The Sleeping Doll (45 page)

But Daniel Pell couldn’t staunch the rage as he sped away from Monterey, replaying what had just happened. Kathryn Dance’s voice, Rebecca’s face.

Replaying the events of eight years ago too.

Jimmy Newberg, the goddamn computer freak, the doper, had said that he had inside information about William Croyton — thanks to a programmer who’d been fired six months earlier. He’d managed to find out Croyton’s alarm code and had a key to the back door (though Pell now knew where he’d gotten those — from Rebecca, of course). Jimmy’d said too that the eccentric Croyton kept huge amounts of cash in the house.

Pell would never rob a bank or check–cashing operation, nothing big. But, still, he needed money to expand the Family and to move to his mountaintop. And here was a chance for a once–in–a–lifetime break–in. No one was going to be home, Jimmy said, so there’d be no risk of injuries. They’d walk away with a hundred thousand dollars, and Croyton would make a routine call to the police and the insurance company, then forget the matter.

Just what Kathryn Dance had figured.

The two men had snuck through the backyard and made their way to the house through the sumptuous landscaping. Pell had seen the lights on, but Jimmy told him they were on a timer for security. They slipped into the house through a side utility door.

But something wasn’t right. The alarm was off. Pell turned to Jimmy to tell him that somebody must be home after all, but the young man was already hurrying into the kitchen.

Walking right up to the middle–aged woman cooking dinner, her back to him. No! Pell remembered thinking in shock. What was he doing?

Murdering her, it turned out.

Using a paper towel, Jimmy pulled a steak knife from his pocket — one from the Family’s house, with Pell’s fingerprints on it, he realized — and, gripping the woman around the mouth, stabbed her deeply. She slumped to the floor.

Enraged, Pell whispered, “What the hell are you doing?”

Newberg turned and hesitated, but his face was telegraphing what was coming. When he lunged, Pell was already leaping aside. He just managed to dodge the vicious blade. Pell swept up a frying pan, smashed it into Newberg’s head. He crashed to the floor, and, with a butcher knife from the counter, Pell killed him.

A moment later William Croyton hurried into the kitchen, hearing the noise of the struggle. His two older children were behind him, screaming as they stared at their mother’s body. Pell pulled his gun out and forced the hysterical family into the pantry. He finally calmed Croyton down enough to ask about the money, which the businessman said was in the desk in the ground–floor office.

Daniel Pell had found himself looking at the sobbing, terrified family as if he were looking at weeds in a garden or crows or insects. He’d had no intention of killing anyone that night, but to stay in control of his life he had no choice. In two minutes they were all dead; he used the knife so the neighbors would hear no gunshots.

Pell had then wiped what fingerprints he could, taken Jimmy’s steak knife and all his ID, then run to the office, where he found, to his shock, that, yes, there was money in the desk, but only a thousand dollars. A fast search of the master bedroom downstairs revealed only pocket change and costume jewelry. He never even got upstairs, where that little girl was in bed, asleep. (He was now glad she’d been up there; ironically, if he’d killed her then, he never would’ve learned about Rebecca’s betrayal.)

And, yes, to the sound track of
Jeopardy!
he’d run back to the kitchen, where he pocketed the dead man’s wallet and his wife’s diamond cocktail ring.

Then outside, to his car. And only a mile later he was pulled over by the police.

Rebecca …

Thinking back to meeting her for the first time — the “coincidental” meeting that she’d apparently engineered near the boardwalk in Santa Cruz.

Pell remembered how much he loved the boardwalk, all the rides. Amusement parks fascinated him, people giving up complete control to somebody else — either risking harm on the roller coasters and parachute drops or becoming mindless laboratory rats on rides like the boardwalk’s famous hundred–year–old Looff carousel, round and round …

Remembered too Rebecca eight years ago, near that very same merry–go–round, gesturing him over.

“
Hey, how’d you like me to do your portrait?
”

“
I guess. How much?
”

“
You’ll be able to afford it. Take a seat.
”

And then after five minutes, with only the basic features of his face sketched in, she’d lowered the charcoal stick, looked him over and asked, challenging, if there was someplace private to go. They’d walked to the van, Linda Whitfield watching them with a solemn, jealous face. Pell hardly noticed her.

And a few minutes later, after kissing frantically, his hands all over her, she’d eased back.

“Wait … ”

What? he’d wondered. Clap, AIDS?

Breathless, she’d said, “I … have to say something.” She’d paused, looking down.

“Go on.”

