Jeffery Deaver - The Sleeping Doll

Which it had, Dance reflected, recalling how the prosecutor had used the Charles Manson theme to help him win a conviction.

Responding to Dance's questions, Linda mentioned more about her recent life. In jail she'd become devoutly religious and, after her release, moved to Portland, where she'd gotten a job working for a local Protestant church. She'd joined it because her brother was a deacon there.

She was seeing a "nice Christian" man in Portland and was the nanny, in effect, for her brother and sister-in-law's foster children. She wanted to become a foster parent herself-she'd had medical problems and could have no children of her own-but that was hard with the prison conviction. She added, in a tone of conclusion, "I don't have many material things, but I like my life. It's a rich life, in the good sense of the word."

A knock on the door intruded. Dance's hand strayed toward her heavy pistol.

"It's TJ, boss. I forgot the secret password."

Dance opened the door and the young agent entered with another woman. Slim and tall, in her midthirties, she carried a leather backpack slung over her shoulder.

Kathryn Dance rose to greet the second member of the Family.

Rebecca Sheffield was a few years older than her fellow Family member. She was athletic-looking and gorgeous, though Dance thought that the short crop of prematurely gray hair, the brash jewelry and the absence of makeup made her look austere. She wore jeans and a white silk T-shirt under a brown suede jacket.

Rebecca shook Dance's hand firmly but she immediately turned her attention to Linda, who was rising and gazing at her with a steady smile.

"Well, look who it is." Rebecca stepped forward and hugged Linda.

"After all these years." Linda's voice choked. "My, I think I'm going to cry." And she did.

They dropped the embrace but Rebecca continued to hold the other woman's hands tightly. "It's good to see you, Linda."

"Oh, Rebecca…I've prayed for you a lot."

"You're into that now? You didn't used to know a cross from a Star of David. Well, thanks for the prayers. Not sure they took."

"No, no, you're doing such good things. Really! The church office has a computer. I saw your website. Women starting their own businesses. It's wonderful. I'm sure it does a lot of good."

Rebecca seemed surprised that Linda had kept up with her.

Dance pointed out the available bedroom and Rebecca carried her backpack into it, and used the restroom.

"You need me, boss, just holler." TJ left and Dance locked the door behind him.

Linda picked up her teacup, fiddled with it, not taking a sip. How people love their props in stressful situations, Dance reflected. She'd interrogated suspects who clutched pens, ashtrays, food wrappers and even their shoes to dull the stress.

Rebecca returned and Dance offered her some coffee.

"You bet."

Dance poured her some and set out milk and sugar. "There's no public restaurant here, but they have room service. Order whatever you'd like."

Sipping the coffee, Rebecca said, "I've got to say, Linda, you're looking good."

A blush. "Oh, I don't know. I'm not in the shape I'd like. You're glamorous. And thin! I love your hair."

Rebecca laughed. "Hey, nothing like a couple years in prison to turn you gray, hm? Hey, no ring. You're not married?"

"Nope."

"Me either."

"You're kidding. You were going to marry some hunky Italian sculptor. I thought for sure you'd be hooked up now."

"Not easy to find Mr. Right when men hear your boyfriend was Daniel Pell. I read about your father in BusinessWeek . Something about his bank expanding."

"Really? I wouldn't know."

"You're still not talking?"

Linda shook her head. "My brother doesn't talk to them either. We're two poor church mice. But it's for the best, believe me. You still paint?"

"Some. Not professionally."

"No? Really?" Linda turned to Dance, her eyes shining. "Oh, Rebecca was so good! You should see her work. I mean, she's the best."

"Just sketch for fun now."

They spent a few minutes catching up. Dance was surprised that though they both lived on the West Coast they hadn't communicated since the trial.

Rebecca glanced at Dance. "Samantha joining our coffee klatch? Or whatever her name is now?"

"No, just the two of you."

"Sam was always the timid one."

"'Mouse,' remember?" Linda said.

"That's right. That's what Pell called her. 'My Mouse.'"

They refilled their cups and Dance got down to work, asking Rebecca the same basic questions she'd asked Linda.

"I was the last one to get suckered in by Mr. Pell," the thin woman said sourly. "It was only…when?" A glance at Linda, who said, "January. Just four months before the Croyton situation."

Situation. Not murders.

"How did you meet Pell?" Dance asked.

"Back then I was bumming around the West Coast, making money doing sketches of people at street fairs and on the beach, you know. I had my easel set up and Pell stopped by. He wanted his portrait done."

Linda gave a coy smile. "I seem to remember you didn't do much sketching. You two ended up in the back of the van. And were there for a long, long time."

Rebecca's smile was of embarrassment. "Well, Daniel had that side to him, sure… In any case, we did spend time talking too. And he asked me if I wanted to hang out with them in Seaside. I wasn't sure at first-I mean, we all knew about Pell's reputation and the shoplifting and things like that. But I just said to myself, hell, I'm a bohemian, I'm a rebel and artist. Screw my lily white suburban upbringing…go for it. And I did. It worked out well. There were good people around me, like Linda and Sam. I didn't have to work nine to five and could paint as much as I wanted. Who could ask for anything more in life? Of course, it turned out I'd also joined up with Bonnie and Clyde, a band of thieves. That wasn't so good."

Dance noticed Linda's placid face darken at the comment.

After release from jail, Rebecca explained, she became involved in the women's movement.

"I figured me kowtowing to Pell-treating him like the king of the roost-set the feminist cause back a few years and I wanted to make it up to them."

Finally, after a lot of counseling, she'd started a consulting service to help women open and finance small businesses. She'd been at it ever since. She must do well for herself, Dance thought, to judge from the jewelry, clothes and Italian shoes, which if the agent's estimate was right (Dance could be an expert footwear witness) cost the same as her best two pairs put together.

Another knock on the door. Winston Kellogg arrived. Dance was happy to see him-professionally and personally. She'd enjoyed getting to know him on the Deck last night. He'd been surprisingly social, for a hard-traveling Fed. Dance had attended a number of functions with her husband's federal coworkers and found most of them quiet and focused, reluctant to talk. But Win Kellogg, along with her parents, had been the last to leave the party.

He now greeted the two women and, in keeping with protocol, showed them his ID. He poured himself some coffee. Up until now Dance had been asking background information but with Kellogg here it was time to get to the crux of the interview.

"All right, here's the situation. Pell is probably still in the area. We can't figure out where or why. It doesn't make any sense; most escapees get as far away as they can from the site of the jail break."

She told them in detail of how the plan at the courthouse had unfolded and the developments to date. The women listened with interest-and shock or revulsion-to the specifics.

"First, let me ask you about his accomplice."