Protective Confinement

There were other things on the table—ceremonial objects. A bowl of corn maize. A ceremonial pipe. Eagle feathers. A bundle of sage tied with twine. These things were used in a number of kachina dances and rituals, and she was disgusted that Russell had perverted Native American culture—her culture—for his own twisted purposes. Three votive candles cast flickering light on the dirty, unadorned walls.

She continued to work with the dull blade. Why had he left the knife?

Every time Russell had entered the room, he told her that she was being tested. She had to prove herself worthy. He was judging her. If she failed, she would die.

The knife slipped. The pointed tip slashed through her dark crimson blouse and pierced the flesh of her forearm. She cried out.

Oh no, what if he heard her? Standing very still, she listened for the sound of his footsteps outside the locked door. She heard nothing. No reaction to her outcry.

Russell might be sleeping. He might have left.

But he’d be back. She knew he’d be back. A wave of dread washed over her. He’d been in and out several times, bringing food and the drugged water. He had carried her, still bound, into the bathroom and insisted that she wash herself. He wanted her to be clean.

Though she couldn’t remember, she thought she’d been bathed. Once, she’d awakened to find Russell brushing her hair and crooning. She had to get away from him.

Adjusting her grip on the haft, she dragged the dull blade across the rope. The cut on her arm dripped blood, hot as lava flowing down to her elbow. If she could slice through one strand of these complicated knots, she could work her way free.

Frustrated with her slow progress, she yanked. The bonds on her wrists tightened, cutting off circulation. But the rope was almost severed. With a final stroke, it tore apart.

Now she could work the knots loose. She replaced the knife on the table. Using her teeth, she tore at the knots.

Then she heard drumming from the outer room. The timbre and cadence reminded her of the Navajo powwows on the reservation. The drumming always came before Russell entered the room.

She couldn’t allow him to see that she’d cut the rope. Moving as quickly as she could, Cara returned to the narrow bed and closed her eyes, pretending to sleep.

From outside the door, the drumming stopped. She heard voices raised in a heated conversation. Someone else was here. It wasn’t the first time she’d heard another person. Another man. But she hadn’t seen anyone but Russell.

She heard the snick of the key in the lock and curled into a ball. Her black hair fell across her face. She peeked through her nearly closed eyelids, watching Russell stride into the room. He was bare-chested.

He stood over her. “Cara, are you awake?”

She didn’t respond. Through slitted eyes, she watched as he lifted the water bottle. “No more of this for you,” he said. “I want you alert.”

Why? What was he going to do to her?

He sat beside her on the bed. Roughly, he yanked her against his chest. Her cheek rested against his damp flesh. He smelled like sweat. She twisted her arms to hide the cut rope and the blood on her arm.

Cradling her head against his arm, he stroked her hair off her forehead. “You’re mine, Cara. You belong to me.”

His voice was as gentle as an adoring lover, and she fought the bitterness that curdled in her stomach.

He caressed her shoulders. At her elbow, his hand strayed to her breast and he cupped her. It took an effort not to lash out. Not to complain. She had to make him think she was unconscious and pray that he wouldn’t notice the cut strand of rope.

“You’re mine,” he whispered. “You’re different from the others.”

Others? Had there been other women?

“You’ll see it my way,” he said. “You’ll realize that we’re meant to be together. It won’t be much longer. Only a few hours until dawn.”

And then what?

Abruptly, he shoved her out of his arms. She fell back on the bed, forcing herself not to move, not to speak.

He left the room, and she heard the key in the lock.

She had to escape before sunrise.

DASH UNHOLSTERED HIS PISTOL and adjusted his Kevlar vest. A night breeze rushed against his face but the wind did nothing to cool his agitation. He was on the verge of apprehending the Judge.

He’d selected a team from the Santa Fe FBI and the local police, including Detective Meier, who had been alert enough to notice the e-mail from the Judge on Cara’s computer.

Tracking the e-mail had led through several blinds but finally produced results. The messages had originated with Russell Graff, age twenty-four, a former student of Dr. Cara Messinger. Russell had lived in San Francisco until three years ago when he’d left for college in Santa Fe. His departure coincided with the time when the Judge serial killings ceased.

As soon as Dash had a name, gathering information was relatively simple. A phone call told him that Russell Graff had left the site of the archaeology dig in southern Colorado where he had been working. He’d used a credit card to rent an adobe-style bungalow at the Broken Bow Resort on the outskirts of Santa Fe.

At one time, this seedy collection of run-down huts might have merited “resort” status. Not anymore. A poorly maintained dirt pathway wandered around an unfilled swimming pool. Twelve broken-down bungalows formed an outer circle. Even in the dark, Dash could see myriad cracks in the stucco walls. The wooden doors were scarred and scratched. Windows were filthy. Only two other renters had to be evacuated.

