Dance held her eye easily. Sam was so envious of that ability. Her husband would often say, "Hey, what's the matter? Look at me." It seemed that her eighteen-month-old son was the only person in the world she could look in the eye.
Dance said to Rebecca, "Possibly. But Pell was at the front door with a gun. James didn't really have any choice."
Rebecca shrugged. "Still. One of him, all of you."
"Come on," Linda snapped. "They're doing the best they can. You know Daniel. He thinks out everything. He's impossible to get ahead of."
The FBI agent said, "No, you're right, Rebecca. We have to work harder. We're on the defensive. But we will get him, I promise."
Samantha noticed Kellogg glance at Kathryn Dance and Sam thought: Damn, he's sweet on her, the phrase from one of the hundreds of old-time books she'd spent her summers reading as a girl. As for the policewoman? Hm, could be. Sam couldn't tell. But she didn't waste much time thinking about the romantic life of two people she'd known for one day. They were part of a world she wanted to leave behind as fast as possible.
Rebecca relented. "Well, if we got you that close last time, maybe we'll get you there five minutes earlier the next."
Dance nodded. "Thank you for that. And everything. We really appreciate it. Now, a couple of things. Just to reassure you, I've added another deputy outside. There's no reason to believe that Pell has any clue you're here, but I thought it couldn't hurt."
"Won't say no to that," Rebecca said.
The agent glanced at the clock. It was 10:15. "I'm proposing we call it quits for tonight. If you think of anything else about Pell or the case and want to talk about it, I can be here in twenty minutes. Otherwise, we'll reconvene in the morning. You've got to be exhausted."
Samantha said, "Reunions have a way of doing that."
*
Parking in the back of the Sea View, Jennie shut off the Toyota's engine. Daniel Pell didn't get out. He felt numb and everything seemed surreal: the lights ghostly auras in the fog, the slow-motion sound of the waves piling up on Asilomar Beach.
An alternate world, out of some weird movie the cons would watch in Capitola and talk about for months afterward.
All because of the bizarre incident at the prosecutor's house.
"Are you all right, sweetie?"
He said nothing.
"I don't like it that you're unhappy." She rested a hand on his leg. "I'm sorry things didn't work out for you."
He was thinking of that instant eight years ago, at the Croyton trial, when he had turned his blue eyes, blue like ice, on prosecutor James Reynolds, to intimidate, to make him lose his concentration. But Reynolds had glanced his way and snickered. Then turned to the jury with a wink and a sour joke.
And they had laughed too.
All his efforts were wasted. The spell was broken. Pell had been convinced that he could will his way to an acquittal, to make the jury believe that Jimmy Newberg was the killer, that Pell was a victim too; all he'd done was act in self-defense.
Reynolds, laughing, like Pell was some kid making faces at adults.
Calling him the Son of Manson . . .
Controlling me!
That had been the unforgivable sin. Not prosecuting Pell--no, many people had done that. But controlling him. Jerking him about like a puppet to be laughed at.
And not long after that the jury foreman had read the verdict. He saw his precious mountaintop vanishing, his freedom, his independence, the Family. All gone. His whole life destroyed by a laugh.
And now Reynolds--a threat to Pell as serious as Kathryn Dance--would go underground, be far more difficult to find.
He shivered in rage.
"You okay, baby?"
Now, still feeling like he was in a different dimension, Pell told Jennie the story about Reynolds in court and the danger he represented--a story no one knew.