Some people got killed. . . .
Don't worry about it, she told herself. Working on her face, concentrating the way her mother had taught her. It was one of the nice things the woman had done for her. "Put the light here, the dark here--we've got to do something with that nose of yours. Smooth it in . . . blend it. Good."
Though her mother often took away the nice as fast as shattering a glass.
Well, it looked fine until you messed it up. Honestly, what's wrong with you? Do it again. You look like a whore.
*
Daniel Pell was strolling down the sidewalk from the small covered garage connected to an office building in Monterey.
He'd had to abandon Billy's Honda Civic earlier than he'd planned. He'd heard on the news that the police had found the Worldwide Express truck, which meant they would probably assume he was in the Civic. He'd apparently evaded the roadblocks just in time.
How 'bout that, Kathryn?
Now he continued along the sidewalk, with his head down. He wasn't concerned about being out in public, not yet. Nobody would expect him here. Besides, he looked different. In addition to the civilian clothes he was smooth-shaven. After dumping Billy's car he'd slipped into the back parking lot of a motel, where he'd gone through the trash. He'd found a discarded razor and a tiny bottle of the motel's giveaway body lotion. Crouching by the Dumpster, he'd used them to shave off the beard.
He now felt the breeze on his face, smelled something in the air: ocean and seaweed. First time in years. He loved the scent. In Capitola prison the air you smelled was the air they decided to send to you through the air conditioner or heating system and it didn't smell like anything.
A squad car went past.
Hold fast . . .
Pell was careful to maintain his pace, not looking around, not deviating from his route. Changing your behavior draws attention. And that puts you at a disadvantage, gives people information about you. They can figure out why you changed, then use it against you.
That's what had happened at the courthouse.
Kathryn . . .
Pell had had the interrogation all planned out: If he could do so without arousing suspicion, he was going to get information from whoever was interviewing him, learn how many guards were in the courthouse and where they were, for instance.
But then to his astonishment she'd learned exactly what he was doing.
Where else
could somebody find a hammer of yours? . . . Now let's think about the wallet. Where could that've come from? . . .
So he'd been forced to change his plans. And fast. He'd done the best he could but the braying alarm told him she'd anticipated him. If she'd done that just five minutes earlier, he would've been back in the Capitola prison van. The escape plan would've turned to dust.
Kathryn Dance . . .
Another squad car drove quickly past.
Still no glances his way and Pell kept on course. But he knew it was time to get out of Monterey. He slipped into the crowded open-air shopping center. He noted the stores, Macy's, Mervyns and the smaller ones selling Mrs. See's Candy, books (Pell loved and devoured them--the more you knew, the more control you had), video games, sports equipment, cheap clothes and cheaper jewelry. The place was packed. It was June; many schools were out of session.
One girl, college age, came out of a store, a bag over her shoulder. Beneath her jacket was a tight red tank top. One glance at it, and the swelling began inside him. The bubble, expanding. (The last time he'd intimidated a con, and bribed a guard, to swing a conjugal visit with the con's wife in Capitola was a year ago. A long, long year . . .) He stared at her, following only a few feet behind, enjoying the sight of the hair and her tight jeans, trying to smell her, trying to get close enough to brush against her as he walked past, which is an assault just as surely as being dragged into an alley and stripped at knifepoint.
Rape is in the eye of the beholder. . . .
Ah, but then she turned into another store and vanished from his life.
My loss, dear, he thought.
But not yours, of course.
In the parking lot, Pell saw a turquoise Ford Thunderbird. Inside he could just make out a woman, brushing her long blond hair.
Ah . . .