So he’d been forced to change his plans. And fast. He’d done the best he could but the braying alarm told him she’d anticipated him. If she’d done that just five minutes earlier, he would’ve been back in the Capitola prison van. The escape plan would’ve turned to dust.

Kathryn Dance…

Another squad car drove quickly past.

Still no glances his way and Pell kept on course. But he knew it was time to get out of Monterey. He slipped into the crowded open-air shopping center. He noted the stores, Macy’s, Mervyns and the smaller ones selling Mrs. See’s Candy, books (Pell loved and devoured them—the more you knew, the more control you had), video games, sports equipment, cheap clothes and cheaper jewelry. The place was packed. It was June; many schools were out of session.

One girl, college age, came out of a store, a bag over her shoulder. Beneath her jacket was a tight red tank top. One glance at it, and the swelling began inside him. The bubble, expanding. (The last time he’d intimidated a con, and bribed a guard, to swing a conjugal visit with the con’s wife in Capitola was a year ago. A long, long year…)

He stared at her, following only a few feet behind, enjoying the sight of the hair and her tight jeans, trying to smell her, trying to get close enough to brush against her as he walked past, which is an assault just as surely as being dragged into an alley and stripped at knifepoint.

Rape is in the eye of the beholder….

Ah, but then she turned into another store and vanished from his life.

My loss, dear, he thought.

But not yours, of course.

In the parking lot, Pell saw a turquoise Ford Thunderbird. Inside he could just make out a woman, brushing her long blond hair.

Ah…

Walking closer. Her nose was bumpy and she was a skinny little thing, not much in the chest department. But that didn’t stop the balloon within him growing, ten times, a hundred. It was going to burst soon.

Daniel Pell looked around. Nobody else nearby.

He walked forward through the rows of cars, closing the distance.

Jennie Marston finished with her hair.

This particular aspect of her body she loved. It was shiny and thick and when she spun her head it flowed like a shampoo model’s in a slo-mo TV commercial. She twisted the Thunderbird’s rearview mirror back into position. Shut the radio off. Touched her nose, the bump.

Stop it!

As she was reaching for the door handle she gave a gasp. It was opening on its own.

Jennie froze, staring up at the wiry man, who was leaning down.

Neither of them moved for a moment. Then he pulled the door open. “You’re the picture of delight, Jennie Marston,” he said. “Prettier than I imagined.”