Jeffery Deaver - The Sleeping Doll

"I'm just so happy."

"Come on, tell me."

Well, he didn't sound mad. She debated, then said, "Well, I was wondering. There were some women. At the grocery store. Then I put the news on. I heard…somebody got burned real bad. A policeman. And then two people were killed, stabbed." Daniel had said he just wanted the knife to threaten the guards. He wasn't going to hurt anybody.

"What?" he snapped. His blue eyes grew hard.

No, no, what're you doing? Jennie asked herself. You made him mad! Why did you ask him that? Now you've fucked everything up! Her heart fluttered.

"They did it again. They always do it! When I left, nobody was hurt. I was so careful! I got out the fire door just like we'd planned and slammed it shut…" Then he nodded. "I know…sure. There were other prisoners in a cell near mine. They wanted me to let them out too, but I wouldn't. I'll bet they started to riot and when the guards went to stop them, that's when those two got killed. Some of them had shivs, I'll bet. You know what that is?"

"A knife, right?"

"Homemade knife. That's what happened. And if somebody got burned, it was because he was careless. I looked carefully-there was no one else out there when I got through the fire. And how could I attack three people all by myself? Ridiculous. But the police and the news're blaming me for it, like they always do." His lean face was red. "I'm the easy target."

"Just like that family eight years ago," she said timidly, trying to calm him. Nothing takes away the danger faster than agreeing with a man.

Daniel had told her how he and his friend had gone to the Croytons' house to pitch a business idea to the computer genius. But when they got there his friend, it seemed, had a whole different idea-he was going to rob the couple. He knocked Daniel out and started killing the family. Daniel had come to and tried to stop him. Finally he'd had to kill his friend in self-defense.

"They blamed me for that-because you know how we hate it when the killer dies. Somebody goes into a school and shoots students and kills himself. We want the bad guy alive. We need somebody to blame. It's human nature."

He was right, Jennie reflected. She was relieved, but also terrified that she'd upset him. "I'm sorry, honey. I shouldn't've mentioned anything."

She expected him to tell her to shut up, maybe even get out of the car and walk away. But to her shock he smiled and stroked her hair. "You can ask me anything."

She hugged him again. Felt more tears on her cheek and touched them away. The makeup had clotted. She backed away, staring at her fingers. Oh, no. Look at this! She wanted to be pretty for him.

The fears coming back, digging away.

Oh, Jennie, you're going to be wearing your hair like that? You sure you want to?…You don't want bangs? They'd cover up that high forehead of yours.

What if she didn't live up to his expectations?

Daniel Pell took her face in his strong hands. "Lovely, you're the most beautiful woman on the face of the earth. You don't even need makeup."

Like he could see right into her thoughts.

Crying again. "I've been worried you wouldn't like me."

"Wouldn't like you. Baby, I love you. What I emailed you, remember?"

Jennie remembered every word he'd written. She looked into his eyes. "Oh, you're such a beautiful person." She pressed her lips against his. Though they made love in her imagination at least once a day, this was their first kiss. She felt his teeth against her lips, his tongue. They stayed locked together in this fierce embrace for what seemed like forever, though it could have been a mere second. Jennie had no sense of time. She wanted him inside her, pressing hard, his chest pulsing against hers.

Souls are where love should start, but you've got to get the bodies involved pretty damn soon.

She slipped her hand along his bare, muscular leg.

He gave a laugh. "Tell you what, lovely, maybe we'd better get out of here."

"Sure, whatever you want."

He asked, "You have the phone I called you on?" Daniel had told her to buy three prepaid cell phones with cash. She handed him the one she'd answered when he'd called just after he'd escaped. He took it apart and pulled the battery and SIM card out. He threw them into a trash can and returned to the car.

"The others?"

She produced them. He handed her one and put the other in his pocket.

He said, "We ought to-"

A siren sounded nearby-close. They froze.

Angel songs, Jennie thought, then recited this good-luck mantra a dozen times.

The sirens faded into the distance.

She turned back. "They might come back." Nodding after the sirens.

Daniel smiled. "I'm not worried about that. I just want to be alone with you."

Jennie felt a shiver of happiness down her spine. It almost hurt.

The west-central regional headquarters of the California Bureau of Investigation, home to dozens of agents, was a two-story modern structure, near Highway 68, indistinguishable from the other buildings around it-functional rectangles of glass and stone, housing doctors' and lawyers' offices, architectural firms, computer companies and the like. The landscaping was meticulous and boring, the parking lots always half-empty. The countryside rose and fell in gentle hills, which were at the moment bright green, thanks to recent rains. Often the ground was as brown as Colorado during a dry spell.

A United Express regional jet banked sharply and low, then leveled off, vanishing over the trees for the touchdown at nearby Monterey Peninsula Airport.

Kathryn Dance and Michael O'Neil were in the CBI's ground-floor conference room, directly beneath her office. They stood side by side, staring at a large map on which the roadblocks were indicated-this time with push-pins, not entomological Post-it notes. There had been no sightings of the Worldwide Express driver's Honda, and the net had been pushed farther back, now eighty miles away.

Kathryn Dance glanced at O'Neil's square face and read in it a complicated amalgam of determination and concern. She knew him well. They'd met years ago when she was a jury consultant, studying the demeanor and responses of prospective jurors during voir dire and advising lawyers which to choose and which to reject. She'd been hired by federal prosecutors to help them select jurors in a RICO trial in which O'Neil was a chief witness. (Curiously, she'd met her late husband under parallel circumstances: when she was a reporter covering a trial in Salinas and he was a prosecution witness.)

Dance and O'Neil had become friends and stayed close over the years. When she'd decided to go into law enforcement and got a job with the regional office of the CBI, she found herself working frequently with him. Stan Fishburne, then the agent in charge, was one mentor, O'Neil the other. He taught her more about the art of investigation in six months than she'd learned during her entire formal training. They complemented each other well. The quiet, deliberate man preferred traditional police techniques, like forensics, undercover work, surveillance and running confidential informants, while Dance's specialty was canvassing, interrogation and interviewing.

She knew she wouldn't be the agent she was today without O'Neil's help. Or his humor and patience (and other vital talents: like offering her Dramamine before she went out on his boat).

Though their approach to their job and their talents differed, their instincts were identical and they were closely attuned to each other. She was amused to see that, while he'd been staring at the map, in fact he'd been sensing signals from her too.

"What is it?" he asked.

"How do you mean?"

"Something's bothering you. More than just finding yourself in the driver's seat here."