll be under very tight security. No one will know you’re here, and you’ll be guarded twenty–four hours a day. Please. Will you help us?”

More silence.

“I’ll have to ask.”

“Your brother, your supervisor at work? I can give them a call and —”

“No, no, not them. I mean Jesus.”

Oh … “Well, okay.” After a pause Dance asked, “Could you check with Him pretty soon?”

“I’ll call you back, Agent Dance.”

They hung up. Dance called Winston Kellogg and let him know they were awaiting divine intervention regarding Whitfield. He seemed amused. “That’s one long–distance call.” Dance decided she definitely wouldn’t let Charles Overby know whose permission was required.

Was this whole thing such a great idea, after all?

She then called Women’s Initiatives in San Diego. When Rebecca Sheffield answered, she said, “Hi. It’s Kathryn Dance again, in Monterey. I was —”

Rebecca interrupted. “I’ve been watching the news for the past twenty–four hours. What happened? You almost had him and he got away?”

“I’m afraid so.”

Rebecca gave a harsh sigh. “Well, are you catching on now?”

“Catching on?”

“The fire at the courthouse. The fire at the power plant. Twice, arson. See the pattern? He found something that worked. And he did it again.”

Exactly what Dance had thought. She didn’t defend herself, though, but merely said, “He’s not quite like any escapee we’ve ever seen.”

“Well, yeah.”

“Ms. Sheffield, there’s something —”

“Hold on. First, there’s one thing I want to say.”

“Go ahead,” Dance said uneasily.

“Forgive me, but you people don’t have a clue what you’re up against. You need to do what I tell people in my seminars. They’re about empowerment in business. A lot of women think they can get together with their friends for drinks and dump on their idiotic bosses or their exes or their abusive boyfriends, and, presto, they’re cured. Well, it doesn’t work like that. You can’t stumble around, you can’t wing it.”

“Well, I appreciate —”

“First, you identify the problem. An example: you’re not comfortable dating. Second, identify the
facts
that are the source of the problem. You were date–raped once. Three, structure a solution. You don’t dive into dating and ignore your fears. You don’t curl up in a ball and forget men. You make a plan: start out slowly, see men at lunchtime, meet them in public places, only go out with men who aren’t physically imposing and who don’t invade your personal space, who don’t drink, et cetera. You get the picture. Then, slowly, you expand who you see. After two, three months, or six, or a year, you’ve solved the problem. Structure a plan and stick to it. See what I’m saying?”

“I do, yes.”

Dance thought two things: First, the woman’s seminars probably drew sell–out crowds. Second, wouldn’t want to hang out with Rebecca Sheffield socially. She wondered if the woman was finished.

She wasn’t.

“Okay, now I have a seminar today I can’t cancel. But if you haven’t caught him by tomorrow morning I want to come up there. Maybe there are some things I can remember from eight years ago that’ll help. Or is that against some policy or something?”

“No, not at all. It’s a good idea.”

“All right. Look, I have to go. What were you going to ask me?”

“Nothing important. Let’s hope everything works out before then but if not, I’ll call and make arrangements to get you here.”

“Sounds like a plan,” the woman said briskly and hung up.