Dash and his team surrounded Bungalow Seven, rented by Russell Graff, aka the Judge. His car wasn’t here, but a light shone through the crack in the curtains.

Dash signaled to the two men with the battering ram. Silently, they moved into place.

With a glance toward Meier, Dash whispered a reminder. “We need to take him alive.”

The detective nodded. “There are other murders to solve.”

Murder? Dash hoped not. He hoped they’d be in time to rescue Dr. Cara Messinger.

He gave a nod to the two men with the ram. They drew back and let go. The door crashed open.

Dash raced through. “FBI. Freeze.”

His warning echoed through empty space. He ran through the front room and kitchenette, charged into the bedroom and bathroom. His men swarmed into the place, searching for a man who wasn’t here.

Dash should have known that the capture wouldn’t be so easy. For years, this serial killer had eluded the FBI’s top profilers and forensic ViCAP experts.

Was Russell Graff the Judge? Or had they been wrong? Had the trace on his e-mail been a mistake?

Dash stood in the bedroom of the bungalow and faced the mirror. His gun hung loosely at his side. With his other hand, he pointed to the mirror.

“That’s one hell of a clue,” Dash said.

The reflective surface was almost completely covered with photographs of Cara and scribbling that would provide hours of analysis for the profilers.

Dash knew they were on the right trail, and they didn’t have much time. It was after midnight on Saturday. Technically, it was Sunday—the fourth day that Cara Messinger had been missing.

The Judge always killed on the fourth day.

RUSSELL’S HOARSE CRY ECHOED through the night, piercing her eardrums. “You’re mine, Cara.”

She ducked behind a juniper and wished herself invisible. The aftereffects of the drugs he’d been feeding her had distorted her perceptions while, at the same time, sharpening her senses. The fresh scent of juniper and earth mingled with the rank smell of her own fear. Which way should she run? Where should she go? She couldn’t think, couldn’t decide.

After she’d worked free from the ropes and climbed through the window, she’d faced a vast, surreal vista of low sage, cactus and trees. Faraway porch lights glimmered from other small houses. There was a two-lane road. No traffic. In the distance, she’d spied an intersection and a lit gas station attached to another building. A diner? A convenience store? Go there. They might be open all night.

Her instincts had kicked in then, warning her not to make a beeline toward the neon signs. She’d be too easy to track, too easy to find.

Instead, she’d run in the opposite direction. Her long khaki skirt tangled around her legs. The hard, rock-strewn soil tore at her bare feet.

The waning moon hung low in the west. She circled toward the gas station. Then she heard him. He screamed like a wild predator. An animal. “You’re mine.”

Terror raced through her. Hiding behind the juniper, she heard gunshots. Not just one. He fired a whole clip. As she huddled in the dark, she imagined the bullets tearing through her body, leaving ragged, bleeding tatters in her flesh. A hallucination. She hadn’t been hit. But she felt the wounds; they were as real as the cut on her arm.

She remained utterly still, a rabbit hiding from a hawk, and she prayed. Someone would hear his rampage. Someone would call the police.

Though her heart raced, a heavy pall of exhaustion weighted her down. She sank to her knees. Peering through the juniper branches, she watched as he loped toward the gas station, full of vigor, terrifying in his purpose.

Abruptly, he stopped. His neck craned, and he stared in her direction. She felt his gaze. Her skin prickled. Don’t move. Don’t let him see you.

He threw back his head and yelled, “Cara!”

Her name ricocheted off the landscape. The sound was terrible and insane. Then came a low, threatening whisper that cut through the night air. “I’ll never stop until I have you. Never.”

He turned back toward the house and went inside.

Now. She should move now.

Gathering her strength, she stumbled toward another tree. Though she hadn’t planned it this way, she was close to the intersecting road. If a car came this way, she might flag them down. But her strength was gone. She could barely put one foot in front of the other.

An explosion erupted behind her. The small house where she’d been held captive burst into flames. She saw Russell’s car driving away. Toward this road. She had to get away from the road.

Frantically, she backtracked. Her breath came in shallow, rapid gasps.

Which way should she run? Toward the gas station or farther into the sheltering darkness? Her toe stubbed painfully against sandstone. She fell facedown. Get up, Cara. You have to run, have to escape. But the rich smell of the earth comforted her.

Mother Earth would protect her. She was part Navajo. They were dineh, people of the earth.

She closed her eyes. Consciousness faded.

When her eyelids opened, she was aware that much time had passed. The moon had almost set. The edge of dawn lightened the skies. It was a new day, and she was looking up into a pair of the most intensely blue eyes she had ever seen.

“Are you Cara?” he asked.

