The Sleeping Doll

were on their way—Kathryn Dance had asked if the women would help out in the event Pell took hostages. He hadn’t wanted Jennie to know about Rebecca yet so he’d come up with the story about the maids.
    “That was lucky,” Rebecca said, wiping a coating of mist from her face. Pell thought she did look pretty good. Jennie was fine in bed, but less of a challenge. Rebecca could keep you going all night. Jennie needed sex to validate herself; Rebecca simply needed sex. He got a twist inside him, the bubble expanding.
    “How are my little gals holding up under the pressure?”
    “Bickering and driving me fucking crazy. I mean, it’s like not a day’s gone by. Same as eight years ago. Except Linda’s a Bible-thumper and Sam isn’t Sam. Changed her name. And she’s got boobs too.”
    “And they’re helping the cops, they’re actually doing that?”
    “Oh, you bet. I tried to lead things off as best I could. But I couldn’t be too obvious about it.”
    “And they don’t guess anything about you?”
    “Nope.”
    Pell kissed her again. “You’re the best, baby. I’m free only ’cause of you.”
    Jennie Marston had been just a pawn in the escape; it was Rebecca who’d planned everything. After his appeal was finally rejected, Pell had begun thinking about escape. He’d managed some unsupervised phone time in Capitola and spoken to Rebecca. For some time she’d been considering how to break Pell out. But there’d been no opportunities until recently, when Rebecca told him she’d come up with an idea.
    She had read about the unsolved Robert Herron killing—which Pell had nothing to do with—and decided to make him the prime suspect so he’d be transferred to a lower-security facility for the indictment and trial. Rebecca had found some of his tools, which she’d had from the days of the Family in Seaside, and slipped them into his aunt’s garage in Bakersfield.
    Pell had sifted through his fan letters to look for a candidate who’d help. He settled on Jennie Marston, a woman in Southern California who suffered from the disease of bad-boy worship. She seemed wonderfully desperate and vulnerable. Pell had limited access to computers, so Rebecca had set up an untraceable email address and masqueraded as Pell to win Jennie’s heart and work out the plan. One reason they’d picked her was that Jennie lived only an hour or so away from Rebecca, who could check her out and learn details of her life to make it seem that she and Pell had some spiritual connection.
    Oh, you’re so much like me, honey, it’s like we’re two sides of the same coin .
    The love of cardinals and hummingbirds, the color green, Mexican comfort food. . . . It doesn’t take much, in this mean world, to make somebody like Jennie Marston your soul mate.
    Finally Rebecca, as Pell, convinced Jennie that he was innocent of the Croyton killings and got her to agree to help him escape. Rebecca had come up with the idea for the gas bombs after scoping out the Salinas lockup and the delivery-service schedules at the You Mail It franchise. She’d sent the woman instructions: stealing the hammer, making up the fake wallet, planting them in Salinas. And then how to construct the gas bomb and where to buy the fire suit and bag. Rebecca had checked with Jennie, via email, and then, when everything seemed in order, posted the message on the “Manslaughter” bulletin board that everything was in place.
    Pell now asked her, “That was Sam when I phoned, wasn’t it?”
    The call—thirty minutes ago—purporting to be the guard checking up on them was Pell. The arrangement he’d made with Rebecca was that he’d ask whoever answered—if she didn’t—to check the window locks. That meant he’d be there soon and Rebecca was supposed to go to the shelter and wait for him.
    “She didn’t catch on. The poor thing’s still a little mouse. She just doesn’t get it.”
    “I want to get out of here as soon as possible, lovely. What’s our time like?”
    “Won’t be long now.”
    Pell said, “I’ve got her address. Dance’s.”
    “Oh, one thing you’ll want to know. Her kids aren’t at home. She didn’t say where they are but I found a Stuart Dance—probably her father or brother—in the phone book. I’d guess they’re there. Oh, and there’s a cop guarding them. There’s no husband.”
    “A widow, right?”
    “How’d you know?”
    “Just did. How old are the kids?”
    “I don’t know. Does it