Jeffery Deaver - The Sleeping Doll

Dance realized that her hand remained on Kellogg's back. She dropped it and stepped aside. "What happened?" she asked.

"I nearly walked right into him. He was hiding there." He pointed out a stand of rocks. "But I saw him just in time. I got under cover. I had one of the flash-bangs left from the motel. I pitched it his way and it stunned him. He started shooting. But I was lucky. The sun was behind me. Blinded him, I guess. I returned fire. And…" He shrugged.

"You're okay?"

"Oh, sure. Little scraped up from the rocks. Not used to mountain climbing."

Her phone rang. She answered, glancing at the screen. It was TJ.

"Linda's going to be fine. Lost some blood, but the slug missed the important stuff. Oh, and Samantha's not hurt bad."

"Samantha?" Dance hadn't noticed the woman was injured. "What happened?"

"Cuts and bruises is all. Had a boxing match with the deceased, prior to his deceasing, of course. She's hurting but she'll be peachy."

She'd fought with Pell?

Mouse…

Monterey County Sheriff's crime scene officers arrived and began working the site. Michael O'Neil, she noticed, wasn't here.

One of the CS officers said to Kellogg, "Hey, congrats." He nodded at the body.

The FBI agent smiled noncommitally.

A smile, kinesics experts know, is the most elusive signal that the human face generates. A frown, a perplexed gaze or an amorous glance means only one thing. A smile, though, can telegraph hate, indifference, humor or love.

Dance wasn't sure exactly what this smile meant. But she noticed that an instant later, as he stared at the man he'd just killed, the expression vanished, as if it had never existed.

Kathryn Dance and Samantha McCoy stopped by Monterey Bay Hospital to see Linda Whitfield, who was conscious and doing well. She'd spend the night in the hospital but the doctors said she could go home tomorrow.

Samantha was chauffeured by Rey Carraneo back to a new cabin in the Point Lobos Inn, where she'd decided to spend the night, rather than returning home. Dance asked Samantha to join her for dinner, but the woman said she wanted some "downtime."

And who could blame her?

Dance left the hospital and returned to CBI, where she saw Theresa and her aunt, standing by their car, apparently awaiting her return to say good-bye. The girl's face brightened when she saw Dance. They greeted each other warmly.

"We heard," the aunt said, unsmiling. "He's dead?" As if she couldn't have too much confirmation.

"That's right."

She gave them the details of the incident at Point Lobos. The aunt seemed impatient, though Theresa was eager to hear exactly what had happened. Dance didn't edit the account.

Theresa nodded and took the news unemotionally.

"We can't thank you enough," the agent said. "What you did saved lives."

The subject didn't come up of what had actually happened on the night her family was killed, Theresa's feigned illness. Dance supposed that would remain a secret between herself and the girl forever. But why not? Sharing with one person was often as cathartic as sharing with the world.

"You're driving back tonight?"

"Yeah," the girl said with a glance at her aunt. "But we're making a stop first."

Dance thinking: seafood dinner, shopping at the cute stores in Los Gatos?

"I want to see the house. My old house."

Where her parents and siblings had died.

"We're going to meet Mr. Nagle. He talked to the family who lives there now and they've agreed to let me see it."

"Did he suggest that?" Dance was ready to run interference for the girl and knew that Nagle would back down in an instant.

"No, it was my idea," Theresa said. "I just, you know, want to. And he's going to come to Napa and interview me. For that book. The Sleeping Doll. That's the title. Isn't it weird having a book written about you?"

Mary Bolling didn't say anything, though her body language-slightly lifted shoulders, a shift in the jaw-told Dance instantly that she didn't approve of the evening's detour and that there'd been an argument on the subject.

As often, following significant life incidents-like the Family's reunion or Theresa's journey here to help catch her family's killer-there's a tendency to look for fundamental changes in the participants. But that didn't happen very often and Dance didn't think it had here. She found herself looking at the same two people they'd undoubtedly been for some time: a protective middle-aged woman, blunt but stepping up to the difficult task of becoming a substitute parent, and a typically attitudinal teenage girl who'd impulsively done a brave thing. They'd had a disagreement about how to spend the rest of the evening and, in this case, the girl had won, undoubtedly with concessions.

Maybe, though, the very fact that the disagreement had occurred and been resolved was a step forward. This was, Dance supposed, how people change: incrementally.

She hugged Theresa, shook her aunt's hand and wished them a safe trip.

Five minutes later Dance was back in the GW side of CBI headquarters, accepting a cup of coffee and an oatmeal cookie from Maryellen Kresbach.

Walking into her office, she kicked off the damaged Aldos and dug in her closet for a new pair: Joan and David sandals. Then she stretched and sat, sipping the strong coffee and searching through her desk for the remainder of a pack of M &Ms she'd stashed there a few days ago. She ate them quickly, stretched again and enjoyed looking at the pictures of her children.

Photos of her husband too.

How she would have liked to lie in bed next to him tonight and talk about the Pell case.

Ah, Bill…

Her phone chirped.

She glanced at the screen and her stomach did a small jump.

"Hi," she said to Michael O'Neil.

"Hey. Just got the news. You okay? Heard there were rounds exchanged."

"Pell parked one near me. That's all."

"How's Linda?"

Dance gave him the details.

"And Rebecca?"

"ICU. She'll live. But she's not getting out any time soon."

He, in turn, told her about the phony getaway car-Pell's favorite means of diversion and distraction. The Infiniti driver wasn't dead. He had been forced by Pell to call and report his own murder and carjacking. He'd then driven home, put the car in the garage and sat in a dark room until he'd heard the news of Pell's death.

He added that he was sending her the crime scene reports from the Butterfly Inn, which Pell and Jennie had checked into after escaping from the Sea View and from Point Lobos.

She'd been glad to hear O'Neil's voice. But something was off. There was still the matter-of-fact tone. He wasn't angry, but he wasn't overly pleased to be speaking to her. She thought his earlier remarks about Winston Kellogg were out of line but, while she didn't want an apology, she did wish that the rough seas between them would calm.

She asked, "You all right?" With some people, you had to prime the pump.

"Fine," he said.

That goddamn word, which could mean everything from "wonderful" to "I hate you."

She suggested he come by the Deck that night.

"Can't, sorry. Anne and I have plans."

Ah. Plans.

That's one of those words too.

"Better go. Just wanted to let you know about the Infiniti driver."

"Sure, take care."

Click…

Dance grimaced for the benefit of no one and turned back to a file.

Ten minutes later Winston Kellogg's head appeared in the door. She gestured toward the chair and he dropped down into it. He hadn't changed; his clothes were still muddy and sandy. He saw her salt-stained shoes sitting by the door and gestured toward his own. Then laughed, pointing to a dozen pairs in her closet. "Probably nothing in there that'd work for me."

"Sorry," she answered, deadpan. "They're all a size six."