She nodded. Instinctively, she knew she could trust this man. He wouldn’t hurt her.

“I’m Dash Adams. I’m with the FBI and I’m here to help you,” he said. “It looks like your feet are hurt. May I help you stand up?”

“Yes.” She appreciated his courtesy in asking rather than grabbing her.

She struggled upright. Her muscles were weak, and the world was spinning. No way would she be able to walk. Gently and carefully, he scooped her off the ground and held her. “You’re going to be all right, Cara.”

She believed him. Her cheek rested against his windbreaker. Her head tilted back, and she studied his face. His forehead was smudged with grime. Dark stubble outlined a strong jaw. His deep-set blue eyes shone with a determined light.

He’d said his name was Dash, and he was with the FBI. What was the FBI doing here? She knew there was a simple answer, but her brain wasn’t working properly. Only one coherent train of thought presented itself. “I want to go home.”

He said nothing. Didn’t he hear her? She repeated, “I want to go home now.”

“It’s not safe. He knows where you live.”

“Russell Graff.” Her blissful moment of forgetfulness was over. A series of nightmare images clicked through her mind. The stun gun. The Judge. The ropes. Drugs. Spiders. She was lucky to still be alive. “You didn’t catch him.”

“No.”

She jostled in his arms. “He said I belonged to him. He would never stop until he had me again.”

He gazed down at her. The expressive light from his eyes communicated with her at a deep, primitive level. He was a warrior, her protector. “I won’t let that happen.”

She became aware of many other people. There were flashing lights from police cars and an ambulance. Firefighters controlled the flames from the small house where she’d been held captive. The stucco walls had crumbled—destroyed by the fire. Soon the embers would turn to ash and blow away on the arid winds.

More than anything, she wanted to forget that this had ever happened, to erase the pain and the humiliation of her abduction.

Suddenly, she was surrounded. Dozens of voices asked questions, while other hands reached for her.

She fastened her arms tightly around Dash’s neck and looked up at him. “Don’t leave me.”

“I won’t let you out of my sight.”

At the ambulance, Dash handed her over to the paramedics, who immediately checked her vital signs. He stayed close. When he’d promised to keep an eye on her, he’d been telling the truth. He needed Cara. She was his only witness.

When Russell Graff, aka the Judge, was finally apprehended, it would be Cara’s eyewitness testimony that would ensure the sick bastard got what he deserved.

Dash watched as the paramedics draped a blanket over her shoulders and treated her wounds. A knife slash on her arm. Bruising at her wrists and ankles. Her knees and the bottoms of her feet showed several small lacerations.

One of the paramedics informed him that her injuries appeared to be mostly superficial, but she’d been drugged. They needed to take her to the hospital for tests. He arranged to ride along with them.

When he approached Cara, he could see that she was more alert, more in control of herself. The glaring lights from the ambulance reflected on her high cheekbones. Her gray eyes, surrounded by thick black lashes, snapped with fierce intelligence.

She didn’t precisely fit the profile for the Judge’s victims. Though Cara had the long, dark hair and slender build that the Judge preferred, she was taller than the others at five feet, seven inches. The other women had been small, almost doll-like. Also, Cara was older, in her thirties. And she was a professor, obviously intelligent. Harder to control.

In a firm voice, she announced, “I’m not going to the hospital.”

“They need to run tests,” Dash said. “You were drugged.”

“I want to go home.” She lifted her chin and confronted him directly. “If I can take a shower and change clothes, I’ll be fine.”

She was deep in denial. Not surprising, considering what she’d been through. Though her clothing was tattered and long black hair hung in tangles, she managed to project an attitude of control. She was one hell of a strong woman.

“You need to be checked out in the hospital,” Dash said firmly. “Then I’ll take you home.”

Reluctantly, she conceded. “All right. But you promise I can go home?”

“Absolutely.” It was better to humor her right now. He was damn sure that she wouldn’t like his plans for her immediate future.

Chapter Three

In the hospital emergency care unit, Cara was poked and prodded and examined from head to toe. She’d been glad to shed her filthy clothing, but the thin cotton hospital gown offered little protection from the bone-deep chill inside her. With a blanket across her lap and another around her shoulders, she sat on a hard bed inside a curtained space. Dash stood beside her.

She looked up at him. “What day is it?”

“Sunday morning.”

Russell had taken her captive on Thursday night. He’d held her all day Friday and Saturday. She counted on her fingers. “Four days.”

“I need to ask you a few questions, Cara.”

Her mind struggled toward coherency, and she remembered that he was with the FBI. In his black leather jacket and blue jeans, he didn’t look like a Fed. “Are these official questions? Like a police report?”

“Later we’ll do a recorded interview. And I’ll want you to write a narrative while the details are still fresh in your mind.”

