The Sleeping Doll

police?”
    “None.” She pulled her cap off and rubbed her scalp. Pell kissed her head, smelled sweat and the sour scent of the dye.
    Another glance out the window. After a long moment Daniel Pell came to a decision. “Let’s get out of here for a bit, lovely.”
    “Outside? I thought you didn’t think it was a good idea.”
    “Oh, I know a place. It’ll be safe.”
    She kissed him. “Like we’re going on a date.”
    “Like a date.”
    They put their caps on and walked to the door. Her smile gone, Jennie paused and looked him over. “You okay, sweetheart?”
    Sweetheart .
    “Sure am, lovely. Just that scare back at the motel. But everything’s fine now. Fine as could be.”
    They drove along a complicated route of surface streets to a beach on the way to Big Sur, south of Carmel. Wooden walkways wound past rocks and dunes cordoned off with thin wires to protect the fragile environment. Sea otters and seals hovered in the raging surf and, at ebb, the tidal pools displayed whole universes in their saltwater prisms.
    It was one of the most beautiful stretches of beach on the Central Coast.
    And one of the most dangerous. Every year three or four people died here, wandering out onto the craggy rocks for photos, only to be swept breathlessly into the forty-five-degree water by a surprise wave. Hypothermia could kill, though most didn’t last that long. Usually the screaming victims were smashed on the rocks or drowned, tangled in the mazelike kelp beds.
    Normally the place would be crowded, but now, with the day’s sweeping fog, wind and mist, the area was deserted. Daniel Pell and his lovely walked from the car down to the water. A gray wave exploded on rocks fifty feet away.
    “Oh, it’s beautiful. But it’s cold. Put your arm around me.”
    Pell did. Felt her shivering.
    “This is amazing. Near my house, the beaches there? They’re all flat. It’s, like, just sand and surf. Unless you go down to La Jolla. Even then, it’s nothing like this. It’s very spiritual here. . . . Oh, look at them!” Jennie sounded like a schoolgirl. She was staring at the otters. A large one balanced a rock on his chest and pounded something against it.
    “What’s he doing?”
    “He’s breaking open a shell. Abalone or a clam or something.”
    “How’d they figure out how to do that?”
    “Got hungry, I guess.”
    “Where we’re going, your mountain? Is it as pretty as this?”
    “I think it’s prettier. And a lot more deserted. We don’t want tourists, do we?”
    “Nope.” Her hand went to her nose. Was she sensing something was wrong? She muttered something, the words lost in the relentless wind.
    “What was that?”
    “Oh, I said ‘angel songs.’ ”
    “Lovely, you keep saying that. What do you mean?”
    Jennie smiled. “I do that too much. It’s like a prayer, or a mantra. I say it over and over to help me feel better.”
    “And ‘angel song’ is your mantra?”
    Jennie laughed. “When I was little and Mother’d get arrested—”
    “For what?”
    “Oh, I don’t have time to tell you everything.”
    Pell looked around again. The area was deserted. “That bad, huh?”
    “You name it, she did it. Shoplifting, menacing, stalking. Assault too. She attacked my father. And boyfriends who were breaking up with her—therewere a lot of those. If there was a fight, the police came to our house or wherever we were and a lot of times they’d be in a hurry and use the siren. Whenever I’d hear it, I’d think, Thank God, they’re going to take her away for a while. It’s like the angels were coming to save me. I got to think of sirens like that. Angel songs.”
    “Angel songs. I like that.” Pell nodded.
    Suddenly he turned her around and kissed her on the mouth. He leaned back and looked at her face now.
    The same face that had been on the motel TV screen a half-hour earlier while she’d been out shopping.
    “There’s been a new development in the Daniel Pell escape. His accomplice has been identified as Jennie Ann Marston, twenty-five, from Anaheim, California. She’s described as about five foot five, weighing a hundred and ten pounds. Her driver’s license picture is in the upper left-hand corner of your screen and the photos to the right and below show what she might look like now, after cutting and dyeing her hair. If you see her, do not attempt to apprehend. Call 911 or the hotline you see at the bottom of your screen.”
    The picture was unsmiling, as if she was upset