Jeffery Deaver - The Sleeping Doll

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.

In the Sea View Motel, Daniel Pell looked up from Jennie's computer, where he'd been online, and saw the woman easing toward him seductively.

Jennie offered a purr and whispered, "Come on back to bed, baby. Fuck me."

Pell switched screens so she wouldn't see what he was searching for and slipped his arm around her narrow waist.

Men and women exercise power over each other every day. Men have a harder time at first. They have to work their way inside a woman's defenses, build subtle connections, find her likes and dislikes and fears, all of which she tries to keep hidden. It could take weeks or months to get the leash on. But once you had her, you were in charge for as long as you wanted.

Oh, we're like, you know, soul mates…

A woman, on the other hand, had tits and a pussy and all she had to do was get them close to a man-and sometimes not even-and she could get him to do virtually anything. The woman's problem came later. When the sex was over, her control dropped off the radar screen.

Jennie Marston had been in charge a few times since the escape, no question about it: in the front seat of the T-bird, in bed with her trussed up by the stockings, and-more leisurely and much better-on the floor with some accessories that greatly appealed to Daniel Pell. (Jennie, of course, didn't care for that particular brand of sex but her reluctant acquiescence was a lot more exciting than if she'd really been turned on.)

The spell she'd woven was now subdued, though. But a teacher never lets his student know he's inattentive. Pell grinned and looked over her body as if he were sorely tempted. He sighed. "I wish I could, lovely. But you tired me out. Anyway, I need you to run an errand for me."

"Me?"

"Yep. Now that they know I'm here, I need you to do it by yourself." The news stories were reporting that he was probably still in the vicinity. He had to be much more careful.

"Oh, all right. But I'd rather fuck you." A little pout. She was probably one of those women who thought the expression worked with men. It didn't, and he'd teach her so at some point. But there were more important lessons to be learned at the moment.