Jeffery Deaver - The Sleeping Doll

He said, "Now, go cut your hair."

"My hair."

"Yeah. And dye it. The people at the restaurant saw you. I bought some brown dye for you. At the Mexican store." He pulled a box out of the bag.

"Oh. I thought that was for you."

She smiled awkwardly, gripping a dozen strands, fingers twining them.

Daniel Pell had no agenda with the haircut other than making it more difficult to recognize her. He understood, though, that there was something more, another issue. Jennie's hair was like the precious pink blouse, and he was instantly intrigued. He remembered her sitting in the T-bird when he'd first seen her in the Whole Foods parking lot, proudly brushing away.

Ah, the information we give away…

She didn't want to cut it. In fact, she really didn't want to. Long hair meant something to her. He supposed she'd let it grow at some point as protection from her vicious self-image. Some emblem of pathetic triumph over her flat chest and bumpy nose.

Jennie remained on the bed. After a moment she said, "Sweetheart, I mean, I'll cut it, sure. Whatever you want." Another pause. "Of course, I was thinking: Wouldn't it be better if we left now? After what happened at the restaurant? I couldn't stand it if anything happened to you… Let's just get another car and go to Anaheim! We'll have a nice life. I promise. I'll make you happy. I'll support us. You can stay home until they forget about you."

"That sounds wonderful, lovely. But we can't leave yet."

"Oh."

She wanted an explanation. Pell said only, "Now go cut it." He added in a whisper, "Cut it short. Real short."

He handed her scissors. Her hands trembled as she took them.

"Okay." Jennie walked into the small bathroom, clicked on all the lights. From her training at the Hair Cuttery she used to work in, or because she was stalling, she spent some moments pinning the strands up before cutting them. She stared into the mirror, fondling the scissors uneasily. She closed the door partway.

Pell moved to a spot on the bed where he could see her clearly. Despite his protests earlier, he found his face growing flushed, and the bubble starting to build inside him.

Go ahead, lovely, do it!

Tears streaking down her cheeks, she lifted a clump of hair and began to cut. Breathing deeply, then cutting. She wiped her face, then cut again.

Pell was leaning forward, staring.

He tugged his pants down, then his underwear. He gripped himself hard, and every time a handful of blond hair cascaded to the floor, he stroked.

Jennie wasn't proceeding very quickly. She was trying to get it right. And she had to pause often to catch her breath from the crying, and wipe the tears.

Pell was wholly focused on her.

His breathing came faster and faster. Cut it, lovely. Cut it!

Once or twice he came close to finishing but he managed to slow down just in time.

He was, after all, the king of control.

Monterey Bay Hospital is a beautiful place, located off a winding stretch of Highway 68-a multiple-personality route that piggybacks on expressways and commercial roads and even village streets, from Pacific Grove through Monterey and on to Salinas. The road is one of the main arteries of John Steinbeck country.

Kathryn Dance knew the hospital well. She'd delivered her son and daughter here. She'd held her father's hand after the bypass surgery in the cardiac ward and she'd sat beside a fellow CBI agent as he struggled to survive three gunshot wounds in the chest.

She'd identified her husband's body in the MBH morgue.

The facility was in the piney hills approaching Pacific Grove. The low, rambling buildings were landscaped with gardens, and a forest surrounded the grounds; patients might awaken from surgery to find, outside their windows, hummingbirds hovering or deer gazing at them in narrow-eyed curiosity.

The portion of the Critical Care Unit, where Juan Millar was presently being tended to, however, had no view. Nor was there any patient-pleasing decor, just matter-of-fact posters of phone numbers and procedures incomprehensible to lay people, and stacks of functional medical equipment. He was in a small glass-walled room, sealed off to minimize the risk of infection.

Dance now joined Michael O'Neil outside the room. Her shoulder brushed his. She felt an urge to take his arm. Didn't.

She stared at the injured detective, recalling his shy smile in Sandy Sandoval's office.

Crime scene boys love their toys… I heard that somewhere.

"He say anything since you've been here?" she asked.

"No. Been out the whole time."

Looking at the injuries, the bandages, Dance decided out was better. Much better.

They returned to the CCU waiting area, where some of Millar's family sat-his parents and an aunt and two uncles, if she'd gotten the introductions right. She doled out her heartfelt sympathy to the grim-faced family.

"Katie."

Dance turned to see a solid woman with short gray hair and large glasses. She wore a colorful overblouse, from which dangled one badge identifying her as E. Dance, RN, and another indicating that she was attached to the cardiac care unit.

"Hey, Mom."

O'Neil and Edie Dance smiled at each other.

"No change?" Dance asked.

"Not really."

"Has he said anything?"

"Nothing intelligible. Did you see our burn specialist, Dr. Olson?"

"No," her daughter replied. "Just got here. What's the word?"

"He's been awake a few more times. He moved a little, which surprised us. But he's on a morphine drip, so doped up he didn't make any sense when the nurse asked him some questions." Her eyes strayed to the patient in the glass-enclosed room. "I haven't seen an official prognosis, but there's hardly any skin under those bandages. I've never seen a burn case like that."

"It's that bad?"

"I'm afraid so. What's the situation with Pell?"

"Not many leads. He's in the area. We don't know why."

"You still want to have Dad's party tonight?" Edie asked.

"Sure. The kids're looking forward to it. I might have to do a hit-and-run, depending. But I still want to have it."

"You'll be there, Michael?"

"Plan to. Depending."

"I understand. Hope it works out, though."

Edie Dance's pager beeped. She glanced at it. "I've got to get to Cardiac. If I see Dr. Olson I'll ask him to stop by and brief you."

Her mother left. Dance glanced at O'Neil, who nodded. He showed a badge to the Critical Care nurse and she helped them both into gowns and masks. The two officers stepped inside. O'Neil stood while Dance pulled up a chair and scooted forward. "Juan, it's Kathryn. Can you hear me? Michael's here too."

"Hey, partner."

"Juan?"

Though the right eye, the uncovered one, didn't open, it seemed to Dance that the lid fluttered slightly.

"Can you hear me?"

Another flutter.

O'Neil said in a low comforting voice, "Juan, I know you're hurting. We're going to make sure you have the best treatment in the country."

Dance said, "We want this guy. We want him bad. He's in the area. He's still here."

The man's head moved.

"We need to know if you saw or heard anything that'll help us. We don't know what he's up to."

Another gesture of the head. It was subtle but Dance saw the swaddled chin move slightly.

"Did you see something? Nod if you saw or heard something."

Now, no motion.

"Juan," she began, "did you-"

"Hey!" a male voice shouted from the doorway. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

Her first thought was that the man was a doctor and that her mother would be in trouble for letting Dance into the room unsupervised. But the speaker was a young, sturdy Latino man in a business suit. Juan's brother.

"Julio," O'Neil said.

The nurse ran up. "No, no, please close the door! You can't be inside without a mask."