Jeffery Deaver - The Sleeping Doll

She also shared her views with him. One of which was her belief that there'd be a wildfire of a race war in the country at some point (her vote was the millennium-oops on that one), so she bought two hundred plus acres of forestland in Northern California, a mountaintop near Shasta. Daniel Pell had never been racist but neither was he stupid, and when the aunt ranted about the forthcoming Great War of Black and White, he was with her 100 percent.

She deeded over the land to her nephew so that he and other "decent, good, right-thinking people" (defined as "Caucasian") could escape to it when the shooting started.

Pell hadn't thought much about the place at the time, being young. But then he'd hitchhiked up there and knew instantly it was the place for him. He loved the view and the air, mostly loved the idea that it was so private; he'd be unreachable by the government and unwelcome neighbors. (It even had some large caves-and he often fantasized about what would go on in those, expanding the balloon within him nearly to the bursting point.) He did some clearing work himself and built a shack by hand. He knew that some day this would be his kingdom, the village the Pied Piper would lead his children to.

Pell had to make sure, though, that the property stayed invisible-not from the rampaging minorities but from law enforcers, given his history and proclivity toward crime. He bought books written by survivalists and the right-wing, antigovernment fringe about hiding ownership of property, which was surprisingly easy, provided you made sure the property taxes were paid (a trust and a savings account were all that it took). The arrangement was "self-perpetuating," a term that Daniel Pell loved; no dependency.

Pell's mountaintop.

Only one glitch had interfered with his plan. After he and a girl he'd met in San Francisco, Alison, had hitched up there, he happened to run into a guy who worked for the county assessor's office, Charles Pickering. He'd heard rumors of building supplies being delivered there. Did that mean improvements? Which in turn would mean a tax hike? That itself wouldn't've been a problem; Pell could have added money to the trust. But, the worst of all coincidences, Pickering had family in Marin County and recognized Pell from a story in the local paper about his arrest for a break-in.

Later that day the man tracked Pell down near his property. "Hey, I know you," the assessor said.

Which turned out to be his last words. Out came the knife and Pickering was dead thirty seconds after slumping to the ground in a bloody pile.

Nothing was going to jeopardize his enclave.

He'd escaped that one, though the police had held him for a time-long enough for Alison to decide it was over and head back south. (He'd been searching for her ever since; she'd have to die, of course, since she knew where his property was.)

The mountaintop was what sustained him after he went into the Q and then into Capitola. He dreamed of it constantly, living there with a new Family. It was what had driven him to study appellate law and craft a solid appeal for the Croyton murders, which he believed he'd win, getting the convictions knocked down, maybe even to time served.

But last year he'd lost.

And he'd had to start thinking of escape.

Now he was free, and after doing what he needed to in Monterey he'd get to his mountain as soon as he could. When that idiot of a prison guard had let Pell into the office on Sunday he'd managed to take a look at the place on the website Visual-Earth. He wasn't exactly sure of the coordinates of his property but he'd come close enough. And been thrilled to see that the area appeared as deserted as ever, no structures for miles around-the caves invisible from the prying eye of the satellite.

Lying now in the Sea View Motel, he told Jennie about the place-in general terms, of course. It was against his nature to share too much. He didn't tell her, for instance, that she wouldn't be the only one living there, but one of a dozen he'd lure away from their homes. And he certainly couldn't tell her what he envisioned for them all, living on the mountaintop. Pell realized the mistakes he'd made in Seaside ten years ago. He was too lenient, too slow to use violence.

This time, any threats would be eliminated. Fast and ruthlessly.

Absolute control…

But Jennie was content-even excited-about the few facts he shared. "I mean it. I'll go wherever you are, sweetie…" She took his coffee cup from his hands, set it aside. She lay back. "Make love to me, Daniel. Please?"

Make love, he noticed. Not fuck.

It was an indication that his student had graduated to another level. This, more than her body, began expanding the bubble within him.

He smoothed a strand of dyed hair off her forehead and kissed her. His hands began that familiar, yet always new, exploration.

Which was interrupted by a jarring ring. He grimaced and picked up the phone, listened to what the caller said and then held his hand over the mouthpiece. "It's housekeeping. They saw the 'Do not disturb' sign and want to know when they can make up the room."

Jennie gave a coy smile. "Tell her we need at least an hour."

"I'll tell her two. Just to be sure."

The staging area for the assault was in an intersection around the corner from the Sea View Motel.

Dance still wasn't sure about the wisdom of a tactical operation here, but once the decision had been made, certain rules fell automatically into place. And one of those was that she had to take a backseat. This wasn't her expertise and there was little for her to do but be a spectator.

Albert Stemple and TJ would represent the CBI on the takedown teams, which were made up mostly of SWAT deputies from Monterey County and several Highway Patrol officers. The eight men and two women were gathered beside a nondescript truck, which held enough weapons and ammunition to put down a modest riot.

Pell was still inside the room that the woman had rented; the lights were off but a surveillance officer, on the back side of the motel, clapped a microphone on the wall and reported sounds coming from their room. He couldn't be sure, but it sounded like they were having sex.

That was good news, thought Dance. A naked suspect is a vulnerable suspect.

On the phone with the manager, she asked about the rooms next to Pell's. The one to his left was empty; the guests had just left with fishing tackle, which meant they wouldn't be back until much later. Unfortunately, though, as for the room on the other side, a family appeared to be still inside.

Dance's initial reaction was to call them and tell them to get down on the floor in the back. But they wouldn't do that, of course. They'd flee, flinging open the door, the parents rushing the children outside. And Pell would know exactly what was going on. He had the instincts of a cat.

Imagining them, the others in the rooms nearby and the housekeeping staff, Kathryn Dance thought suddenly, Call it off. Do what your gut tells you. You've got the authority. Overby wouldn't like it-that would be a battle-but she could handle him. O'Neil and the MCSO would back her up.

Still, she couldn't trust her instinct at the moment. She didn't know people like Pell; Winston Kellogg did.

He happened to arrive just then, walking up to the tactical officers, shaking hands and introducing himself. He'd changed outfits yet again. But there was nothing country club about his new look. He was in black jeans, a black shirt and a thick bulletproof vest, the bandage on his neck visible.

TJ's words came back to her.

He's a bit of a straight arrow but he's not afraid to get his hands dirty…

In this garb, with his attentive eyes, he reminded her even more of her late husband. Bill had spent most of his time doing routine investigations, but occasionally he'd dressed for tactical ops. She'd seen him once or twice looking like this, confidently holding an elaborate machine gun.