"Okay. I think that'll do it for the time being."
He started out. At the door, he paused and looked back. "Sorry I was kind of confused. It's been a tough day."
"Not a good day at all," she agreed. He remained motionless in the doorway, a dejected pet. When he didn't get the reassurance he sought, he slumped away.
Dance called Carraneo, currently en route to the You Mail It store, and gave him the information she'd pried from the guard: that his partner didn't seem to have any accent and that she had a low voice. That might help the manager remember the woman more clearly.
She then called the warden of Capitola and told her what happened. The woman was silent for a moment then offered a soft, "Oh."
Dance asked if the prison had a computer specialist. It did, and she'd have him search the computers in the administrative office for online activity and emails yesterday. It should be easy since the staff didn't work on Sunday and Pell presumably had been the only one online--if he had been.
"I'm sorry," Dance said.
"Yeah. Thanks."
The agent was referring not so much to Pell's escape but to yet another consequence of it. Dance didn't know the warden but supposed that to run a superprison, she was talented at her job and the work was important to her. It was a shame that her career in corrections, like Tony Waters's, would probably soon be over.
Chapter 12
She'd done well, his little lovely.
Followed the instructions perfectly. Getting the hammer from his aunt's garage in Bakersfield (how had Kathryn Dance figured that one out?). Embossing the wallet with Robert Herron's initials. Then planting them in the well in Salinas. Making the fuse for the gas bomb (she'd said it was as easy as following a recipe for a cake). Planting the bag containing the fire suit and knife. Hiding clothes under the pine tree.
Pell, though, hadn't been sure of her ability to look people in the eye and lie to them. So he hadn't used her as a getaway driver from the courthouse. In fact, he'd made sure that she wasn't anywhere near the place when he escaped. He didn't want her stopped at a roadblock and giving everything away because she stammered and flushed with guilt.
Now, shoes off as she drove (he found that kinky), a happy smile on her face, Jennie Marston was chattering away in her sultry voice. Pell had wondered if she'd believe the story about his innocence in the deaths at the courthouse. But one thing that had astonished Daniel Pell in all his years of getting people to do what he wanted was how often they unwittingly leapt at the chance to be victims, how often they flung logic and caution to the wind and believed what they wanted to--that is, what he wanted them to.
Still, that didn't mean Jennie would buy everything he told her, and in light of what he had planned for the next few days, he'd have to monitor her closely, see where she'd support him and where she'd balk.
They drove through a complicated route of surface streets, avoiding the highways with their potential roadblocks.
"I'm glad you're here," she said, voice tentative as she rested a hand on his knee with ambivalent desperation. He knew what she was feeling: torn between pouring out her love for him and scaring him off. The gushing would win out. Always did with women like her. Oh, Daniel Pell knew all about the Jennie Marstons of the world, the women breathlessly seduced by bad boys. He'd learned about them years ago, being a habitual con. You're in a bar and you drop the news that you've done time, most women'll blink and never come back from their next restroom visit. But there're some who'll get wet when you whisper about the crime you'd done and the time you'd served. They'd smile in a certain way, lean close and want to hear more.
That included murder--depending on how you couched it.
And Daniel Pell knew how to couch things.
Yes, Jennie was your classic bad-boy lover. You wouldn't guess it to look at her, the skinny caterer with straight blond hair, a pretty face marred by a bumpy nose, dressing like a suburban mom at a Mary Chapin Carpenter concert.
Hardly the sort to write to lifers in places like Capitola.
Dear Daniel Pell:
You don't
know me but I saw a special about you, it was on A&E, and I don't think it told the whole truth. I have also bought all the books I could find on you and read them and you are a fascinating man. And even if you did what they say I'm sure there were extreme circumstances about it. I could see it in your eyes. You were looking at the camera but it was like you were looking right at me. I have a background that is similar to yours, I mean your childhood (or absence of childhood (!) and I can understand where you are coming from. I mean totally. If you would like to, you can write me.
Very sincerely,
Jennie Marston She wasn't the only one, of course. Daniel Pell got a lot of mail. Some praising him for killing a capitalist, some condemning him for killing a family, some offering advice, some seeking it. Plenty of romantic overtures too. Most of the ladies, and men, would tend to lose steam after a few weeks, as reason set in. But Jennie had persisted, her letters growing more and more passionate.
My Dearest Daniel:
Today I was driving in the desert. Out near Palomar Observatory, where they have the big telescope. The sky was so big, it was dusk and there were stars just coming out. I couldn't stop thinking about you. About how you said no one understands you and blames you for bad things you didn't do, how hard that's got to be. They don't see into you, they don't see the truth. Not like I do. You would never say it because your modest but they don't see what a perfect human being you are.
I stopped the car, I couldn't help myself, I was touching myself all over, you know doing what (I'll bet you do, you dirty boy!) We made love there, you and me, watching the stars, I say "we" because you were there with me in spirit. I'd do anything for you, Daniel. . . .
It was such letters--reflecting her total lack of self-control and extraordinary gullibility--that had made Pell decide on her for the escape.