She unlocked the doors.
"I better give this back to you," he said, holding out the spray.
Susan reached for it.
But Gutierrez lunged fast, grabbed her hair and jerked her head back fiercely. He shoved the nozzle of the canister into her mouth, open in a stifled scream.
He pushed the button.
*
Agony, reflected Daniel Pell, is perhaps the fastest way to control somebody.
Still in his apparently effective disguise as a Latino businessman, he was driving Susan Pemberton's car to a deserted location near the ocean, south of Carmel.
Agony . . . Hurt them bad, give them a little time to recover, then threaten to hurt them again. Experts say torture isn't efficient. That's wrong. It isn't elegant. It isn't tidy. But it works real well.
The spray up Susan Pemberton's mouth and nose had been only a second in duration but from her muffled scream and thrashing limbs he knew the pain was nearly unbearable. He let her recover. Brandished the spray in front of her panicked, watering eyes. And immediately got from her exactly what he wanted.
He hadn't planned on the spray, of course; he had duct tape and a knife in the briefcase. But he'd decided to change his plans when the woman, to is amusement, handed the canister to him--well, to his alter ego Cesar Gutierrez.
Daniel Pell had things to do in public and, with his picture running every half-hour on local television, he had to become someone else. After she'd wheedled the Toyota out of a gullible seller with an interest in a woman's cleavage, Jennie Marston had bought cloth dye and instant-tan cream, which he'd mixed into a recipe for a bath that would darken his skin. He dyed his hair and eyebrows black and used Skin-Bond and hair clippings to make a realistic moustache. Nothing he could do about the eyes. If there were contact lenses that made blue brown, he didn't know where to find them. But the glasses--cheap tinted reading glasses with dark frames--would distract from the color.
Earlier in the day Pell had called the Brock Company and gotten Susan Pemberton, who'd agreed to meet about planning an anniversary party. He dressed in a cheap suit Jennie'd bought in Mervyns and met the events planner at the Doubletree, where he got to work, doing what Daniel Pell did best.
Oh, it had been nice! Playing Susan like a fish was a luxurious high, even better than watching Jennie cut her hair or discard blouses or wince when he used the coat hanger on her narrow butt.
He now replayed the techniques: finding a common fear (the escaped killer) and common passions (John Steinbeck and jazz, which he knew little about, but he was a good bluffer); playing the sex game (her glance at his bare ring finger and stoic smile when he'd mentioned children told him all about Susan Pemberton's romantic life); doing something silly and laughing about it (the spilled cinnamon); arousing her sympathy (his bitch of an ex-wife ruining his son); being a decent person (the party for his beloved parents, his chivalry in walking her to the car); belying suspicion (the fake call to 911).
Little by little gaining trust--and therefore gaining control.
What a total high it was to practice his art once again in the real world!
Pell found the turnoff. It led through a dense grove of trees, toward the ocean. Jennie had spent the Saturday before the escape doing some reconnaissance for him and had discovered this deserted place. He continued along the sand-swept road, passing a sign that declared the property private. He beached Susan's car in sand at the end of the road, well out of sight of the highway. Climbing out, he heard the surf crash over an old pier not far away. The sun was low and spectacular.
He didn't have to wait long. Jennie was early. He was happy to see that; people who arrive early are in your control. Always be wary of those who make you wait.
She parked, climbed out and walked to him. "Honey, I hope you didn't have to wait long." She hungrily closed her mouth around his, gripping his face in both her hands. Desperate.
Pell came up for air.
She laughed. "It's hard to get used to you like this. I mean, I knew it was you, but still, I did a double take, you know. But it's like me and my short hair--it'll grow back and you'll be white again."
"Come here." He took her hand and sat on a low sand dune, pulled her down next to him.
"Aren't we leaving?" she asked.
"Not quite yet."
A nod at the Lexus. "Whose car is that? I thought your friend was going to drop you off."
He said nothing. They looked west at the Pacific Ocean. The sun was a pale disk just approaching the horizon, growing more fiery by the minute.
She'd be thinking: Does he want to talk, does he want to fuck me? What's going on?
Uncertainty . . . Pell let it run up. She'd be noticing that he wasn't smiling.
Concern flowed in like high tide. He felt the tension in her hand and arm.