Dance said, "And he didn't type the URL to Manslaughter dot com directly, in case we checked the computer and would find the website."

"Right. He used the search engine instead."

"Clever. Can you find out who posted it?"

"It was anonymous. No way to trace it."

"And what did it say?"

He read her the short message, only a few lines long. There was no doubt it was intended for Pell; it gave the last-minute details of the escape. The poster of the message added something else at the end, but, as Dance listened, she shook her head. It made no sense.

"I'm sorry, could you repeat that?"

He did.

"Okay," Dance said. "Appreciate it. Forward me a copy of that." She gave her email address.

"Anything else I can do, let me know."

Dance disconnected and stood silently for a moment, trying to fathom the message. O'Neil noticed her troubled face but didn't disturb her with questions.

She debated and then came to a decision. She called Charles Overby and told him about the camper park in Utah. Her boss was delighted at the news.

Then, thinking about the conversation with Eddie Chang about her imaginary date with Pell, she called Rey Carraneo back and sent him on another assignment.

As the young agent digested her request he said uncertainly, "Well, sure, Agent Dance. I guess."

She didn't blame him; the task was unorthodox, to say the least. Still, she said, "Pull out all the stops."

"Um."

She deduced he hadn't heard the expression.

"Move fast."

"We're getting sand dabs."

"Okay," Jennie agreed. "What's that?"

"These little fish. Like anchovies, but they're not salty. We'll get sandwiches. I'm having two. You want two?"

"Just one, honey."

"Put vinegar on them. They have that at the tables."

Jennie and Pell were in Moss Landing, north of Monterey. On the land side was the massive Duke Power plant, its steam stacks soaring high into the air. Across the highway was a small spit of land, an island really, accessible only by bridge. On this strip of sandy soil were marine service companies, docks and the rambling, massive structure where Pell and Jennie now sat: Jack's Seafood. It had been in business for three-quarters of a century. John Steinbeck, Joseph Campbell and Henry Miller-as well as Monterey's most famous madam, Flora Woods-would sit around the stained, scarred tables, arguing, laughing and drinking till the place closed, and sometimes until much later.

Now Jack's was a commercial fishery, seafood market and cavernous restaurant, all rolled into one. The atmosphere was much less bohemian and volatile than in the forties and fifties, but in compensation the place had been featured on the Food Channel.

Pell remembered it from the days when the Family lived not far from here, in Seaside. The Family didn't go out to eat much, but he'd send Jimmy or Linda to buy sand dab sandwiches and fries and coleslaw. He just loved the food and he was real happy the restaurant hadn't closed up.

He had some business to take care of on the Peninsula but there'd be a little delay before he could proceed with that. Besides, he was starving and figured he could take a chance being out in public. The police wouldn't be looking for a happy tourist couple-especially here, since they believed he was halfway to Utah by now, according to the news story he'd heard on the radio, some pompous ass named Charles Overby making the announcement.

Jack's had an outdoor patio with a view of the fishing boats and the bay, but Pell wanted to stay inside and keep an eye on the door. Carefully avoiding the urge to adjust the uncomfortable automatic pistol in his back waistband, Pell sat down at the table, Jennie beside him. She pressed her knee against his.

Pell sipped his iced tea. He glanced at her and saw her watching a revolving carousel with tall cakes in it.

"You want dessert after the sand dabs?"

"No, honey. They don't look very good."

"They don't?" They didn't to him; Pell didn't have a sweet tooth. But they were some pretty damn big hunks of cake. Inside, in Capitola, you could bargain one piece for a whole carton of cigarettes.

"They're just sugar and white flour and flavorings. Corn syrup and cheap chocolate. They look good and they're sweet but they don't taste like anything."

"For your catering jobs, you wouldn't make those?"

"No, no, I'd never do that." Her voice was lively as she nodded toward the merry-go-round of pastry. "People eat a lot of that stuff because it's not satisfying, and they want more. I make a chocolate cake without any flour at all. It's chocolate, sugar, ground nuts, vanilla and egg yolks. Then I pour a little raspberry glaze on the top. You just need a few bites of that and you're happy."

"Sounds pretty good." He thought it was repulsive. But she was telling him about herself, and you always encouraged people to do that. Get 'em drunk, let ' em ramble. Knowledge was a better weapon than a knife. "Is that what you do mostly? Work for bakeries?"

"Well, I like baking best, 'cause I have more control. I make everything myself. On the other food lines you have people prepping part of the dishes."

Control, he reflected. Interesting. He filed that fact away.

"Then sometimes I serve. You get tips when you serve."

"I'll bet you get good ones."

"I can, yeah. Depends."

"And you like it?…What're you laughing at?"

"Just…I don't know the last time anybody-I mean a boyfriend-asked me if I like my job… Anyway, sure, serving's fun. Sometimes I pretend I'm not just serving. I pretend it's my party, with my friends and family."

Outside the window a hungry seagull hovered over a piling, then landed clumsily, looking for scraps. Pell had forgotten how big they were.

Jennie continued, "It's like when I bake a cake, say, a wedding cake. Sometimes I just think it's the little happinesses that're all we can count on. You bake the best cake you can and people enjoy it. Oh, not forever. But what on earth makes you happy forever?"

Good point. "I'll never eat anybody's cake but yours."

She gave a laugh. "Oh, sure you will, sweetie. But I'm happy you said that. Thank you."

These few words had made her sound mature. Which meant, in control. Pell felt defensive. He didn't like it. He changed the subject. "Well, I hope you like your sand dabs. I love them. You want another iced tea?"

"No, I'm fine for now. Just sit close to me. That's what I want."

"Let's look over the maps."

She opened her bag and took them out. She unfolded one and Pell examined it, noticing how the layout of the Peninsula had changed in the past eight years. Then he paused, aware of a curious feeling within him. He couldn't quite figure out the sensation. Except that it was real nice.

Then he realized: he was free.

His confinement, eight years of being under someone else's control, was over, and he could now start his life over again. After finishing up his missions here, he'd leave for good and start another Family. Pell glanced around him, at the other patrons in the restaurant, noting several of them in particular: the teenage girl, two tables away, her silent parents hunched over their food, as if actually having a conversation would be torture. The girl, a bit plump, could be easily seduced away from home when she was alone in an arcade or Starbucks. It would take him two days, tops, to convince her it was safe to get into the van with him.

And at the counter, the young man of about twenty (he'd been denied a beer when he'd "forgotten" his ID). He was inked-silly tattoos, which he probably regretted-and wore shabby clothes, which, along with his meal of soup, suggested money problems. His eyes zipped around the restaurant, settling on every female older than sixteen or so. Pell knew exactly what it would take to sign the boy up in a matter of hours.