“You might not like this, and if not, okay, we’ll just call it quits and you get a picture for free. But I feel this connection with you, even after just a little while, and I’ve got to say … ”

“Tell me.”

“When it comes to sex, I don’t really enjoy it … unless you hurt me. I mean,
really
hurt me. A lot of men don’t like that. And it’s okay … ”

His response was to roll her over on her taut little belly.

And pull off his belt.

He gave a grim laugh now. It was all bullshit, he realized. Somehow in that ten minutes on the beach and five minutes in the van she’d tipped to his fantasy and played it for all it was worth.

Svengali and Trilby
…

He now continued driving until his right arm began to throb with pain from Rebecca’s knife slash at Nagle’s house. He pulled over, opened his shirt and looked at it. Not terrible — the bleeding was slowing. But, damn, it hurt.

Nothing like the slash of her betrayal, though.

He was at the edge of the quiet portion of town and would have to continue through populated areas, where the police would be looking for him everywhere.

He made a U–turn and drove through the streets until he found an Infiniti, pausing at a stoplight ahead of him. Only one person inside. No other cars were around. Pell slowed but didn’t hit the brakes until he was right on top of the luxury car. The bumpers tapped with a resonant thud. The Infiniti rolled forward a few feet. The driver glared in his rearview mirror and got out.

Pell, shaking his head, climbed out too. He stood, studying the damage.

“Weren’t you looking?” The driver of the Infiniti was a middle–aged Latino man. “I just bought it last month.” He glanced up from the cars and frowned at the blood on Pell’s arm. “Are you hurt?”

His eyes followed the stain down to Pell’s hand, where he saw the gun.

But by then it was too late.

She now asked the writer and his wife if Pell had said anything about where he might be fleeing, especially his mountaintop. Nagle had been honest with Pell; he’d never heard anything about an enclave in the wilderness. He, his wife and children could add nothing more. Rebecca was badly wounded and unconscious. O’Neil had sent a deputy with her in the ambulance. The moment she was able to talk, he’d call the detective.

Dance now joined Kellogg and O’Neil, who stood nearby, heads bowed, as they discussed the case. Whatever personal reservations O’Neil had about the FBI man, and vice versa, you couldn’t tell it from their posture and gesturing. They were efficiently and quickly coordinating roadblocks and planning a search strategy.

O’Neil took a phone call. He frowned. “Okay, sure. Call Watsonville … I’ll handle it.” He hung up and announced, “Got a lead. Carjacking in Marina. Man fitting Pell’s description — and bleeding — snatched a black Infiniti. Had a gun.” He added grimly, “Witness said he heard a gunshot, and when he looked, Pell was closing the trunk.”

Dance closed her eyes and sighed in disgust. Yet another death.

O’Neil said, “There’s no way he’s staying on the Peninsula anymore. He jacked the car in Marina so he’s headed north. Probably aiming for the One–oh–one.” He climbed into his car. “I’ll set up a command post in Gilroy. And Watsonville, in case he sticks to the One.”

She watched him drive off.

“Let’s get up there too,” Kellogg said, turning to his car.

Following him, Dance heard her phone ring. She took the call. It was from James Reynolds. She briefed him on what had just happened, and then the former prosecutor said he’d been through the files from the Croyton murders. He’d found something that might be helpful. Did Dance have a minute now?

“You bet.”

“Oh, my,” Linda whispered.

“Rebecca was with him all along.” Sam stared at the TV screen, her face a mask of shock. “But who shot her? The police? Daniel?”

Linda closed her eyes momentarily. Sam didn’t know if this was a prayer or a reaction to the exhaustion from the ordeal they’d been through in the past few days. Crosses to bear, Sam couldn’t help but think. Which she didn’t tell to her Christian friend.

Another newscaster devoted a few minutes to describing the woman who’d been shot, Rebecca Sheffield, founder of Women’s Initiatives in San Diego, one of the women in the Family eight years ago. She mentioned that Sheffield had been born in Southern California. Her father had died when she was six and she’d been raised by her mother, who had never remarried.

“Six years old?” Linda muttered.

Sam blinked. “She lied. None of that stuff with her father ever happened. Oh, boy, were we taken in.”

“This is all way too much for me. I’m packing.”

“Linda, wait.”

“I don’t want to talk about anything, Sam. I’ve had it.”

“Just let me say one thing.”

“You’ve said plenty.”

“I don’t think you were really listening.”

“And I wouldn’t be listening if you said it again.” She headed toward her bedroom.

Sam jumped when the phone rang. It was Kathryn Dance.

