Kathryn Dance was calling on a Motorola, "Juan, where's Pell?… Juan, respond. What's going on down there?"

No answer.

An eleven-nine-nine was a Highway Patrol code-though one that all California law enforcers knew. It meant an officer needed immediate assistance.

And yet no response after his transmission.

The courthouse security chief, a grizzled, crew-cut retired cop, stuck his head into the office. "Who's running the search? Who's in charge?"

Sandoval glanced at Dance. "You're senior."

Dance had never encountered a situation like this-a firebomb and an escape by a killer like Daniel Pell-but, then, she didn't know of anybody on the Peninsula who had. She could coordinate efforts until somebody from MCSO or the Highway Patrol took over. It was vital to move fast and decisively.

"Okay," she said. And instructed the security chief to get other guards downstairs immediately and to the doors where people were exiting.

Screams outside. People running in the corridor. Radio messages flying back and forth.

"Look," TJ said, nodding toward the window, where black smoke obscured the view completely. "Oh, man."

Despite the fire, which might be raging inside now, Kathryn Dance decided to remain in Alonzo Sandoval's office. She wouldn't waste time by relocating or evacuating. If the building was engulfed they could jump out of the windows to the roofs of cars parked in the front lot, ten feet below. She tried Juan Millar again-there was no answer on his phone or radio-then said to the security chief, "We need a room-by-room search of the building."

"Yes, ma'am." He trotted off.

"And in case he gets out, I want roadblocks," Dance said to TJ. She pulled off her jacket, tossed it over a chair. Sweat stains were blossoming under the arms. "Here, here, here…" Her short nails tapped loudly on the laminated map of Salinas.

Gazing at the places she was indicating, TJ made calls to the Highway Patrol-California's state police-and the MCSO.

Sandoval, the prosecutor-grim and dazed-stared at the smoky parking lot too. Flashing lights reflected in the window. He said nothing. More reports came in. No sign of Pell in the building or outside.

None of Juan Millar either.

The courthouse security chief returned a few minutes later, his face smudged. He was coughing hard. "Fire's under control. Limited pretty much to outside." He added shakily, "But, Sandy…I've gotta tell you, Jim Baxter's dead. So's the Capitola guard. Stabbed. Pell got a knife somehow, looks like."

"No," Sandoval whispered. "Oh, no."

"And Millar?" Dance asked.

"We can't find him. Might be a hostage. We found a radio. Assume it's his. But we can't figure out where Pell went. Somebody opened the back fire door but there were flames everywhere until just a few minutes ago. He couldn't've gotten out that way. The only other choice is through the building and he'd be spotted in a minute in his prison overalls."

"Unless he's dressed in Millar's suit," Dance said.

TJ looked at her uneasily; they both knew the implications of that scenario.

"Get word to everybody that he might be in a dark suit, white shirt." Millar was much taller than Pell. She added, "The pants cuffs'd be rolled up."

The chief hit transmit on his radio and sent out the message.

Looking up from his phone, TJ called, "Monterey's getting cars in place." He gestured toward the map. "CHP's scrambled a half dozen cruisers and cycles. They should have the main highways sealed in fifteen minutes."

It worked to their advantage that Salinas wasn't a huge town-only about 150,000-and was an agricultural center (its nickname was the "Nation's Salad Bowl"). Lettuce, berry, Brussels sprout, spinach and artichoke fields covered most of the surrounding area, which meant that there were limited highways and roads by which he could escape. And on foot, Pell would be very visible in the fields of low crops.

Dance ordered TJ to have Pell's mug shots sent to the officers manning the roadblocks.

What else 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?