"The Sleeping Doll" - читать интересную книгу автора (Deaver Jeffery)

Chapter 15

"Are those the best thing you ever tasted?"

"Oh, honey, they're good. Sandy dabs."

"Sand dabs," Pell corrected. He was thinking of having a third sandwich.

"So, that was my ex," she continued. "I never see him or hear from him. Thank God."

She'd just given him the details of the husband-an accountant and businessman and a wimpy little guy, believe it or not-who'd put her in the hospital twice with internal injuries, once with a broken arm. He screamed at her when she forgot to iron the sheets, when she didn't get pregnant after only one month of trying, when the Lakers lost. He told her that her tits were like a boy's, which is why he couldn't get it up. He told her in front of his friends that she'd "look okay" if she got her nose fixed.

A petty man, Pell thought, one controlled by everything except himself.

Then he heard the further installments of the soap opera: the boyfriends after the divorce. They seemed like him, bad boys. But Pell Lite, he thought. One was a petty thief who lived in Laguna, between L.A. and San Diego. He worked low-stakes scams. One sold drugs. One was a biker. One was just a shit.

Pell had been through his share of therapy. Most of it was pointless but sometimes a shrink came up with some good insights, which Pell filed away (not for his own mental health, of course, but because they were such helpful weapons to use against people).

So why did Jennie go for bad boys? Obvious to Pell. They were like her mother; subconsciously she kept flinging herself at them in hopes they'd change their ways and love, not ignore or use, her.

This was helpful for Pell to know but he could have told her: By the way, lovely, don't bother. We don't change. We never, ever change. Write that down and keep it close to your heart.

Of course, though, he kept these wise words to himself.

She stopped eating. "Honey?"

"Um?"

"Can I ask you a question?"

"Sure, lovely."

"You never said anything about those, you know, girls you were living with. When they arrested you. The Family."

"Guess I didn't."

"Did you stay in touch with them or anything? What were their names?"

He recited, "Samantha, Rebecca and Linda. Jimmy too, the one who tried to kill me."

Her eyes flicked toward him. "Would you rather I didn't ask about them?"

"No, it's okay. You can ask me anything."

Never tell someone not to talk about a subject. Keep a smile on your face and suck out every bit of information you can. Even if it hurts.

"Did they turn you in, the women?"

"Not exactly. They didn't even know we were going to the Croytons', Jimmy and me. But they didn't back me up after I got arrested. Linda, she burnt some evidence and lied to the police. But even her, she finally caved and helped them." A sour laugh. "And look at what I did for them. I gave them a home. Their own parents didn't give a shit about them. I gave them a family."

"Are you upset? I don't want to upset you."

"No." Pell smiled. "It's okay, lovely."

"Do you think about them much?"

Ah, so that's it. Pell had worked hard all his life to spot the subtext beneath people's comments. He now realized that Jennie was jealous. It was a petty emotion, one that was easy to put down, but it was also a central force in the universe.

"Nope. I haven't heard from them for years. I wrote for a while. Linda was the only one who answered. But then she said her lawyer told her it'd look bad for her parole and she stopped. Felt bad about that, I have to say."

"I'm sorry, honey."

"For all I know, they're dead, or maybe married and happy. I was mad at first but then I understood that I made a mistake with them. I picked wrong. Not like you. You're good for me; they weren't."

She lifted his hand to her mouth and kissed his knuckles one at a time.

Pell was studying the map again. He loved maps. When you were lost, you were helpless, out of control. He remembered how maps-well, the lack of a map-played a role in the history of this area of California, where they sat right now, in fact, Monterey Bay. In the Family, years ago, Linda had read aloud after dinner, all of them sitting in a circle. Pell had often picked works by local authors and books that were set here, and he remembered one, a history of Monterey. The bay had been discovered by the Spanish in the early 1600s. The Bahia de Monte Rey, named after a rich patron of the expedition, was considered a real plum-fertile land, a perfect port, strategic location-and the governor wanted to build a major colony there. 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 roadblock?

O'Neil called Monterey County central dispatch on his Motorola. "It's O'Neil."

"Go ahead, sir. Over."

"We're on One, northbound, just short of Moss Landing. Traffic's stopped. What's the story?"

"Be advised. There's…they're evacuating Duke Power. Fire or something. It's pretty bad. They've got multiple injuries. Two fatalities."

Oh, no, Dance thought, exhaling a sigh. Not more deaths.

"Fire?" O'Neil asked.

"Just what Pell did at the courthouse." Dance squinted. She could see a column of black smoke. Emergency planners took seriously any risk of a conflagration around here. Several years ago a huge fire had raged through an abandoned oil tank at the power facility. The plant was now gas-not oil-operated and the odds of a serious fire were much lower. Still, security would have frozen Highway 1 in both directions and started to evacuate anyone nearby.

O'Neil snapped, "Tell CHP or Monterey Fire or whoever's running the scene to clear a path. We've got to get through. We're in pursuit of that escapee. Over."

"Roger, Detective…Hold on…" Silence for a minute. Then: "Be advised… Just heard from Watsonville Fire. I don't know… Okay, the plant's not burning. The fire's just a car in front of the main gate. I don't know who called in the eleven-forty-one. No injuries that anybody can tell. That was a false report… And we've got some calls from Jack's. The suspect pulled a gun and fled."

"Hell, he made us," O'Neil muttered.

Dance took the microphone. "Roger. Are any police on the scene?"

"Stand by… Affirmative. One Watsonville officer. The rest are fire and rescue."

"One officer," Dance said, scowling, shaking her head.

"Tell him that Daniel Pell's there somewhere. And he will target innocents and officers."

"Roger. I'll relay that."

Dance wondered how the sole officer would fare; Moss Landing's worst crimes were DUIs and the thefts of cars and boats.

"You get all that, TJ?"

"Fuck" was the reply from the speaker. TJ didn't bother much with radio codes.

O'Neil slammed the microphone into the cradle in frustration.

Their plea to move the traffic along wasn't having any effect.

Dance told him, "Let's try to get up there anyway. I don't care if we need bodywork."

O'Neil nodded. He hit the siren and started along the shoulder, which was sandy in parts, rocky in others, and in several places barely passable.

But slowly the motorcade made its way forward.