Jeffery Deaver - The Sleeping Doll

The green prison.

Hey, that's sweet, she thought bitterly: Daniel Pell is out of prison and I'm stuck inside one.

Theresa picked up the poetry book again, thinking of her English test. She read two more lines.

Borrrring.

Theresa then noticed, through the chain-link fence at the end of the property, a car ease past, braking quickly, it seemed, as the driver looked through the bushes her way. A moment's hesitation and then the car continued on.

Theresa planted her feet and the swinging stopped.

The car could belong to anyone. Neighbors, one of the kids on break from school… She wasn't worried-not too much. Of course, with her aunt's media blackout, she had no idea if Daniel Pell had been rearrested or was last seen heading for Napa. But that was crazy. Thanks to her aunt she was practically in the witness protection program. How could he possibly find her?

Still, she'd go sneak a look at the computer, see what was going on.

A faint twist in her stomach.

Theresa stood and headed for the house.

Okay, we're bugging a little now.

She looked behind her, back at the gap through the bushes at the far end of their property. No car. Nothing.

And turning back to the house, Theresa stopped fast.

The man had scaled the tall fence twenty feet away, between her and the house. He looked up, breathing hard from the effort, from where he landed on his knees beside two thick azaleas. His hand was bleeding, cut on the jagged top of the six-foot chain link.

It was him. It was Daniel Pell!

She gasped.

He had come here. He was going to finish the murders of the Croyton family.

A smile on his face, he rose stiffly and began to walk toward her.

Theresa Croyton began to cry.

"No, it's all right," the man said in a whisper, as he approached, smiling. "I'm not going to hurt you. Shhhh."

Theresa tensed. She told herself to run. Now, do it!

But her legs wouldn't move; fear paralyzed her. Besides, there was nowhere to go. He was between her and the house and she knew she couldn't vault the six-foot chain-link fence. She thought of running away from the house, into the backyard, but then he could tackle her and pull her into the bushes, where he'd…

No, that was too horrible.

Gasping, actually tasting the fear, Theresa shook her head slowly. Felt her strength ebbing. She looked for a weapon. Nothing: only an edging brick, a bird feeder, The Collected Poems of Emily Dickinson.

She looked back at Pell.

"You killed my parents. You…Don't hurt me!"

A frown. "No, my God," the man said, eyes wide. "Oh, no, I just want to talk to you. I'm not Daniel Pell. I swear. Look."

He tossed something in her direction, ten feet away. "Look at it. The back. Turn it over."

Theresa glanced at the house. The one time she needed her aunt, the woman was nowhere in sight.

"There," the man said.

The girl stepped forward-and he continued to retreat, giving her plenty of room.

She walked closer and glanced down. It was a book. A Stranger in the Night, by Morton Nagle.

"That's me."

Theresa wouldn't pick it up. With her foot, she eased it over. On the back cover was a picture of a younger version of the man in front of her.

Was it true?

Theresa suddenly realized that she'd seen only a few pictures of Daniel Pell, taken eight years ago. She'd had to sneak a look at a few articles online-her aunt told her it would set her back years psychologically if she read anything about the murders. But looking at the younger author photo, it was clear that this wasn't the gaunt, scary man she remembered.

Theresa wiped her face. Anger exploded inside her, a popped balloon. "What're you doing here? You fucking scared me!"

The man pulled his sagging pants up as if planning to walk closer. But evidently he decided not to. "There was no other way to talk to you. I saw your aunt yesterday when she was shopping. I wanted her to ask you something."

Theresa glanced at the chain link.

Nagle said, "The police are on their way, I know. I saw the alarm on the fence. They'll be here in three, four minutes, and they'll arrest me. That's fine. But I have to tell you something. The man who killed your parents has escaped from prison."

"I know."

"You do? Your aunt-"

"Just leave me alone!"

"There's a policewoman in Monterey who's trying to catch him but she needs some help. Your aunt wouldn't tell you, and if you were eleven or twelve I'd never do this. But you're old enough to make up your own mind. She wants to talk to you."

"A policewoman?"

"Please, just call her. She's in Monterey. You can-Oh, God."

The gunshot from behind Theresa was astonishingly loud, way louder than in the movies. It shook the windows and sent birds streaking into the clear skies.

Theresa cringed at the sound and dropped to her knees, watching Morton Nagle tumble backward onto the wet grass, his arms flailing in the air.

Eyes wide in horror, the girl looked at the deck behind the house.

Weird, she didn't even know her aunt owned a gun, much less knew how to shoot it.

TJ Scanlon's extensive canvassing of James Reynolds's neighborhood had yielded no helpful witnesses or evidence.

"No vee-hicles. No nothin'." He was calling from a street near the prosecutor's house.

Dance, in her office, stretched and her bare feet fiddled with one of the three pairs of shoes under her desk. She badly wanted an ID of Pell's new car, if not a tag number; Reynolds had reported only that it was a dark sedan, and the officer who'd been bashed with the shovel couldn't remember seeing it at all. The MCSO's crime scene team hadn't found any trace or other forensic evidence to give even a hint as to what Pell might be driving now.

She thanked TJ and disconnected, then joined O'Neil and Kellogg in the CBI conference room, where Charles Overby was about to arrive to ask for fodder for the next press conference-and his daily update to Amy Grabe of the FBI, and the head of the CBI in Sacramento, both of whom were extremely troubled that Daniel Pell was still free. Unfortunately, though, Overby's briefing this morning would be primarily about the funeral plans for Juan Millar.

Her eyes caught Kellogg's and they both looked away. She hadn't had a chance to talk to the FBI agent about last night in the car.

Then decided: What is there to talk about? …afterward. How does that sound?

Young Rey Carraneo, eyes wide, stuck his perfectly round head into the conference room and said breathlessly, "Agent Dance, I'm sorry to interrupt."

"What, Rey?"

"I think…" His voice vanished. He'd been sprinting. Sweat dotted his dark face.

"What? What's wrong?"

The skinny agent said, "The thing is, Agent Dance, I think I've found him."

"Who?"

"Pell."

The young agent explained that he'd called the upscale Sea View Motel in Pacific Grove-only a few miles from where Dance lived-and learned that a woman had checked in on Saturday. She was midtwenties, attractive and blond, slightly built. On Tuesday night, the desk clerk saw a Latino man go into her room.

"The clincher's the car, though," Carraneo said. "On the registration she put down Mazda. With a fake tag number-I just ran it. But the manager was sure he saw a turquoise T-bird there for a day or two. It's not there anymore."

"They're at the motel now?"

"He thinks so. The curtain's drawn but he saw some motion and lights inside."

"What's her name?"

"Carrie Madison. But there's no credit card info. She paid cash and showed a military ID but it was in a plastic wallet sleeve and scratched. Might've been faked."

Dance leaned against the edge of the table, staring at the map. "Occupancy of the motel?"