The Sleeping Doll

careened recklessly up the driveway and skidded to a stop nearby. The car’s arrival was so abrupt that Dance crouched in alarm and her hand dropped to her pistol.
    But the agent relaxed immediately, seeing Samantha McCoy emerging from the driver’s seat. The woman joined Dance and Linda. She asked, “How’re you feeling?”
    “I’m on pills right now. I think I’ll be pretty sore tomorrow. Well, probably for the next month.”
    “You were leaving without saying good-bye?”
    “My, why would you think that? I was going to call.”
    The deception was easily spotted by Dance. Probably by Samantha as well.
    “You look good.”
    Another slurred chuckle was the response.
    Silence. Deep silence; the fog swallowed up whole any ambient noise.
    With her hands on her hips, Samantha looked down at Linda. “Strange few days, huh?”
    The woman gave a curious laugh, both groggy and cautious.
    “Linda, I want to call you. We could get together.”
    “Why? To psychoanalyze me? To save me from the clutches of the church?” Bitterness bled from the words.
    “I just want to see you. It doesn’t have to be about more than that.”
    With some mental effort Linda offered, “Sam, we were different people eight, nine years ago, you and me. We’re even more different now. We have nothing in common.”
    “Nothing in common? Well, that’s not true. We went through hell together.”
    “Yeah, we did. And God helped us through it and then sent us in different directions.”
    Samantha crouched and carefully took the woman’s arm, mindful of the wound. She was well within Linda’s personal proxemic zone. “Listen to me. You listening?”
    “What?” Impatient.
    “There was a man once.”
    “A man?”
    “Listen. This man was in his house and there was a bad flood, really bad. The river filled his first floor and a boat came by to rescue him but he said, ‘No, go on, God’ll save me.’ He ran to the second floor, but the water rose up there too. Another rescue boat came by but he said, ‘No, go on, God’ll save me.’ Then the river kept rising and he climbed to the roof and a helicopter came by but he said, ‘No, go on, God’ll save me.’ And the helicopter flew away.”
    Words slurred from the medication, Linda asked, “What’re you talking about?”
    Sam continued, unfazed. “Then the water sweeps him off the roof and he drowns. Next thing he’s in heaven and he sees God and he says, ‘God, why didn’t you save me?’ And God shakes his head and says, ’Funny, I don’t understand what went wrong. I sent you two boats and a helicopter.”
    Dance chuckled. Linda blinked at the punch line and, the agent thought, wanted to smile but forced herself not to.
    “Come on, Linda—we’re each other’s helicopters. Admit it.”
    The woman said nothing.
    Sam thrust a card into the woman’s hand. “Here’s my number.”
    Linda said nothing for a long moment, staring at the card. “Sarah Starkey? That’s your name?”
    Samantha smiled. “I can’t change it back at this point. But I am going to tell my husband. Everything. He’s on his way here now with our son. We’re goingto spend a few days in the area. That’s what I’m hoping. But after I tell him, he might just get back in the car and head home.”
    Linda gave no response. She flicked the card with her thumb, slipped it into her purse and looked up the driveway as a battered silver pickup truck approached. It stopped and Roger Whitfield climbed out.
    Samantha introduced herself to Linda’s brother, using her original name, not “Sarah.”
    The man greeted her with a raised eyebrow and another formal handshake. Then he and Dance helped Linda into the car, and the agent closed the door.
    Samantha stepped up on the running board. “Linda, remember: helicopters.”
    The woman said, “Good-bye, Sam. I’ll pray for you.”
    With no other words or gestures, the brother and sister drove off. Samantha and Dance watched them ease down the winding drive as the taillights, glowing orbs in the fog, grew fainter.
    After they were gone, Dance asked, “When’s your husband getting here?”
    “He left San Jose an hour ago. Pretty soon, I’d guess.” Sam nodded after the pickup truck. “Think she’s going to call me?”
    All of Kathryn Dance’s skill as an investigator, all of her talent as a reader of body language couldn’t answer that question. The best she could come up with was, “She didn’t throw your card away, did she?”
    “Not yet,”