"I didn't know them."

"A man or a woman?"

Another hesitation. "A girl, a woman. From out of state." Her head was turned away and she was rubbing her nose-an aversion/negation cluster.

"Where's your car?" Dance asked.

"My-?"

Eyes play an ambiguous role in kinesic analysis. There's the belief among some officers that if a suspect looks to his left under your gaze, it's a sign of lying. Dance knew that was just an old cops' tale; averting eyes-unlike turning the body or face away from the interrogator-has no correlation to deception; direction of eye gaze is too easily controlled.

But eyes are still very revealing.

As Dance was talking to the woman, she'd noticed her looking at a particular place in the parking lot. Every time she did, she displayed general stress indicators: shifting her weight, pressing her fingers together. Dance understood: Pell had stolen her car and said that he or the infamous partner would kill her family if she said anything. Just as with the Worldwide Express driver.

Dance sighed, upset. If the woman had come forward when they'd first arrived, they might have Pell by now.

Or if I hadn't blindly believed the CLOSED sign and knocked on the door sooner, she added to herself bitterly.

"I-" The woman started to cry.

"I understand. We'll make sure you're safe. What kind of car?"

"It's a dark blue Ford Focus. Three years old. There's a bumper sticker about global warming on it. And a dent in the-"

"Where did they go?"

"North."

Dance got the tag number and called O'Neil, who would in turn relay a message to MCSO dispatch for an announcement to all units about the car.

As the clerk made arrangements to stay with a friend until Pell's recapture, Dance stared at the lingering cloud of smoke around the Thunderbird. Angry. She'd made a sharp deduction from Eddie Chang's information and they'd come up with a solid plan for the collar. But it had been a waste.

TJ joined her, with the manager of Jack's Seafood. He gave his story of the events, clearly omitting a few facts, probably that he'd inadvertently tipped off Pell about the police. Dance couldn't blame him. She remembered Pell from the interview-how sharp and wary he was.

The manager described the woman, who was skinny and pretty in a "mousy way" and had looked at the man adoringly throughout most of the meal. He'd thought they were honeymooners. She couldn't keep her hands off him. He put her age at midtwenties. The manager added that they pored over a map for a good portion of the meal.

"What was it of?"

"Here, Monterey County."

Michael O'Neil joined her, flipping closed his phone. "No reports of the Focus," he said. "But with the evacuation it must've gotten lost in the traffic. Hell, he could've turned south and driven right past us."

Dance called Carraneo over. The young man looked tired. He'd had a busy day but it wasn't over yet. "Find out everything you can about the T-bird. And start calling motels and boardinghouses from Watsonville down to Big Sur. See if any blond women checked in by themselves and listed a Thunderbird as their car on the registration form. Or if anybody saw a T-bird. If the car was stolen on Friday, she'd've checked in Friday, Saturday or Sunday."

"Sure, Agent Dance."

She and O'Neil both stared west, over the water, which was calm. The sun was a wide, flat disk, low over the Pacific, the fierce beams muted; the fog hadn't arrived yet but the late-afternoon sky was hazy, grainy. Monterey Bay looked like a flat, blue desert. He said, "Pell's taking a huge risk staying around here. He's got something important to do."

It was just then that she got a call from someone who, she realized, might have some thoughts about what the killer might have in mind.

There are probably ten thousand streets named Mission in California, and James Reynolds, the retired prosecutor who eight years earlier had won the conviction of Daniel Pell, lived on one of the nicer ones.

He had a Carmel zip code, though this street wasn't in the cute part of town-the gingerbread area flooded on weekends with tourists (whom the locals simultaneously love and hate). Reynolds was in working Carmel, but it was not exactly the wrong side of the tracks. He had a precious three-quarters of an acre of secluded property not far from the Barnyard, the landscaped multilevel shopping center where you could buy jewelry and art and complicated kitchen gadgets, gifts and souvenirs.

Dance now pulled into the long driveway, reflecting that people with so much property were either the elite of recent money-neurosurgeons or geeks who survived the Silicon Valley shakeout-or longtime residents. Reynolds, who'd made his living as a prosecutor, had to be the latter.

The tanned, balding man in his midsixties met her at the door, ushered her inside.

"My wife's at work. Well, at volunteer. I'm cooking dinner. Come on into the kitchen."

As she followed him along the corridor of the brightly lit house Dance could read the man's history in the many frames on the wall. The East Coast schools, Stanford Law, his wedding, the raising of two sons and a daughter, their graduations.

The most recent photos had yet to be framed. She nodded at a stack of pictures, on the top of which was one of a young woman, blond and beautiful in her elaborate white dress, surrounded by her maids of honor.

"Your daughter? Congratulations."

"The last to fly the nest." He gave her a thumbs-up and a grin. "How 'bout you?"

"Weddings're a while off. I've got middle school next on the agenda."

She also noticed a number of framed newspaper pages: big convictions he'd won. And, she was amused to see, trials he'd lost. He noticed her looking at one and chuckled. "The wins are for ego. The losses're for humility. I'd take the high ground and say that I learned something from the not-guilties. But the fact is, sometimes juries're just out to lunch."

She knew this very well from her previous job as jury consultant.

"Like with our boy Pell. The jury should've recommended the death penalty. But they didn't."

"Why not? Extenuating circumstances?"

"Yep, if that's what you call fear. They were scared the Family would come after them for revenge."

"But they didn't have a problem convicting him."

"Oh, no. The case was solid. And I ran the prosecution hard. I picked up on the Son of Manson theme-I was the one who called him that in the first place. I pointed out all the parallels: Manson claimed he had the power to control people. A history of petty crimes. A cult of subservient women. He was behind the deaths of a rich family. In his house, crime scene found dozens of books about Manson, underlined and annotated.

"Pell actually helped get himself convicted," Reynolds added with a smile. "He played the part. He'd sit in court and stare at the jurors, trying to intimidate, scare them. He tried it with me too. I laughed at him and said I didn't think psychic powers had any effect on lawyers. The jury laughed too. It broke the spell." He shook his head. "Not enough to get him the needle, but I was happy with consecutive life sentences."

"You also prosecuted the three women in the Family?"

"I pled them out. It was pretty much minor stuff. They didn't have anything to do with the Croyton thing. I'm positive of that. Before they ran into Pell, none of them'd ever been picked up for anything worse than drinking in public or a little pot, I think. Pell brainwashed them… Jimmy Newberg was different. He had a history of violence-some aggravateds and felony drug charges."

In the spacious kitchen, decorated entirely in yellow and beige, Reynolds put on an apron. He'd apparently slipped it off to answer the door. "I took up cooking after I retired. Interesting contrast. Nobody likes a prosecutor. But"-he nodded at a large orange skillet filled with cooking seafood-"my cioppino…everybody loves that."