“Samantha McCoy. She disappeared years ago. Rebecca said she changed her name and moved away, was sick of being known as one of Daniel’s ‘girls.’ I’ve done a little searching but I haven’t been able to find her yet.”

“Any leads?”

“West Coast somewhere is all that Rebecca heard.”

Dance said to TJ, “Find her. Samantha McCoy.”

The curly-haired agent bounded off to the corner of the room. He looked like an elf too, she reflected.

Nagle found the numbers of the two women and Dance wrote them down. She placed a call to Rebecca Sheffield in San Diego.

“Women’s Initiatives,” the receptionist said in a voice with a faint Chicana accent. “May I help you?”

A moment later Dance found herself speaking to the head of the company, a no-nonsense woman with a low, raspy voice. The agent explained about Pell’s escape. Rebecca Sheffield was shocked.

Angry too. “I thought he was in some kind of superprison.”

“He didn’t escape from there. It was the county courthouse lockup.”

Dance asked if the woman had any thoughts on where Pell might be going, who his accomplice could be, other friends he might contact.

Rebecca couldn’t, though. She said that she’d met Pell just a few months before the Croyton murders—and she was just getting to know him and the others when they were arrested. But she added that she’d gotten a call from someone about a month earlier, supposedly a writer. “I assumed he was legit. But he might’ve had something to do with the escape. Murry or Morton was the first name. I think I’ve got his number somewhere.”

“It’s all right. He’s here with us. We’ve checked him out.”

Rebecca could offer nothing more about Samantha McCoy’s whereabouts or new identity.

Then, uneasy, she said, “Back then, eight years ago, I didn’t turn him in, but I did cooperate with the police. Do you think I’m in danger?”

“I couldn’t say. But until we reapprehend him, you might want to contact San Diego police.” Dance gave the woman her numbers at CBI and her mobile, and Rebecca told her she’d try to think of anyone who might help Pell or know where he’d go.

The agent pushed down the button on the phone cradle and let it spring back up again. Then she dialed the second number, which turned out to be the Church of the Holy Brethren in Portland. She was connected to Linda Whitfield, who hadn’t heard the news either. Her reaction was completely different: silence, broken by a nearly inaudible muttering. All Dance caught was “dear Jesus.”

Praying, it seemed, not an exclamation. The voice faded, or she was cut off.

“Hello?” Dance asked.

“Yes, I’m here,” Linda said.

Dance asked the same questions she’d put to Rebecca Sheffield.