Jeffery Deaver - The Sleeping Doll

Finding that the T-bird was stolen was another possibility. But why would somebody run the tag of a car stolen four hundred miles away? And even if it was boosted, why call out the 101 Airborne just for a set of stolen wheels-unless they knew it had some connection to Pell?

And the cops were supposed to believe he was headed to that camper park outside of Salt Lake City he'd called.

Kathryn?

He had a feeling she hadn't bought into the Utah idea, even after the trick with Billy's phone and leaving the driver alive on purpose. Pell wondered if she'd put out the announcement about Utah to the press intentionally, to flush him into the open.

Which had, in fact, worked, he reflected angrily.

Wherever he went, he had a feeling, she'd be supervising the manhunt for him.

Pell wondered where she lived. He thought again about his assessment of her in the interview-her children, her husband-recalled when she gave her faint reactions, when she didn't.

Kids, yes, husband, probably not. A divorce didn't seem likely. He sensed good judgment and loyalty within her.

Pell paused and took a snap of the sun easing into the Pacific Ocean. It was really quite a sight.

Kathryn as a widow. Interesting idea. He felt the swelling within him again.

Somehow he managed to tuck it away.

For the time being.

He bought a few things at a store, a little bodega, which he picked because he knew his picture wouldn't be looping on the news every five minutes; he was right, the tiny set showed only a Spanish-language soap opera.

Pell met up with Jennie in Asilomar, the beautiful park, which featured a crescent of beach for die-hard surfers and, closer toward Monterey, an increasingly rugged shoreline of rocks and crashing spray.

"Everything all right?" she asked cautiously.

"Fine, lovely. We're doing fine."

She led him through the quiet streets of Pacific Grove, a former Methodist retreat, filled with colorful Victorian and Tudor bungalows. In five minutes she announced, "Here we are." She nodded at the Sea View Motel. The building was brown, with small lead windows, a wood shingle roof and plaques of butterflies above the doors. The village's claim to fame, other than being the last dry town in California, was the monarchs-tens of thousands of the insects would cluster here from fall to spring.

"It's cute, isn't it?"

Pell guessed. Cute didn't mean anything to him. What mattered was that the room faced away from the road and there were driveways off the back parking lot that would be perfect escape routes. She'd gotten exactly the kind of place she was supposed to.

"It's perfect, lovely. Just like you."

Another smile on her smooth face, though half-hearted; she was still shaken by the incident at Jack's restaurant. Pell didn't care. The bubble within him had started expanding once more. He wasn't sure whether Kathryn was driving it, or Jennie.

"Which one's ours?"

She pointed. "Come on, honey. I have a surprise for you."

Hm. Pell didn't like surprises.

She unlocked the door.

He nodded toward it. "After you, lovely."

And reached into his waistband, gripping the pistol. He tensed, ready to push her forward as a sacrificial shield and start shooting at the sound of a cop's voice.

But it wasn't a setup. The place was empty. He looked around. It was even nicer than the outside suggested. Ritzy. Expensive furniture, drapes, towels, even bathrobes. Some nice paintings too. Seashores, the Lonesome Pine and more goddamn butterflies.

And candles. Lots of them. Everywhere you could put a candle there was a candle.

Oh, that was the surprise. They weren't, thank God, lit. That's all he'd need-come back from an escape to find his hideaway on fire.

"You have the keys?"

She handed them to him.

Keys. Pell loved them. Whether for a car, a motel room, a safe deposit box or a house, whoever possesses the keys is in control.

"What's in there?" she asked, glancing at the bag. She'd been curious earlier, when they met on the beach not long ago, he knew. Purposely he hadn't told her.

"Just some things we needed. And some food."

Jennie blinked in surprise. "You bought food?"

What, was this the first time her man had bought her groceries?

"I could've done that," she said quickly. Then nodding at the kitchenette, she added a perfunctory, "So. I'll cook you a meal."

Odd phrase. She's been taught to think that. By her ex, or one of the abusive boyfriends. Tim the biker.

Shut up and go cook me a meal…

"That's okay, lovely. I'll do it."

"You?"

"Sure." Pell knew men who insisted that "the wife" feed them. They thought they were kings of the household, to be waited on. It gave them some sense of power. But they didn't understand that when you depended on someone for anything, you were weakened. (Also, how stupid can you be? You know how easy it is to mix rat poison into soup?) Pell was no chef but even years ago, when Linda was the Family cook, he liked to hang out in the kitchen, help her, keep an eye on things.

"Oh, and you got Mexican!" She laughed as she pulled out the ground beef, tortillas, tomatoes, canned peppers and sauces.

"You said you liked it. Comfort food. Hey, lovely." He kissed her head. "You were real steady today at the restaurant."

Turning away from the groceries, she looked down. "I got kind of freaked, you know. I was scared. I didn't mean to scream."

"No, no, you held fast. You know what that means?"

"Not really."

"It's an old expression sailors used to say. They'd tattoo it on their fingers, so when you made fists, you'd see it spelled out. 'Hold fast.' It means not running away."

She laughed. "I wouldn't run away from you."

He touched his lips to her head, smelled sweat and discount perfume.

She rubbed her nose.

"We're a team, lovely." Which got her to stop rubbing. Pell noted that.

He went into the bathroom, peed long and then washed up. When he stepped outside he found a second surprise.

Jennie'd stripped down. She was wearing only a bra and panties, holding a cigarette lighter, working on the candles.

She glanced up. "You said you liked red."

Pell grinned, walked to her. Ran his hand down her bony spine.

"Or would you rather eat?"

He kissed her. "We'll eat later."

"Oh, I want you, baby," she whispered. It was clearly a line she'd used often in the past. But that didn't mean it wasn't true now.

He took the lighter. "We'll do atmosphere later." He kissed her, pulled her hips against him.

She smiled-a genuine one now-and pressed harder against his crotch. "I think you want me too." A purr.

"I do want you, lovely."

"I like it when you call me that."

"You have any stockings?" he asked.

She nodded. "Black ones. I'll go put them on."

"No. That's not what I want them for," he whispered.

One more errand before this hard day was over.

Kathryn Dance pulled up to a modest house in the netherworld between Carmel and Monterey.

When the huge military base, Fort Ord, was the industry in the area, medium-rank officers would live and, often, retire here. Before that, in the fishing and cannery days, foremen and managers lived here. Dance parked in front of a modest bungalow and walked through the picket-fence gate and along the stony path to the front door. A minute later a freckled, cheerful woman in her late thirties greeted her. Dance identified herself. "I'm here to see Morton."

"Come on in," Joan Nagle said, smiling, the lack of surprise-and concern-in her face telling Dance that her husband had given her some of the details of his role in the events of today, though perhaps not all.

The agent stepped into the small living room. The half-full boxes of clothes and books-mostly the latter-suggested they'd just moved in. The walls were covered with the cheap prints of a seasonal rental. Again the smells of cooking assaulted her-but this time the scent was of hamburger and onions, not Italian herbs.