“Oh, we just heard —”

But the agent said, “Listen to me, Sam. I don’t think he’s headed north. I think he’s coming for you.”

“What?”

“I just heard from James Reynolds. He found a reference to Alison in his old case files. It seems that during his interrogation after the Croyton deaths, Pell assaulted him. Reynolds was questioning him about the incident in Redding, the Charles Pickering murder, and was talking about Alison, his girlfriend you mentioned. Pell went crazy and attacked him, or tried to — the same thing that happened to me in Salinas — because he was getting close to something important.”

“James thinks he killed Pickering because the man knew about Pell’s mountaintop. And that’s why he was trying to find Alison. She’d know about it too.”

“But why hurt us?”

“Because Pell told
you
about Alison. Maybe you wouldn’t make the connection between her and his property, maybe you wouldn’t even remember. But that place is so important to him — his kingdom — that he’s willing to murder anybody who’s a risk to it. That means you. Both of you.”

“Linda, come here!”

The woman appeared in the doorway, frowning angrily.

Dance continued, “I’ve just radioed the officers outside. They’re going to take you to CBI headquarters. Agent Kellogg and I are on our way to the inn now. We’re going to wait in the cabin and see if Pell shows up.”

Breathlessly Sam said to Linda, “Kathryn thinks Daniel might be coming this way.”

“No!” The curtains were drawn, but the women instinctively looked toward the windows. Then Sam glanced toward Rebecca’s bedroom. Had she remembered to lock the window after finding that the woman had climbed out? Yes, Sam recalled, she had.

There was a knock on the door. “Ladies, it’s Deputy Larkin.”

Sam glanced at Linda. They froze. Then Linda slowly walked to the peephole and looked out. She nodded and opened the door. The MCSO deputy stepped inside. “I’ve been asked to take you to CBI. Just leave everything and come with me.” The other deputy was outside, looking around the parking lot.

Sam said into the phone, “It’s the deputy, Kathryn. We’re leaving now.”

They hung up.

Samantha grabbed her purse. “Let’s go.” Her voice was shaking.

The deputy, hand near his pistol, nodded them forward.

At that moment a bullet struck him in the side of his head. Another shot, and the second deputy grabbed his chest, slumping to the ground, crying out. A third bullet struck him as well. The first officer crawled toward his car and collapsed on the sidewalk.

Linda gasped. “No, no!”

Footsteps were running on the pavement. Daniel Pell was sprinting toward the cabin.

Sam was paralyzed.

Then she leapt forward and slammed the door, managed to get the chain on and step aside just as another bullet snapped through the wood. She lunged for the phone.

Daniel Pell gave two solid kicks. The second one cracked the lock on the door, though the chain held. It opened only a few inches.

“Rebecca’s room!” Sam cried. She ran to Linda and grabbed her arm but the woman stood rooted in the doorway.

Sam assumed she was frozen in panic.

But her face didn’t look frightened at all.

She pulled away from Sam. “Daniel,” she called.

“What are you doing?” Sam screamed. “Come on!”

Pell kicked the door again, but the chain continued to hold. Sam dragged Linda a step or two closer to Rebecca’s bedroom but she pulled away. “Daniel,” Linda repeated. “Please, listen to me. It’s not too late. You can give yourself up. We’ll get you a lawyer. I’ll make sure you’re —”

Pell shot her.

Simply lifted the gun, aimed through the gap in the door and shot Linda in the abdomen as casually as if he were swatting a fly. He tried to shoot again but Sam dragged her into the bedroom. Pell kicked the door once more. This time it crashed open, smashing into the wall and shattering a picture of a seashore.

Sam closed and locked Rebecca’s door. She whispered fiercely, “We’re going outside, now! We can’t wait here.”

Pell tested the bedroom knob. Kicked the panel. But this door opened outward and it now held firmly against his blows.

Feeling a horrifying tickle on her back, sure that at any moment he’d shoot through the door and hit her by chance, Sam helped Linda to the windowsill, pushed her out, then tumbled after her onto the damp, fragrant earth. Linda was whimpering in pain and clutching her side.

Sam helped her up and, holding her arm in a bruising grip, guided her, jogging, toward Point Lobos State Park.

“He shot me,” Linda moaned, still astonished. “It hurts. Look … Wait, where are we going?”

Sam ignored her. She was thinking only of getting as far away as she could from the cabin. As for their destination, Sam couldn’t say. All she could see ahead of them was acres of trees, formations of harsh rock and, at the end of the world, the explosive, gray ocean.