The Sleeping Doll

should she be doing?
    She gripped her braid, which ended in the red elastic tie that energetic Maggie had twisted around her hair that morning. It was a mother-daughter tradition; every morning the child picked the color of the rubber band or scrunchie for the day. Now, the agent recalled her daughter’s sparkling brown eyes behind the wire-rimmed glasses as she told her mother about music camp that day and what kind of snacks they should have for Dance’s father’s birthday party tomorrow. (She realized that it was probably at that moment that Wes had planted the stuffed bat in her purse.)
    She recalled too looking forward to interrogating a legendary criminal.
    The Son of Manson  . . .
    The security chief’s radio crackled. A voice called urgently, “We’ve got an injury. Real bad. That Monterey County detective. Looks like Pell pushed him right into the fire. The EMS crew called for medevac. There’s a chopper on its way.”
    No, no . . . She and TJ shared a glance. His otherwise irrepressibly mischievous face registered dismay. Dance knew that Millar would be in terrible pain but she needed to know if he had any clues as to where Pell had gone. She nodded at the radio. The chief handed it to her. “This’s Agent Dance. Is Detective Millar conscious?”
    “No, ma’am. It’s . . . it’s pretty bad.” A pause.
    “Is he wearing clothes?”
    “Is he . . . Say again?”
    “Did Pell take Millar’s clothes?”
    “Oh, that’s negative. Over.”
    “What about his weapon?”
    “No weapon.”
    Shit.
    “Tell everybody that Pell’s armed.”
    “Roger that.”
    Dance had another thought. “I want an officer at the medevac chopper from the minute it lands. Pell might be planning to hitch a ride.”
    “Roger.”
    She handed the radio back, pulled out her phone, hit speed dial four.
    “Cardiac Care,” Edie Dance’s low, placid voice said.
    “Mom, me.”
    “What’s the matter, Katie? The kids?” Dance pictured the stocky woman, with short gray hair and large, gray-framed round glasses, concern on her ageless face. She’d be leaning forward—her automatic response to tension.
    “No, we’re fine. But one of Michael’s detectives is burned. Bad. There was an arson at the courthouse, part of an escape. You’ll hear about it on the news. We lost two guards.”
    “Oh, I’m sorry,” Edie murmured.
    “The detective—Juan Millar’s his name. You’ve met him a couple of times.”
    “I don’t remember. He’s on his way here?”
    “Will be soon. Medevac.”
    “That bad?”
    “You have a burn unit?”
    “A small one, part of ICU. For long term we’d get him to Alta Bates, U.C.-Davis or Santa Clara as soon as we could. Maybe down to Grossman.”
    “Could you check in on him from time to time? Let me know how he’s doing?”
    “Of course, Katie.”
    “And if there’s any way, I want to talk to him. Whatever he saw, it could be helpful.”
    “Sure.”
    “I’ll be tied up for the day, even if we catch him right away. Could you have Dad pick up the kids?” Stuart Dance, a retired marine biologist, worked occasionally at the famous Monterey aquarium, but was always available to chauffeur the children whenever needed.
    “I’ll call right now.”
    “Thanks, Mom.”
    Dance disconnected and glanced up to see Prosecutor Alonzo Sandoval staring numbly at the map. “Who was helping him?” he muttered. “And where the fuck is Pell?”
    Variations of these two questions were also spinning through Kathryn Dance’s mind.
    Along with another: What could I have done to read him better? What could I have done to avoid this tragedy altogether?

Chapter 5
    The helicopter in the parking lot directed swirls of smoke outward in elegant patterns as the blades groaned and the aircraft lifted off, bearing Juan Millar to the hospital.
    Vaya con Dios  . . .
    Dance got a call. Glanced at the phone screen. She was surprised it had taken so long for the man to get back to her. “Charles,” she said to her boss, the agent in charge of the west-central regional office of the CBI.
    “I’m on my way to the courthouse. What’ve we got, Kathryn?”
    She brought him up to date, including the deaths and Millar’s condition.
    “Sorry to hear that. . . . Any leads, anything we can tell them?”
    “Tell who?”
    “The press.”
    “I don’t know, Charles. We don’t have much information. He could be anywhere. I’ve ordered roadblocks and we’re doing a room-by-room search.”
    “Nothing