Theresa was certainly grateful for what her aunt had done for her over the years and gave the woman a lot of credit, she really did. After those terrible days in Carmel eight years ago her aunt had taken charge of the girl everybody called the Sleeping Doll. Theresa found herself adopted, relocated, renamed (TheresaBolling; could be worse) and plopped down on the chairs of dozens of therapists, all of whom were clever and sympathetic and who plotted out “routes to psychological wellness by exploring the grieving process and being particularly mindful of the value of transference with parental figures in the treatment.”
Some shrinks helped, some didn’t. But the most important factor—time—worked its patient magic and Theresa became someone other than the Sleeping Doll, survivor of a childhood tragedy. She was a student, friend, occasional girlfriend, veterinary assistant, not bad sprinter in the fifty-and the hundred-yard dash, guitarist who could play Scott Joplin’s “The Entertainer” and do the diminished chord run up the neck without a single squeak on the strings.
Now, though, a setback. The killer was out of jail, true. But that wasn’t the real problem. No, it was the way her aunt was handling everything. It was like reversing the clock, sending her back in time, six, seven, oh, God,eight years. Theresa felt as if she were the Sleeping Doll once again, all the gains erased.
Honey, honey, wake up, don’t be afraid. I’m a policewoman. See this badge? Why don’t you get your clothes and go into your bathroom and get changed.
Her aunt was now panicked, edgy, paranoid. It was like in that HBO series she’d watched when she was over at Bradley’s last year. About a prison. If something bad happened, the guards would lock down the place.
Theresa, the Sleeping Doll, was in lockdown. Stuck here in Hogwarts, in Middle Earth…inOz …
The green prison.
Hey, that’s sweet, she thought bitterly: Daniel Pell is out of prison and I’m stuck inside one.
Theresa picked up the poetry book again, thinking of her English test. She read two more lines.
Borrrring.
Theresa then noticed, through the chain-link fence at the end of the property, a car ease past, braking quickly, it seemed, as the driver looked through the bushes her way. A moment’s hesitation and then the car continued on.
Theresa planted her feet and the swinging stopped.
The car could belong to anyone. Neighbors, one of the kids on break from school…. She wasn’t worried—nottoo much. Of course, with her aunt’s media blackout, she had no idea if Daniel Pell had been rearrested or was last seen heading for Napa. But that was crazy. Thanks to her aunt she was practically in the witness protection program. How could he possibly find her?
Still, she’d go sneak a look at the computer, see what was going on.
A faint twist in her stomach.
Theresa stood and headed for the house.
Okay, we’re bugging a little now.
She looked behind her, back at the gap through the bushes at the far end of their property. No car.
Nothing.
And turning back to the house, Theresa stopped fast.
The man had scaled the tall fence twenty feet away, between her and the house. He looked up, breathing hard from the effort, from where he landed on his knees beside two thick azaleas. His hand was bleeding, cut on the jagged top of the six-foot chain link.
It was him. It was Daniel Pell!
She gasped.
Hehad come here. He was going to finish the murders of the Croyton family.
A smile on his face, he rose stiffly and began to walk toward her.
Theresa Croyton began to cry.
“No, it’s all right,” the man said in a whisper, as he approached, smiling. “I’m not going to hurt you.
Shhhh.”
Theresa tensed. She told herself to run. Now, do it!
But her legs wouldn’t move; fear paralyzed her. Besides, there was nowhere to go. He was between her and the house and she knew she couldn’t vault the six-foot chain-link fence. She thought of running away from the house, into the backyard, but then he could tackle her and pull her into the bushes, where
he’d…
No, that was too horrible.
Gasping, actually tasting the fear, Theresa shook her head slowly. Felt her strength ebbing. She looked for a weapon. Nothing: only an edging brick, a bird feeder,The Collected Poems of Emily Dickinson.
She looked back at Pell.
“You killed my parents. You…Don’t hurt me!”
A frown. “No, my God,” the man said, eyes wide. “Oh, no, I just want to talk to you. I’m not Daniel Pell. I swear. Look.”
He tossed something in her direction, ten feet away. “Look at it. The back. Turn it over.”
Theresa glanced at the house. The one time she needed her aunt, the woman was nowhere in sight.
“There,” the man said.
The girl stepped forward—and he continued to retreat, giving her plenty of room.
She walked closer and glanced down. It was a book.A Stranger in the Night, by Morton Nagle.
“That’s me.”
Theresa wouldn’t pick it up. With her foot, she eased it over. On the back cover was a picture of a younger version of the man in front of her.
Was it true?
Theresa suddenly realized that she’d seen only a few pictures of Daniel Pell, taken eight years ago.
She’d had to sneak a look at a few articles online—her aunt told her it would set her back years psychologically if she read anything about the murders. But looking at the younger author photo, it was clear that this wasn’t the gaunt, scary man she remembered.
Theresa wiped her face. Anger exploded inside her, a popped balloon. “What’re you doing here? You fucking scared me!”
The man pulled his sagging pants up as if planning to walk closer. But evidently he decided not to.
“There was no other way to talk to you. I saw your aunt yesterday when she was shopping. I wanted her to ask you something.”
Theresa glanced at the chain link.
Nagle said, “The police are on their way, I know. I saw the alarm on the fence. They’ll be here in three, four minutes, and they’ll arrest me. That’s fine. But I have to tell you something. The man who killed your parents has escaped from prison.”
“I know.”
“You do? Your aunt—”
“Just leave me alone!”
“There’s a policewoman in Monterey who’s trying to catch him but she needs some help. Your aunt wouldn’t tell you, and if you were eleven or twelve I’d never do this. But you’re old enough to make up your own mind. She wants to talk to you.”
“A policewoman?”