The Sleeping Doll

were in a change of clothing, which they’d bought at a Goodwill store in a poor part of Seaside (where he’d enjoyed watching Jennie hesitate, then discard her beloved pink blouse). Pell was now in a light gray windbreaker, cords, and cheap running shoes, a baseball cap on backward. He also carried a disposable camera. He would occasionally pause to take pictures of the sunset, on the theory that one thing escaped killers rarely do is stop to record panoramic seascapes, however impressive.
    He and Jennie had driven east from Moss Landing in the stolen Ford Focus, taking none of the major roads and even cutting through a Brussels sprout field, aromatic with the scent of human gas. Eventually they’d headed back toward Pacific Grove. But when the area became more populous, Pell knew it was time to ditch the wheels. The police would learn about the Focus soon. He hid it in tall grass in the middle of a large field off Highway 68, marked with a FOR SALE—COMMERCIAL ZONED sign.
    He decided they should separate on the hike to the motel. Jennie didn’t like it, not being with him, but they stayed in touch via their prepaid mobiles. She called every five minutes until he told her it was probably better not to, because the police might be listening in.
    Which they weren’t, of course, but he was tired of the honey-bunny chatter and wanted to think.
    Daniel Pell was worried.
    How had the police tracked them to Jack’s?
    He ran through the possibilities. Maybe the cap, sunglasses and shaved face hadn’t fooled the manager at the restaurant, though who’d believe that a murderous escapee would sit down like a day-tripper from San Francisco to devour a plate of tasty sand dabs fifteen miles from the detention center he’d just redecorated with fire and blood?
    Finding that the T-bird was stolen was another possibility. But why would somebody run the tag of a car stolen four hundred miles away? And even if it was boosted, why call out the 101 Airborne just for a set of stolen wheels—unless they knew it had some connection to Pell?
    And the cops were supposed to believe he was headed to that camper park outside of Salt Lake City he’d called.
    Kathryn?
    He had a feeling she hadn’t bought into the Utah idea, even after the trick with Billy’s phone and leaving the driver alive on purpose. Pell wondered if she’d put out the announcement about Utah to the press intentionally, to flush him into the open.
    Which had, in fact, worked, he reflected angrily.
    Wherever he went, he had a feeling, she’d be supervising the manhunt for him.
    Pell wondered where she lived. He thought again about his assessment of her in the interview—her children, her husband—recalled when she gave her faint reactions, when she didn’t.
    Kids, yes, husband, probably not. A divorce didn’t seem likely. He sensed good judgment and loyalty within her.
    Pell paused and took a snap of the sun easing into the Pacific Ocean. It was really quite a sight.
    Kathryn as a widow. Interesting idea. He felt the swelling within him again.
    Somehow he managed to tuck it away.
    For the time being.
    He bought a few things at a store, a little bodega, which he picked because he knew his picture wouldn’t be looping on the news every five minutes; he was right, the tiny set showed only a Spanish-language soap opera.
    Pell met up with Jennie in Asilomar, the beautiful park, which featured a crescent of beach for die-hard surfers and, closer toward Monterey, an increasingly rugged shoreline of rocks and crashing spray.
    “Everything all right?” she asked cautiously.
    “Fine, lovely. We’re doing fine.”
    She led him through the quiet streets of Pacific Grove, a former Methodist retreat, filled with colorful Victorian and Tudor bungalows. In five minutes she announced, “Here we are.” She nodded at the Sea View Motel. The building was brown, with small lead windows, a wood shingle roof and plaques of butterflies above the doors. The village’s claim to fame, other than being the last dry town in California, was the monarchs—tens of thousands of the insects would cluster here from fall to spring.
    “It’s cute, isn’t it?”
    Pell guessed. Cute didn’t mean anything to him. What mattered was that the room faced away from the road and there were driveways off the back parking lot that would be perfect escape routes. She’d gotten exactly the kind of place she was supposed to.
    “It’s perfect, lovely. Just like you.”
    Another smile on her