The Sleeping Doll

to gun him down (she looked as if she’d like a second opportunity). Nagle gave one of his chuckles, tugged up his saggy pants and left.
    “Thank you for coming. You go by ‘Theresa’?”
    “Mostly Tare.”
    Dance said to her aunt, “Do you mind if I talk to your niece alone?”
    “It’s okay.” This was from the girl. The aunt hesitated. “It’s okay,” the girl repeated more firmly. A hit of exasperation. Like musicians with their instruments, young people can get an infinite variety of sounds out of their voices.
    Dance had arranged a room at a chain motel near CBI headquarters. It was booked under one of the fictional names she sometimes used for witnesses.
    TJ escorted the aunt to the office of Albert Stemple, who would take her to the motel and wait with her.
    When they were alone, Dance came out from around the desk and closed her door. She didn’t know if the girl had hidden memories to be tapped, some facts that could help lead them to Pell. But she was going to try to find out. It would be difficult, though. Despite the girl’s strong personalityand her gutsy foray here, she’d be doing what every other seventeen-year-old in the universe would do at a time like this: raising subconscious barriers to protect herself from the pain of recollection.
    Dance would get nothing from her until those barriers were lowered. In her interrogations and interviews the agent didn’t practice classic hypnosis. She did, though, know that subjects who were relaxed and not focused on external stimuli could remember events that otherwise they might not. The agent directed Theresa to the comfortable couch and shut off the bright overhead light, leaving a single yellow desk lamp burning.
    “You comfortable?”
    “Sure, I guess.” Still, she clasped her hands together, shoulders up, and smiled at Dance with her lips taut. Stress, the agent noted. “That man, Mr. Nagle, said you wanted to ask me about what happened the night my parents and brother and sister were killed.”
    “That’s right. I know you were asleep at the time, but—”
    “What?”
    “I know you were asleep during the murders.”
    “Who told you that?”
    “Well, all the news stories . . . the police.”
    “No, no, I was awake.”
    Dance blinked in surprise. “You were?”
    The girl’s expression was even more surprised. “Like, yeah. I mean, I thought that’s why you wanted to see me.”

Chapter 47
    “Go ahead, Tare.”
    Dance felt her heart tapping fast. Was this the portal to an overlooked clue that might lead to Daniel Pell’s purpose here?
    The girl tugged at her earlobe, the one with five dots of metal in it, and the top of her shoe rose slightly, indicating she was curling her toes.
    Stress  . . .
    “I was asleep earlier, for a while. Yeah. I wasn’t feeling good. But then I woke up. I had a dream. I don’t remember what it was, but I think it was scary. I woke myself up with a noise, kind of moaning. You know how that happens?”
    “Sure.”
    “Or shouting. Only . . .” Her voice faded, she was squeezing her ear again.
    “You’re not sure it was you making the noise? It might’ve been somebody else?”
    The girl swallowed. She’d be thinking that the sound had perhaps come from one of her dying family members. “Right.”
    “Do you remember what time?” The TODs were between six thirty and eight, Dance recalled.
    But Theresa couldn’t remember for sure. She guessed around seven.
    “You stayed in bed?”
    “Uh-huh.”
    “Did you hear anything after that?”
    “Yeah, voices. I couldn’t hear them real well. I was, you know, groggy, but I definitely heard them.”
    “Who was it?”
    “I don’t know, men’s voices. But definitely not my father or brother. I remember that.”
    “Tare, did you tell anybody this back then?”
    “Yeah.” She nodded. “But nobody was interested.”
    How on earth had Reynolds missed it?
    “Well, tell me now. What did you hear?”
    “There were, like, a couple of things. First of all, I heard somebody mention money. Four hundred dollars. I remember that exactly.”
    Pell had been found with more than that when he was arrested. Maybe he and Newberg were going through Croyton’s wallet and commenting on how much money was inside. Or was the phrase actually “four hundred thousand”?
    “What else?”
    “Okay, then somebody—a man, but somebody different—said something about Canada. And somebody else asked a question. About Quebec.”
    “And what was the