The Sleeping Doll

I said to you, I mean it twice for myself.
    “But come on, Linda, look at him for who he is and what he did to us. Daniel Pell’s the worst thing you can possibly imagine. Yes, it was all that bad . . . Sorry, I’m drunk and this’s brought up more crap than I was prepared to deal with.”
    Linda said nothing. Sam could see the conflict in her face. After a moment she said, “I’m sorry for your misfortune. I’ll pray for you. Now please excuse me, I’m going to bed.”
    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.”

Chapter 38
    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, andthe 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