In baggy sweats, Theresa Croyton Bolling was tall and slim and wore her light brown hair long, to the middle of her back. The strands had a reddish sheen. Four metallic dots were in her left ear, five in the other, and the majority of her fingers were encircled by silver rings. Her face, free of makeup, was narrow and pretty and pale.

Morton Nagle ushered the girl and her aunt, a solid woman with short, gray hair, into Dance’s office. Mary Bolling was somber and cautious and it was obvious that this was the last place in the world she wanted to be. Hands were shaken and greetings exchanged. The girl’s was casual and friendly, if a bit nervous; the aunt’s stiff.

Nagle would want to stay, of course—talking to the Sleeping Doll had been his goal even before Pell’s escape. But some bargain had apparently been struck that he’d take a backseat for the time being. He now said he’d be at home if anybody needed him.

Dance gave him a sincere “Thank you.”

“Good-bye, Mr. Nagle,” Theresa said.

He nodded a friendly farewell to both of them—the teenager and the woman who’d tried to gun him down (she looked as if she’d like a second opportunity). Nagle gave one of his chuckles, tugged up his saggy pants and left.

“Thank you for coming. You go by ‘Theresa’?”

“Mostly Tare.”

Dance said to her aunt, “Do you mind if I talk to your niece alone?”

“It’s okay.” This was from the girl. The aunt hesitated. “It’s okay,” the girl repeated more firmly. A hit of exasperation. Like musicians with their instruments, young people can get an infinite variety of sounds out of their voices.

Dance had arranged a room at a chain motel near CBI headquarters. It was booked under one of the fictional names she sometimes used for witnesses.

TJ escorted the aunt to the office of Albert Stemple, who would take her to the motel and wait with her.

When they were alone, Dance came out from around the desk and closed her door. She didn’t know if the girl had hidden memories to be tapped, some facts that could help lead them to Pell. But she was going to try to find out. It would be difficult, though. Despite the girl’s strong personality and her gutsy foray here, she’d be doing what every other seventeen-year-old in the universe would do at a time like this: raising subconscious barriers to protect herself from the pain of recollection.

Dance would get nothing from her until those barriers were lowered. In her interrogations and interviews the agent didn’t practice classic hypnosis. She did, though, know that subjects who were relaxed and not focused on external stimuli could remember events that otherwise they might not. The agent directed Theresa to the comfortable couch and shut off the bright overhead light, leaving a single yellow desk lamp burning.

“You comfortable?”