"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.