The Sleeping Doll

no-nonsense woman with a low, raspy voice. The agent explained about Pell’s escape. Rebecca Sheffield was shocked.
    Angry too. “I thought he was in some kind of superprison.”
    “He didn’t escape from there. It was the county courthouse lockup.”
    Dance asked if the woman had any thoughts on where Pell might be going, who his accomplice could be, other friends he might contact.
    Rebecca couldn’t, though. She said that she’d met Pell just a few months before the Croyton murders—and she was just getting to know him and the others when they were arrested. But she added that she’d gotten a call from someone about a month earlier, supposedly a writer. “I assumed he was legit. But he might’ve had something to do with the escape. Murry or Morton was the first name. I think I’ve got his number somewhere.”
    “It’s all right. He’s here with us. We’ve checked him out.”
    Rebecca could offer nothing more about Samantha McCoy’s whereabouts or new identity.
    Then, uneasy, she said, “Back then, eight years ago, I didn’t turn him in, but I did cooperate with the police. Do you think I’m in danger?”
    “I couldn’t say. But until we reapprehend him, you might want to contact San Diego police.” Dance gave the woman her numbers at CBI and her mobile, and Rebecca told her she’d try to think of anyone who might help Pell or know where he’d go.
    The agent pushed down the button on the phone cradle and let it spring back up again. Then she dialed the second number, which turned out to be the Church of the Holy Brethren in Portland. She was connected to Linda Whitfield, who hadn’t heard the news either. Her reaction was completely different: silence, broken by a nearly inaudible muttering. All Dance caught was “dear Jesus.”
    Praying, it seemed, not an exclamation. The voice faded, or she was cut off.
    “Hello?” Dance asked.
    “Yes, I’m here,” Linda said.
    Dance asked the same questions she’d put to Rebecca Sheffield.
    Linda hadn’t heard from Pell in years—though they’d stayed in touch forabout eighteen months after the Croyton murders. Finally she’d stopped writing and had heard nothing from him since. Nor did she have any information about Samantha McCoy’s whereabouts, though she too told Dance about a call from Morton Nagle last month. The agent reassured her they were aware of him and convinced he wasn’t working with Pell.
    Linda could offer no leads as to where Pell would go. She had no idea of who his accomplice might be.
    “We don’t know what he has in mind,” Dance told the woman. “We have no reason to believe you’re in danger, but—”
    “Oh, Daniel wouldn’t hurt me,” she said quickly.
    “Still, you might want to tell your local police.”
    “Well, I’ll think about it.” Then she added, “Is there a hotline I can call and find out what’s going on?”
    “We don’t have anything set up like that. But the press’s covering it closely. You can get the details on the news as fast as we know them.”
    “Well, my brother doesn’t have a television.”
    No TV?
    “Well, if there are any significant developments, I’ll let you know. And if you can think of anything else, please call.” Dance gave her the phone numbers and hung up.
    A few moments later CBI chief Charles Overby strode into the room. “Press conference went well, I think. They asked some prickly questions. They always do. But I fielded them okay, I have to say. Stayed one step ahead. You see it?” He nodded at the TV in the corner. No one had bothered to turn up the volume to hear his performance.
    “Missed it, Charles. Been on the phone.”
    “Who’s he?” Overby asked. He’d been staring at Nagle as if he should know him.
    Dance introduced them, then the writer instantly disappeared from the agent in charge’s radar screen. “Any progress at all?” A glance at the maps.
    “No reports anywhere,” Dance told him. Then explained that she’d contacted two of the women who’d been in Pell’s Family. “One’s from San Diego, one’s from Portland, and we’re looking for the other right now. At least we know the first two aren’t the accomplice.”
    “Because you believe them?” Overby asked. “You could tell that from the tone of their voices?”
    None of the officers in the room said anything. So it was up to Dance tolet her boss know he’d missed the obvious. “I don’t think they could’ve set the gas bombs and gotten back home by now.”
    A brief