The Sleeping Doll

right beside me. You understand?”
    “Yeah, sure. Let’s go! Please!” He ratcheted on the shackles good and tight.
    Sweating, his voice cracking, Baxter said, “Whatta you think it is? Terrorists?”
    The Capitola escort ignored the panicked hack, eyes on Pell. “If you don’t do ’xactly what I say you’ll get fifty thousand volts up your ass.” He pointed the Taser toward the prisoner. “And if it ain’t convenient to carry you I will leave you to burn to death. Understand?”
    “Yessir. Let’s go. Please. I don’t want you or Mr. Baxter getting hurt ’causa me. I’ll do whatever you want.”
    “Open it,” the escort barked to Baxter, who hit a button. With a buzz, the door eased outward. The three men started down the corridor, through another security door and then along a dim corridor, filling with smoke. The alarm was braying.
    But, wait, Pell thought. It was a second alarm—the first had sounded before the explosions outside. Had someone figured out what he was going to do?
    Kathryn Dance  . . .
    Just as they passed a fire door Pell glanced back. Thick smoke was fillingthe corridor around them. He cried to Baxter, “No, it’s too late. The whole building’s going to go! Let’s get out of here.”
    “He’s right.” Baxter reached toward the alarm bar of the exit.
    The Capitola escort, perfectly calm, said firmly, “No. Out the front door to the prison van.”
    “You’re crazy!” Pell snapped. “For the love of God. We’ll die.” He shoved the fire door open.
    The men were hit with a blast of fierce heat, smoke and sparks. Outside a wall of fire consumed cars and shrubbery and trash cans. Pell dropped to his knees, covering his face. He screamed, “My eyes . . . It hurts!”
    “Pell, goddamn it—” The escort stepped forward, lifting the Taser.
    “Put that down. He’s not going anywhere,” Baxter said angrily. “He’s hurt.”
    “I can’t see,” Pell moaned. “Somebody help me!”
    Baxter turned toward him, bent down.
    “Don’t!” the escort shouted.
    Then the county hack staggered backward, a bewildered expression on his face, as Pell repeatedly shoved a filleting knife into his belly and chest. Bleeding in cascades, Baxter fell to his knees, trying for the pepper spray. Pell grabbed his shoulders and spun him around as the huge escort fired the Taser. It discharged but the probes went wide.
    Pell shoved Baxter aside and leapt at the escort, the useless Taser falling to the floor.
    The big man froze, staring at the knife. Pell’s blue eyes studied his sweaty black face.
    “Don’t do it, Daniel.”
    Pell moved in.
    The escort’s massive fists balled up.
    No point in talking. Those who were in control didn’t need to humiliate or threaten or quip. Pell charged forward, dodging the man’s blows, and struck him hard a dozen times, the knife edge facing out and extending downward from the bottom of his clenched right hand. Punching was the most effective way to use a knife against a strong opponent willing to fight back.
    His face contorting, the escort fell to his side, kicking. He gripped his chest and throat. A moment later he stopped moving. Pell grabbed the keys and undid the restraints.
    Baxter was crawling away, still trying to get his Mace out of his holster with blood-slicked fingers. His eyes grew wide as Pell approached. “Please. Don’t do anything to me. I was just doing my job. We’re both good Christians! I treated you kind. I—”
    Pell grabbed him by the hair. He was tempted to say, You wasted God’s time praying for your car keys ?
    But you never humiliated or threatened or quipped. Pell bent down and efficiently cut his throat.
    When Baxter was dead, Pell stepped to the door again. He covered his eyes and grabbed the metallic fireproof bag, where he’d gotten the knife, just outside the door.
    He was reaching inside again when he felt the gun muzzle at his neck.
    “Don’t move.”
    Pell froze.
    “Drop the knife.”
    A moment’s debate. The gun was steady; Pell sensed that whoever held it was ready to pull the trigger. His hissed a sigh. The knife clattered to the floor. He glanced at the man, a young Latino plainclothes officer, eyes on Pell, holding a radio.
    “This’s Juan Millar. Kathryn, you there?”
    “Go ahead,” the woman’s voice clattered.
    Kathryn  . . .
    “I’m eleven-nine-nine, immediate assistance, at the fire door, ground floor, just outside the lockup. I’ve got two guards down. Hurt bad.