The Sleeping Doll

Unfortunately after the explorers sailed away they managed to lose the bay entirely.
    A number of expeditions tried unsuccessfully to locate it again. With every passing year Monterey Bay took on mythical proportions. One of the largest contingents of explorers departed from San Diego and headed north on land, determined to find the bahia. Constantly at risk from the elements and the grizzly bears, the conquistadors covered every inch of the state up to San Francisco—and still managed to miss the huge bay altogether.
    Simply because they had no accurate map.
    When he’d managed to get online in Capitola, he’d been thrilled with a website called Visual-Earth, where you could click on a map and an actual satellite photo of the place you wanted to see came up on screen. He was astonished at this. There were some important things to look at, so he hadn’t had a chance to browse. Pell looked forward to the time when his life was more settled and he could spend hours on the site.
    Now, Jennie was pointing out some locations on the map open in front of them and Pell was taking in the information. But, as always, he was also listening to everything around him.
    “He’s a good puppy. Just needs more training.”
    “It’s a long drive, but if we take our time, it’ll be a blast. You know?”
    “I ordered ten minutes ago. Could you see what’s taking so long?”
    At this last comment, Pell glanced toward the counter.
    “Sorry,” explained a middle-aged man at the cash register to a customer. “Just a little short staffed today.” The man, the owner or manager, was uneasy and looked everywhere except at Pell and Jennie.
    Smart people can figure out why you changed, then use it against you .
    When Pell had ordered their food, there were three or four waitresses shuttling back and forth between the kitchen and the tables. Now this man was the only one working.
    He’d sent all his employees into hiding.
    Pell leapt up, knocking over the table. Jennie dropped her fork and jumped to her feet.
    The manager stared at them in alarm.
    “You son of a bitch,” Pell muttered and pulled the pistol from his waistband.
    Jennie screamed.
    “No, no . . . I—” The manager debated for a second and fled into the kitchen, abandoning his customers, who screamed and spilled onto the floor for cover.
    “What is it, honey?” Jennie’s voice was panicked.
    “Let’s go. The car.” He grabbed the map and they fled.
    Outside, in the distance, south, he could see tiny flashing lights.
    Jennie froze, panicked, whispering, “Angel songs, angel songs . . .”
    “Come on!”
    They leapt in. He slammed the car into reverse, then shifted gears and gunned the engine, heading for Highway 1, over the narrow bridge. Jennie nearly slipped out of her seat as they hit the uneven pavement on the other side of the structure. On the highway Pell turned north, got about a hundred yards then skidded to a stop. Coming the other way was another police car.
    Pell glanced to his right and floored the accelerator, heading directly for the front gate of the power plant, a massive, ugly structure, something that belonged not here on this picture-postcard seashore but in the refineries of Gary, Indiana.
    •    •    •
    Dance and O’Neil were no more than five minutes from Moss Landing.
    Her fingers tapped the grip of the Glock high on her right hip. She’d never fired her gun in the line of duty and wasn’t much of a shot—weaponry didn’t come naturally to her. Also, with children in the house she was uneasy carrying the weapon (at home she kept it in a solid lockbox beside her bed, and only she knew the combination).
    Michael O’Neil, on the other hand, was a fine marksman, as was TJ. She was glad she was with them.
    But would it come to a fight? she wondered. Dance couldn’t say, of course. But she knew she’d do whatever was necessary to stop the killer.
    The Ford now squealed around the corner and then up a hill.
    As they crested it O’Neil muttered, “Oh, hell . . .”
    He jammed the brake pedal. “Hold on!”
    Dance gasped, and grabbed the dashboard as they went into a fierce skid. The car came to a stop, halfway on the shoulder, only five feet from a semi stopped in the middle of the road. The highway was completely blocked all the way to Moss Landing. The opposite lanes were moving, but slowly. Several miles ahead Dance could see flashing lights and realized officers were turning back the traffic.
    A