Jeffery Deaver - The Sleeping Doll

"The Trilby book?" Dance asked.

"Oh," Samantha said. "You know about that? He loved that story. Linda read it a dozen times."

"And frankly," Rebecca said, "it was pretty bad."

Glancing at her notebook, the agent asked the newcomer about the keywords Pell had searched in prison.

"'Nimue'?" Samantha repeated. "No. But he had a girlfriend named Alison once."

"Who?" Linda asked.

"When he was in San Francisco. Before the Family. She was in this group, sort of like the Family."

"What're you talking about?" Linda asked.

Samantha nodded. She looked uneasily at Linda. "But it wasn't his group. He just was bumming around and met Alison and got to know some of the people in that cult, or whatever it was. Daniel wasn't a member-he didn't take orders from anybody -but he was fascinated with it, and hung out with them. He learned a lot about how to control people. But they got suspicious of him-he wouldn't really commit. So he and Alison left. They hitchhiked around the state. Then he got arrested or picked up by the police for something, and she went back to San Francisco. He tried to find her but he never could. I don't know why he'd want to try now."

"What was her last name?"

"I don't know."

Dance wondered aloud if Pell was looking for this Alison-or someone named Nimue-for revenge. "After all, he'd need a pretty good reason to risk going online in Capitola to find somebody."

"Oh," Samantha said, "Daniel didn't believe in revenge."

Rebecca said, "I don't know, Sam. What about that biker? That punk up the street? Daniel almost killed him."

Dance remembered Nagle telling them about a neighbor in Seaside whom Pell had assaulted.

"First of all," Linda said, "Daniel didn't do it. That was somebody else."

"Well, no, he beat the crap out of him. Nearly killed him."

"But the police let him go."

Curious proof of innocence, Dance reflected.

"Only because the guy didn't have the balls to press charges." Rebecca looked at Samantha. "Was it our boy?"

Samantha shrugged, avoiding their gaze. "I think so. I mean, yeah, Daniel beat him up."

Linda looked unconvinced.

"But that wasn't about revenge…See, the biker thought he was some kind of neighborhood godfather. He tried to blackmail Daniel, threatened to go to the police about something that never even happened. Daniel went to see him and started playing these mind games with him. But the biker just laughed at him and told Daniel he had one day to come up with the money.

"Next thing there's an ambulance in front of the biker's house. His wrists and ankles were broken. But that wasn't revenge. It was because he was immune to Daniel. If you're immune, then Daniel can't control you, and that makes you a threat. And he said all the time, 'Threats have to be eliminated.'"

"Control," Dance said. "That pretty much sums up Daniel Pell, doesn't it?"

This, it seemed, was one premise from their past that all three members of the Family could agree on.

From the patrol car, the MCSO deputy kept his vigilant eye on his turf: the grounds, the trees, the gardens, the road.

Guard duty-it had to be the most boring part of being a police officer, hands down. Stakeouts came in a close second, but at least then you had a pretty good idea that the surveillee was a bad guy. And that meant you might get a chance to draw your weapon and go knock heads.

You'd get to do something.

But baby-sitting witnesses and good guys-especially when the bad guys don't even know where the good ones are-was borrrrring.

All that happened was you got a sore back and sore feet and had to balance the issue of coffee with bathroom breaks and-

Oh, hell, the deputy muttered to himself. Wished he hadn't thought that. Now he realized he had to pee.

Could he risk the bushes? Not a good idea, considering how nice this place was. He'd ask to use one inside. First he'd make a fast circuit just to be sure everything was secure, then go knock on the door.

He climbed out of the car and walked down the main road, looking around at the trees, the bushes. Still nothing odd. Typical of what you'd see around here: a limo driving past slowly, the driver actually wearing one of those caps like they did in the movies. A housewife across the street was having her gardener arrange flowers beneath her mailbox before he planted them, the poor guy frustrated at her indecision.

The woman looked up and saw the deputy, nodded his way.

He nodded back, flashing on a wispy fantasy of her coming over and saying how much she liked a man in a uniform. The deputy had heard stories of cops making a traffic stop and the women "paying the fine" behind a row of trees near the highway or in the backs of squad cars (the seats of Harley-Davidsons figured in some versions, as well). But those were always I-know-somebody-who-knows-somebody stories. It'd never happened to any of his friends. He suspected too that if anybody-even this desperate housewife-proposed a romp, he couldn't even get it up.

Which put him in mind of the geography below the belt again and how much he needed to relieve himself.

Then he noticed the housewife was waving to him and approaching. He stopped.

"Is everything okay around here, Officer?"

"Yes, ma'am." Ever noncommittal.

"Are you here about that car?" she asked.

"Car?"

She gestured. "Up there. About ten minutes ago I saw it park, but the driver, he sort of pulled up in between some trees, I thought it was a little funny, parking that way. You know, we've had a few break-ins around here lately."

Alarmed now, the deputy stepped closer to where she was indicating. Through the bushes he saw a glint of chrome or glass. The only reason to drive a car that far off the road was to hide it.

Pell, he thought.

Reaching for his gun, he took a step up the street.

Wsssssh.

He glanced back at the odd sound just as the shovel, swung by the housewife's gardener, slammed into his shoulder and neck, connecting with a dull ring.

A grunt. The deputy dropped to his knees, his vision filled with a dull yellow light, black explosions going off in front of him. "Please, no!" he begged.

But the response was simply another blow of the shovel, this one better aimed.

Dressed in his dirt-stained gardener outfit, Daniel Pell dragged the cop into the bushes where he couldn't be seen. The man wasn't dead, just groggy and hurting.

Quickly he stripped off the deputy's uniform and put it on, rolled up the cuffs of the too-long slacks. He duct-taped the officer's mouth and cuffed him with his own bracelets. He slipped the cop's gun and extra clips into his pocket, then placed the Glock he'd brought with him in the holster; he was familiar with that weapon and had dry-fired it often enough to be comfortable with the trigger pull.

Glancing behind him, he saw Jennie retrieving the flowers from the patch of dirt around the neighbor's mailbox and dumping them into a shopping bag. She'd done a good job in her role as housewife. She'd distracted the cop perfectly and she'd hardly flinched when Pell had smacked the poor bastard with the shovel.

The lesson of "murdering" Susan Pemberton had paid off; she'd moved closer to the darkness within her. But he'd still have to be careful now. Killing the deputy would be over the top. Still, she was coming along nicely; Pell was ecstatic. Nothing made him happier than transforming someone into a creature of his own making.

"Get the car, lovely." He handed her the gardener outfit.

A smile blossoming, full. "I'll have it ready." She turned and hurried up the street with the clothes, shopping bag and shovel. She glanced back, mouthing, "I love you."

Pell watched her, enjoying the confident stride.