Jeffery Deaver - The Sleeping Doll

The mist carried with it the fragrance of pine, eucalyptus and flowers-gardenia, Kathryn Dance believed, but wasn't sure. She liked plants but, like meals, she preferred to purchase them fully functional from those in the know, rather than try her own hand and risk destruction.

Standing beside one of the gardens, Dance watched Linda Whitfield being wheeled out of the front door by her brother. Roger was a slim, austere man whose age could have been anywhere from thirty-five to fifty-five. He fit Dance's expectations, quiet and conservative, wearing pressed jeans, a dress shirt starched and ironed, and a striped tie, held in place with a bar that had a cross on it. He'd greeted Dance with a very firm handshake and no smile whatsoever.

"I'll get the truck. Excuse me, please."

"Are you up for the drive?" Dance asked the woman after he'd gone.

"We'll see. We know some people in Mendocino who used to be in our church. Roger called them. We might stop there for the night."

Linda's eyes were unfocused and she'd been giving giddy laughs at nothing in particular; Dance deduced that the painkiller she'd taken was really, really good.

"I'd vote for stopping. Take it easy. Be coddled."

"Coddled." She laughed at the word. "How's Rebecca? I haven't asked about her."

"Still in intensive care." A nod at the hospital. "Probably not too far from where you were."

"Is she going to be okay?"

"They think so."

"I'll pray for her." Another laugh. It reminded Dance of Morton Nagle's signature chuckle.

Dance crouched down beside the chair. "I can't thank you enough for what you did. I know it was hard. And I'm so sorry you were hurt. But we couldn't've stopped him without you."

"God does His work, life goes on. It's all for the good."

Dance didn't follow; it was like one of Charles Overby's nonsequiturs.

Linda blinked. "Where will Daniel be buried?"

"We called his aunt in Bakersfield, but she doesn't even remember her own name. His brother-Richard? He's not interested. He'll be buried here after the autopsy. In Monterey County, for indigent funerals, the body's cremated. There's a public cemetery."

"Is it consecrated?"

"I don't know. I'd suppose so."

"If not, could you find a place for him? A proper resting place. I'll pay."

The man who'd tried to kill her?

"I'll make sure."

"Thank you."

It was then that a dark blue Acura careened recklessly up the driveway and skidded to a stop nearby. The car's arrival was so abrupt that Dance crouched in alarm and her hand dropped to her pistol.

But the agent relaxed immediately, seeing Samantha McCoy emerging from the driver's seat. The woman joined Dance and Linda. She asked, "How're you feeling?"

"I'm on pills right now. I think I'll be pretty sore tomorrow. Well, probably for the next month."

"You were leaving without saying good-bye?"

"My, why would you think that? I was going to call."

The deception was easily spotted by Dance. Probably by Samantha as well.

"You look good."

Another slurred chuckle was the response.

Silence. Deep silence; the fog swallowed up whole any ambient noise.

With her hands on her hips, Samantha looked down at Linda. "Strange few days, huh?"

The woman gave a curious laugh, both groggy and cautious.

"Linda, I want to call you. We could get together."

"Why? To psychoanalyze me? To save me from the clutches of the church?" Bitterness bled from the words.

"I just want to see you. It doesn't have to be about more than that."

With some mental effort Linda offered, "Sam, we were different people eight, nine years ago, you and me. We're even more different now. We have nothing in common."

"Nothing in common? Well, that's not true. We went through hell together."

"Yeah, we did. And God helped us through it and then sent us in different directions."

Samantha crouched and carefully took the woman's arm, mindful of the wound. She was well within Linda's personal proxemic zone. "Listen to me. You listening?"

"What?" Impatient.

"There was a man once."

"A man?"

"Listen. This man was in his house and there was a bad flood, really bad. The river filled his first floor and a boat came by to rescue him but he said, 'No, go on, God'll save me.' He ran to the second floor, but the water rose up there too. Another rescue boat came by but he said, 'No, go on, God'll save me.' Then the river kept rising and he climbed to the roof and a helicopter came by but he said, 'No, go on, God'll save me.' And the helicopter flew away."

Words slurred from the medication, Linda asked, "What're you talking about?"

Sam continued, unfazed. "Then the water sweeps him off the roof and he drowns. Next thing he's in heaven and he sees God and he says, 'God, why didn't you save me?' And God shakes his head and says, 'Funny, I don't understand what went wrong. I sent you two boats and a helicopter."

Dance chuckled. Linda blinked at the punch line and, the agent thought, wanted to smile but forced herself not to.

"Come on, Linda-we're each other's helicopters. Admit it."

The woman said nothing.

Sam thrust a card into the woman's hand. "Here's my number."

Linda said nothing for a long moment, staring at the card. "Sarah Starkey? That's your name?"

Samantha smiled. "I can't change it back at this point. But I am going to tell my husband. Everything. He's on his way here now with our son. We're going to spend a few days in the area. That's what I'm hoping. But after I tell him, he might just get back in the car and head home."

Linda gave no response. She flicked the card with her thumb, slipped it into her purse and looked up the driveway as a battered silver pickup truck approached. It stopped and Roger Whitfield climbed out.

Samantha introduced herself to Linda's brother, using her original name, not "Sarah."

The man greeted her with a raised eyebrow and another formal handshake. Then he and Dance helped Linda into the car, and the agent closed the door.

Samantha stepped up on the running board. "Linda, remember: helicopters."

The woman said, "Good-bye, Sam. I'll pray for you."

With no other words or gestures, the brother and sister drove off. Samantha and Dance watched them ease down the winding drive as the tail-lights, glowing orbs in the fog, grew fainter.

After they were gone, Dance asked, "When's your husband getting here?"

"He left San Jose an hour ago. Pretty soon, I'd guess." Sam nodded after the pickup truck. "Think she's going to call me?"

All of Kathryn Dance's skill as an investigator, all of her talent as a reader of body language couldn't answer that question. The best she could come up with was, "She didn't throw your card away, did she?"

"Not yet," Samantha said, offered a weak smile and walked back to her car.

The evening sky was clear, the fog busy elsewhere.

Kathryn Dance was on the Deck, alone, though Patsy and Dylan were nearby, roaming the backyard, engaged in dog intrigue. She'd finished the preparations for her father's big birthday party tomorrow night and was sipping a German beer while listening to A Prairie Home Companion, Garrison Keillor's variety radio show she'd been a fan of for years. When the program concluded she shut off the stereo and heard in its stead the distant sound track of Maggie playing scales and the faint bass of Wes's stereo.

Listening to the boy's music-she thought it was Coldplay-Kathryn Dance debated a moment then impulsively pulled out her cell phone, found a number in the Samsung and pushed send.

"Well, hi there," Brian Gunderson said, answering the phone.

Caller ID has created a whole new response mechanism, she thought. He'd've had three full seconds to figure out a game plan for the conversation, tailored specifically to Kathryn Dance.