"How are my little gals holding up under the pressure?"

"Bickering and driving me fucking crazy. I mean, it's like not a day's gone by. Same as eight years ago. Except Linda's a Bible-thumper and Sam isn't Sam. Changed her name. And she's got boobs too."

"And they're helping the cops, they're actually doing that?"

"Oh, you bet. I tried to lead things off as best I could. But I couldn't be too obvious about it."

"And they don't guess anything about you?"

"Nope."

Pell kissed her again. "You're the best, baby. I'm free only 'cause of you."

Jennie Marston had been just a pawn in the escape; it was Rebecca who'd planned everything. After his appeal was finally rejected, Pell had begun thinking about escape. He'd managed some unsupervised phone time in Capitola and spoken to Rebecca. For some time she'd been considering how to break Pell out. But there'd been no opportunities until recently, when Rebecca told him she'd come up with an idea.

She had read about the unsolved Robert Herron killing-which Pell had nothing to do with-and decided to make him the prime suspect so he'd be transferred to a lower-security facility for the indictment and trial. Rebecca had found some of his tools, which she'd had from the days of the Family in Seaside, and slipped them into his aunt's garage in Bakersfield.

Pell had sifted through his fan letters to look for a candidate who'd help. He settled on Jennie Marston, a woman in Southern California who suffered from the disease of bad-boy worship. She seemed wonderfully desperate and vulnerable. Pell had limited access to computers, so Rebecca had set up an untraceable email address and masqueraded as Pell to win Jennie's heart and work out the plan. One reason they'd picked her was that Jennie lived only an hour or so away from Rebecca, who could check her out and learn details of her life to make it seem that she and Pell had some spiritual connection.

Oh, you're so much like me, honey, it's like we're two sides of the same coin.

The love of cardinals and hummingbirds, the color green, Mexican comfort food… It doesn't take much, in this mean world, to make somebody like Jennie Marston your soul mate.

Finally Rebecca, as Pell, convinced Jennie that he was innocent of the Croyton killings and got her to agree to help him escape. Rebecca had come up with the idea for the gas bombs after scoping out the Salinas lockup and the delivery-service schedules at the You Mail It franchise. She'd sent the woman instructions: stealing the hammer, making up the fake wallet, planting them in Salinas. And then how to construct the gas bomb and where to buy the fire suit and bag. Rebecca had checked with Jennie, via email, and then, when everything seemed in order, posted the message on the "Manslaughter" bulletin board that everything was in place.

Pell now asked her, "That was Sam when I phoned, wasn't it?"

The call-thirty minutes ago-purporting to be the guard checking up on them was Pell. The arrangement he'd made with Rebecca was that he'd ask whoever answered-if she didn't-to check the window locks. That meant he'd be there soon and Rebecca was supposed to go to the shelter and wait for him.

"She didn't catch on. The poor thing's still a little mouse. She just doesn't get it."

"I want to get out of here as soon as possible, lovely. What's our time like?"

"Won't be long now."

Pell said, "I've got her address. Dance's."

"Oh, one thing you'll want to know. Her kids aren't at home. She didn't say where they are but I found a Stuart Dance-probably her father or brother-in the phone book. I'd guess they're there. Oh, and there's a cop guarding them. There's no husband."

"A widow, right?"

"How'd you know?"

"Just did. How old are the kids?"

"I don't know. Does it matter?"

"No."

Rebecca eased back and studied him. "For an undocumented alien you look pretty damn good. You really do." Her arms looped him. The nearness of her body, bathed in air fragrant with ripe sea vegetation and pine, added to his already stoked arousal. He slipped his hand into the small of her back. The pressure inside him growing. He kissed her hungrily, tongue slipping into her mouth. "Daniel…not now. I have to get back."

But Pell hardly heard the words. He led her farther into the forest, put his hands on her shoulders and started to push her down. She held up a finger. Then set her sketchpad on the wet ground, cardboard base down. She knelt on it. "They'd wonder how I got wet knees." And began to unzip his jeans.

That was Rebecca, he reflected. Always thinking.

Michael O'Neil finally called.

She was glad to hear his voice, though the tone was purely professional, and she knew he didn't want to talk about their fight earlier. He was, she sensed, still angry. Which was odd for him. It bothered her, but there was no time to consider their grievances, given his news.

"Got a call from CHP," O'Neil said. "Some hikers halfway to Big Sur found a purse and some personal effects on the beach. Jennie Marston's. No body yet, but there was blood all over the sand. And blood and some hairs and scalp tissue on a rock that crime scene found. Pell's prints're on the rock. The Coast Guard has two boats out looking. There wasn't anything helpful in the purse. ID and credit cards. If that's where she kept what's left of the ninety-two hundred dollars, Pell's got it now."

He killed her…

Dance closed her eyes. Pell had seen her picture on TV and knew she'd been identified. She'd become a liability to him.

A second suspect logarithmically increases the chances for detection and arrest…

"I'm sorry," O'Neil said. He'd understand what she was thinking-that Dance never would have guessed releasing the woman's picture would result in her death.

I believed it would be just another way to help find this terrible man.

The detective said, "It was the right call. We had to do it."

We, she noted. Not you.

"How long ago?"

"Crime scene's estimating an hour. We're checking along One and the cross roads, but no witnesses."

"Thanks, Michael."

She said nothing more, waiting for him to say something else, something about their earlier discussion, something about Kellogg. Didn't matter what, just some words that would give her a chance to broach the subject. But he said merely, "I'm making plans for a memorial service for Juan. I'll let you know the details."

"Thanks."

"'Bye."

Click.

She called Kellogg and Overby with the news. Her boss was debating whether it was good or bad. Someone else had been killed on his watch, but at least it was one of the perps. On the whole, he suggested, the press and public would receive the development as a score for the good guys.

"Don't you think, Kathryn?"

Dance had no chance to formulate an answer, though, because just then the CBI's front desk called on the intercom to tell her the news that Theresa Croyton, the Sleeping Doll, had arrived.

The girl didn't resemble what Kathryn Dance expected.

In baggy sweats, Theresa Croyton Bolling was tall and slim and wore her light brown hair long, to the middle of her back. The strands had a reddish sheen. Four metallic dots were in her left ear, five in the other, and the majority of her fingers were encircled by silver rings. Her face, free of makeup, was narrow and pretty and pale.

Morton Nagle ushered the girl and her aunt, a solid woman with short, gray hair, into Dance's office. Mary Bolling was somber and cautious and it was obvious that this was the last place in the world she wanted to be. Hands were shaken and greetings exchanged. The girl's was casual and friendly, if a bit nervous; the aunt's stiff.

Nagle would want to stay, of course-talking to the Sleeping Doll had been his goal even before Pell's escape. But some bargain had apparently been struck that he'd take a backseat for the time being. He now said he'd be at home if anybody needed him.