The Sleeping Doll

boardwalk in Santa Cruz.
    Pell remembered how much he loved the boardwalk, all the rides.Amusement parks fascinated him, people giving up complete control to somebody else—either risking harm on the roller coasters and parachute drops or becoming mindless laboratory rats on rides like the boardwalk’s famous hundred-year-old Looff carousel, round and round. . . .
    Remembered too Rebecca eight years ago, near that very same merry-go-round, gesturing him over.
    “Hey, how’d you like me to do your portrait?”
    “I guess. How much?”
    “You’ll be able to afford it. Take a seat.”
    And then after five minutes, with only the basic features of his face sketched in, she’d lowered the charcoal stick, looked him over and asked, challenging, if there was someplace private to go. They’d walked to the van, Linda Whitfield watching them with a solemn, jealous face. Pell hardly noticed her.
    And a few minutes later, after kissing frantically, his hands all over her, she’d eased back.
    “Wait . . .”
    What? he’d wondered. Clap, AIDS?
    Breathless, she’d said, “I . . . have to say something.” She’d paused, looking down.
    “Go on.”
    “You might not like this, and if not, okay, we’ll just call it quits and you get a picture for free. But I feel this connection with you, even after just a little while, and I’ve got to say . . .”
    “Tell me.”
    “When it comes to sex, I don’t really enjoy it . . . unless you hurt me. I mean, really hurt me. A lot of men don’t like that. And it’s okay . . .”
    His response was to roll her over on her taut little belly.
    And pull off his belt.
    He gave a grim laugh now. It was all bullshit, he realized. Somehow in that ten minutes on the beach and five minutes in the van she’d tipped to his fantasy and played it for all it was worth.
    Svengali and Trilby  . . .
    He now continued driving until his right arm began to throb with pain from Rebecca’s knife slash at Nagle’s house. He pulled over, opened his shirt and looked at it. Not terrible—the bleeding was slowing. But, damn, it hurt.
    Nothing like the slash of her betrayal, though.
    He was at the edge of the quiet portion of town and would have to continuethrough populated areas, where the police would be looking for him everywhere.
    He made a U-turn and drove through the streets until he found an Infiniti, pausing at a stoplight ahead of him. Only one person inside. No other cars were around. Pell slowed but didn’t hit the brakes until he was right on top of the luxury car. The bumpers tapped with a resonant thud. The Infiniti rolled forward a few feet. The driver glared in his rearview mirror and got out.
    Pell, shaking his head, climbed out too. He stood, studying the damage.
    “Weren’t you looking?” The driver of the Infiniti was a middle-aged Latino man. “I just bought it last month.” He glanced up from the cars and frowned at the blood on Pell’s arm. “Are you hurt?”
    His eyes followed the stain down to Pell’s hand, where he saw the gun.
    But by then it was too late.

Chapter 52
    The first thing Kathryn Dance had done at Nagle’s house—while TJ called in the escape—was to phone the deputy guarding her parents and children and have him take them, under guard, to CBI headquarters. She doubted Pell would waste time at this point carrying out his threats, but she wasn’t going to take any chances.
    She now asked the writer and his wife if Pell had said anything about where he might be fleeing, especially his mountaintop. Nagle had been honest with Pell; he’d never heard anything about an enclave in the wilderness. He, his wife and children could add nothing more. Rebecca was badly wounded and unconscious. O’Neil had sent a deputy with her in the ambulance. The moment she was able to talk, he’d call the detective.
    Dance now joined Kellogg and O’Neil, who stood nearby, heads bowed, as they discussed the case. Whatever personal reservations O’Neil had about the FBI man, and vice versa, you couldn’t tell it from their posture and gesturing. They were efficiently and quickly coordinating roadblocks and planning a search strategy.
    O’Neil took a phone call. He frowned. “Okay, sure. Call Watsonville. . . . I’ll handle it.” He hung up and announced, “Got a lead. Carjacking in Marina. Man fitting Pell’s description—and bleeding—snatched a black Infiniti. Had a gun.” He added grimly, “Witness said he heard a gunshot, and when he