The Sleeping Doll

thought. Please, no. “Pell, listen to me—”
    “You’re talking too,” the killer said, and swung the gun toward her.
    “I’m sorry,” TJ whispered.
    “That’s more words.”
    Pell turned to Dance. “I’ve got a few questions for you and your little friend here. But in a minute. You sit tight, enjoy the scene of domestic bliss.” Then he said to Nagle, “Keep going.”
    Nagle returned to what was apparently the task Dance and TJ had interrupted: It seemed he was burning all of his notes and research material.
    Pell watched the bonfire and added absently, “And if you miss something and I find it, I will cut your wife’s fingers off. Then start on your kids’. And quit crying. It’s not dignified. Have some control.”
    •    •    •
    Ten agonizing minutes of silence passed as Nagle found his notes and tossed them into the fire.
    Dance knew that as soon as he finished, and Pell learned from her and TJ what he needed to know, they’d be dead.
    Nagle’s wife was sobbing. She said, “Leave us alone, please, please, anything . . . I’ll do anything. Please . . .”
    Dance glanced into the bedroom, where she lay beside Sonja and Eric. The little girl was crying pathetically.
    “Quiet there, Mrs. Writer.”
    Dance glanced at her watch, partly obscured by the cuffs. She imagined what her own children were doing now. The thought was too painful, though, and she forced herself to concentrate on what was happening in the room.
    Was there anything she could do?
    Bargain with him? But to bargain you need something of value the other person wants.
    Resist? But to resist you need weapons.
    “Why are you doing this?” Nagle moaned, as the last of the notes went up in flames.
    “Hush there.”
    Pell rose and stirred the fire with a poker to keep the pages burning. He dusted his hands off. He held up his sooty fingers. “Makes me feel at home. I’ve been fingerprinted probably fifty times in my life. I can always tell the new clerks. Their hands shake when they roll your fingers. Okay, then.” He turned to Dance. “Now, I understand from your call earlier to Mr. Writer here you figured out about Rebecca. Which is what I have to talk to you about. What do you know about us? And who else knows it? We’ve got to make some plans and we need to know what to do next. And understand this, Agent Dance, you’re not the only one who can spot liars at fifty paces. I have that gift too. You and me, we’re naturals.”
    Whether she lied or not didn’t matter. They were all dead.
    “Oh, and I should say that Rebecca found another address for me. The home of one Stuart Dance.”
    Dance felt this news like a slap in the face. She struggled to keep from being sick. A wash of heat, scalding water, enveloped her face and chest.
    “You son of a bitch,” TJ raged.
    “And if you tell me the truth, your mom and pop and kiddies’ll be fine. I was right about your brood, wasn’t I? At our first get-together. And no husband. You, a poor widow, Rebecca tells me. Sorry about that. Anyway, I’ll bet the kiddies’re with the grandfolks right now.”
    At that moment Kathryn Dance came to a decision.
    It was a gamble, and under other circumstances it would have been a difficult, if not impossible, choice. Now, although the consequences would probably be tragic, one way or the other, there was no option.
    No weapons—except words, and her intuition. A to B to X  . . .
    They would have to do.
    Dance shifted so she was facing Pell directly. “Aren’t you curious why we’re here?”
    “That’s a question. I didn’t want a question. I wanted an answer.”
    Make sure he remains in charge—Daniel Pell’s trademark. “Please, let me go on. I am answering your question. Please, let me.”
    Pell looked her over with a frown. He didn’t object.
    “Now think about it. Why would we come here in such a big hurry?”
    Normally she would have used a subject’s first name. But doing so could be interpreted as an attempt to dominate, and Daniel Pell needed to know he was in control.
    He grimaced impatiently. “Get to the point.”
    Rebecca scowled. “She’s stalling. Let’s go, baby.”
    Dance said, “Because I had to warn Morton—”
    Rebecca whispered, “Let’s just finish up and get going. Jesus, we’re wasting—”
    “Quiet, lovely.” Pell turned his bright blue eyes back to Dance, just as he’d done in Salinas during their interview on Monday. It seemed like years ago. “Yeah, you wanted