Jeffery Deaver - The Sleeping Doll

Clutching her Bible, she went off to the bedroom.

"That didn't go over very well," Rebecca said. "Sorry, Mouse." She leaned back, eyes closed, sighing. "Funny about trying to escape the past. It's like a dog on a tether. No matter how much he runs, he just can't get away."

Dance and Kellogg were in her office at CBI headquarters, where they'd briefed Overby, working late for a change, on the events at Reynolds's house-and learned from TJ and Carraneo that there were no new developments. The hour was just after 11:00 P.M.

She put her computer on standby. "Okay, that's it," she said. "I'm calling it a night."

"I'm with you there."

As they walked down the dim hallway, Kellogg said, "I was thinking, they really are a family."

"Back there? At the lodge?"

"Right. The three of them. They're not related. They don't even like each other particularly. But they are a family."

He said this in a tone suggesting that he defined the word from the perspective of its absence. The interaction of the three women, which she'd noted clinically and found revealing, even amusing, had touched Kellogg in some way. She didn't know him well enough either to deduce why or to ask. She noted his shoulders lift very slightly and two fingernails of his left hand flicked together, evidence of general stress.

"You going to pick up the children?" he asked.

"No, they'll stay at their grandparents' tonight."

"They're great, they really are."

"And you never thought about having kids?"

"Not really." His voice faded. "We were both working. I was on the road a lot. You know. Professional couples."

In interrogation and kinesic analysis the content of speech is usually secondary to the tone-the "verbal quality"-with which the words are delivered. Dance had heard many people tell her they'd never had children, and the resonance of the words explained whether that fact was inconsequential, a comfortable choice, a lingering sorrow.

She'd sensed something significant in Kellogg's statement. She noted more indications of stress, little bursts of body language. Maybe a physical problem on his part or his wife's. Maybe it had been a big issue between them, the source of their breakup.

"Wes has his doubts about me."

"Ah, he's just sensitive about Mom meeting other men."

"He'll have to get used to it someday, won't he?"

"Oh, sure. But just now…"

"Got it," Kellogg said. "Though he seemed to be comfortable when you're with Michael."

"Oh, that's different. Michael's a friend. And he's married. He's no threat." Aware of what she'd just said, Dance added quickly, "It's just, you're the new kid in town. He doesn't know you."

There was a faint hesitation before Kellogg answered. "Sure, I can see that."

Dance glanced at him to find the source of the pause. His face gave nothing away.

"Don't take Wes's reaction personally."

Another pause. "Maybe it's a compliment."

His face remained neutral after this exploratory venture too.

They walked outside. The air was so crisp it would signal impending autumn in any other region. Dance's fingers were quivering from the chill but she liked the sensation. It felt, she decided, like ice numbing an injury.

The mist coalesced into rain. "I'll drive you to yours," she said. Kellogg's car was parked behind the building.

They both got in and she drove to his rental.

Neither of them moved for a minute. She put the transmission in park. She closed her eyes, stretched and pressed her head back against the rest. It felt good.

She opened her eyes and saw him turning toward her and, leaving one hand on the dash, touched the shoulder closest to him-both firmly yet somehow tentatively. He was waiting for some signal. She gave him none, but looked into his eyes and remained silent. Both of which, of course, were signals in themselves.

In any case, he didn't hesitate any longer but leaned forward and kissed her, aiming straight for her lips. She tasted mint; he'd subtly dropped a Tic Tac or Altoid when she wasn't looking. Slick, she thought, laughing to herself. She'd done the same with Brian that day on the beach, in front of the sea otter and seal audience. Kellogg now backed off slightly, regrouping and waiting for intelligence about the first skirmish.

This gave Dance a moment to figure how she was going to handle it.

She made a decision and, when he eased in again, met him halfway; her mouth opened. She kissed back fervently. She slipped her arms up to his shoulders, which were as muscular as she'd thought they'd be. His beard stubble troubled her cheek.

His hand slipped behind her neck, pulling her harder into him. She felt that uncurling within her, heart stepping up its pace. Mindful of the bandaged wound, she pressed her nose and lips against the flesh beneath his ear, the place where, with her husband, she'd rested her face when they'd made love. She liked the smooth plane of skin there, the smell of shave cream and soap, the pulse of blood.

Then Kellogg's hand detached itself from her neck and found her chin, easing her face to him again. Their whole mouths participated now, and their breathing came fast. She felt his fingers moving tentatively to her shoulder, locating the satin strap and, using it as a road map, beginning to move down, outside her blouse. Slowly, ready to divert at the least sign of reluctance.

Her response was to kiss him harder. Her arm was near his lap, and she could feel his erection flirting with her elbow. He shifted away, perhaps so he wouldn't seem too eager, too forward, too much of a teenager.

But Kathryn Dance pulled him closer as she reclined-kinesically, an agreeable, submissive position. Images of her husband came to mind once or twice, but she observed them from a distance. She was completely with Winston Kellogg at this moment.

Then his hand reached the tiny metal hoop where the strap transitioned to the white Victoria's Secret cup.

And he stopped.

The hand retreated, though the evidence near her elbow was undiminished. The kisses became less frequent, like a merry-go-round slowing after the power's shut off.

But this seemed to her exactly right. They'd arrived at the highest pinnacle they could under the circumstances-which included the manhunt for a killer, the short time they'd known each other and the terrible deaths that had recently occurred.

"I think-" he whispered.

"No, it's okay."

"I-"

She smiled and lightly kissed away any more words.

He sat back and squeezed her hand. She curled against him, feeling her heart rate slow as she found within herself a curious balance: the perfect stasis of reluctance and relief. Rain pelted the windshield. Dance reflected that she always preferred to make love on rainy days.

"But one thing?" he said.

She glanced at him.

Kellogg continued, "The case won't go on forever."

From his mouth to God's ear…

"If you'd be interested in going out afterward. How does that sound?"

"'Afterward' has a nice ring to it. Real nice."

A half-hour later Dance was parking in front of her house.

She went through the standard routine: a check of security, a glass of Pinot Grigio, two pieces of cold flank steak left over from last night and a handful of mixed nuts enjoyed to the sound track of phone messages. Then came canine feeding and their backyard tasks and stowing her Glock-without the kids home she kept the lockbox open, though she still stashed the gun inside, since imprinted memory would guide her hand there automatically no matter how deep a sleep she awoke from. Alarms on.

She opened the window to the guards-about six inches-to let in the cool, fragrant night air. Shower, a clean T-shirt and shorts. She dropped into bed, protecting herself from the mad world by an inch-thick down comforter.