The Sleeping Doll (Kathryn Dance 1)

Nothing like the slash of her betrayal, though.

He was at the edge of the quiet portion of town and would have to continue through populated areas, where the police would be looking for him everywhere.

He made a U-turn and drove through the streets until he found an Infiniti, pausing at a stoplight ahead of him. Only one person inside. No other cars were around. Pell slowed but didn't hit the brakes until he was right on top of the luxury car. The bumpers tapped with a resonant thud. The Infiniti rolled forward a few feet. The driver glared in his rearview mirror and got out.

Pell, shaking his head, climbed out too. He stood, studying the damage.

"Weren't you looking?" The driver of the Infiniti was a middle-aged Latino man. "I just bought it last month." He glanced up from the cars and frowned at the blood on Pell's arm. "Are you hurt?"

His eyes followed the stain down to Pell's hand, where he saw the gun.

But by then it was too late.

Chapter 52

The first thing Kathryn Dance had done at Nagle's house--while TJ called in the escape--was to phone the deputy guarding her parents and children and have him take them, under guard, to CBI headquarters. She doubted Pell would waste time at this point carrying out his threats, but she wasn't going to take any chances.

She now asked the writer and his wife if Pell had said anything about where he might be fleeing, especially his mountaintop. Nagle had been honest with Pell; he'd never heard anything about an enclave in the wilderness. He, his wife and children could add nothing more. Rebecca was badly wounded and unconscious. O'Neil had sent a deputy with her in the ambulance. The moment she was able to talk, he'd call the detective.

Dance now joined Kellogg and O'Neil, who stood nearby, heads bowed, as they discussed the case. Whatever personal reservations O'Neil had about the FBI man, and vice versa, you couldn't tell it from their posture and gesturing. They were efficiently and quickly coordinating roadblocks and planning a search strategy.

O'Neil took a phone call. He frowned. "Okay, sure. Call Watsonville. . . . I'll handle it." He hung up and announced, "Got a lead. Carjacking in Marina. Man fitting Pell's description--and bleeding--snatched a black Infiniti. Had a gun." He added grimly, "Witness said he heard a gunshot, and when he looked, Pell was closing the trunk."

Dance closed her eyes and sighed in disgust. Yet another death.

O'Neil said, "There's no way he's staying on the Peninsula anymore. He jacked the car in Marina so he's headed north. Probably aiming for the One-oh-one." He climbed into his car. "I'll set up a command post in Gilroy. And Watsonville, in case he sticks to the One."

She watched him drive off.

"Let's get up there too," Kellogg said, turning to his car.

Following him, Dance heard her phone ring. She took the call. It was from James Reynolds. She briefed him on what had just happened, and then the former prosecutor said he'd been through the files from the Croyton murders. He'd found something that might be helpful. Did Dance have a minute now?

"You bet."

*

Sam and Linda huddled together, watching the news reports about yet another attempted murder by Daniel Pell: the writer, Nagle. Rebecca, described as an accomplice of Pell's, had been badly wounded. And Pell had once again escaped. He was in a stolen car, most likely heading north, the owner of the car another victim.

"Oh, my," Linda whispered.

"Rebecca was with him all along." Sam stared at the TV screen, her face a mask of shock. "But who shot her? The police? Daniel?"

Linda closed her eyes momentarily. Sam didn't know if this was a prayer or a reaction to the exhaustion from the ordeal they'd been through in the past few days. Crosses to bear, Sam couldn't help but think. Which she didn't tell to her Christian friend.

Another newscaster devoted a few minutes to describing the woman who'd been shot, Rebecca Sheffield, founder of Women's Initiatives in San Diego, one of the women in the Family eight years ago. She mentioned that Sheffield had been born in Southern California. Her father had died when she was six and she'd been raised by her mother, who had never remarried.

"Six years old?" Linda muttered.

Sam blinked. "She lied. None of that stuff with her father ever happened. Oh, boy, were we taken in."

"This is all way too much for me. I'm packing."

"Linda, wait."

"I don't want to talk about anything, Sam. I've had it."

"Just let me say one thing."