She wasn’t looking forward to putting her memories down on paper, but she’d do anything to help. Russell had to be stopped. “Why is the FBI involved?”

“The Judge is our investigation.”

The Judge? She recognized the name from Russell’s e-mails. But Dash made him sound like a known entity. “Why?”

When he glanced toward her, Dash seemed to be taking inventory, assessing her emotional state.

Defiantly, she stared back at him. She’d been through hell, but she’d survived. Her plan was to put these four days behind her and as quickly as possible, move on with her life. “Tell me the truth. Why does the FBI care about Russell Graff?”

“You’re not his first victim.”

There were others. Other women who had been abducted. “Are they…”

“Dead.”

She swallowed hard. Inside her head, she heard the echo of shamanic drumming. A shiver went through her. She could still feel his hands sliding over her body, could see his face contorted with rage. He’s not here. You’re safe. You have to control yourself.

Her mind was strong. She wouldn’t allow herself to be ruled by trauma. “Are you telling me that Russell Graff is a serial killer?”

“If I say too much, I might prejudice your thinking. Right now, I want you to remember anything that might give me a clue to Russell’s whereabouts. Did he mention other locations?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Take your time,” he urged. “What did he talk about?”

She pulled the blanket more tightly around her shoulders. “If he’s a serial killer, why haven’t I read about him in the newspaper?”

“Did he talk about the dig where he’s been working?”

“No.”

“Did he mention any names?”

“No.” Her memory cracked open. A torrent of confusion and fear flooded through her. She’d heard another voice. “Someone else was in the house with him.”

His blue-eyed gaze sharpened. “Tell me more.”

“I heard them arguing. It was another man.”

“Did you see him?”

“No.”

“Would you recognize his voice if you heard it again?”

“I doubt it. They were outside the door, and I was drugged. Everything is foggy.”

“But you’re certain you heard another voice?”

“Positively certain. Is that important?”

“Yes.”

Her ordeal was not yet over. In a way, it had just begun. Cara knew now that she’d be forced to relive the events of her abduction again and again. To her, that sounded like hell. She’d always been a private person, staying below the radar and concentrating on her research and her classes. Her personal life was nobody else’s business.

And she wasn’t sure how helpful her memories would be to an investigation. She’d been drugged. How could she sort reality from hallucination? “What happens next?” she asked.

“Assuming the doctors say you’re all right, you’ll be released to my custody.”

“Custody?” The word put her on edge. “I’m not a suspect, am I?”

“A witness. You’re a very important witness.”

“Why so important?”

“Because you’re alive,” he said. “And I intend to keep it that way.”

“That sounds like a fine idea to me.”

When he grinned, Dash looked like a different person. A guy who might enjoy having a good laugh now and then. His vocabulary and his attitude suggested that he was fairly well-educated. Not that it mattered. She needed to be careful to avoid thinking of him as a friend. Dash Adams was an FBI agent. Her only value to him was as a live witness.

“When can I go home?” she asked.

He cleared his throat. “I should prepare you for what we’re going to find at your house. When you were reported missing, your home became a crime scene.”

“What does that mean?”

“It’s a mess,” he said. “Forensic technicians have been going through your belongings, dusting for fingerprints, looking for trace evidence.”

“Yazzie,” she remembered. “My cat. A big orange tom. Is he all right?”

“Your neighbor is taking care of him.”

Yazzie must be furious about all the strangers coming and going at her house, invading his territory. “Yazzie knew Russell was in my house when I got home. He hissed and snarled and ran out the door. That’s what I should have done.”

“We figured Russell was already inside,” he said. “He was waiting for you.”

What had he been doing? How had Russell passed the time while waiting to destroy her life? Revulsion tightened her gut as she imagined him touching her things, lying on her bed, using her toilet. In her mind, she could see him standing at her open closet door, surveying the clothing he’d taken such delight in describing in his e-mails. “When do you think you’ll catch him?”

“I don’t know.”

That wasn’t the answer she wanted to hear. Dash appeared to be a strong, competent person. He ought to be able to give her some idea of when Russell would be apprehended. “Two days? A week?”

“I’ll do everything in my power to take him into custody.”

That wasn’t a direct answer. “Everything in your power, huh? Are you good at what you do?”

His gaze was steady and confident as he replied, “I’m the best.”

THOUGH THE DOCTORS SUGGESTED that Cara be hospitalized for observation, her physical condition checked out. She’d managed to eat something solid and had been drinking plenty of water. Apart from the occasional blur of hallucination at the edge of her peripheral vision, she was okay and demanded to be taken home.

Wearing hospital scrubs and a robe, she slipped into Dash’s rental car. She had no idea how his car had gotten to the hospital since he’d ridden with her in the ambulance. He seemed to be able to make things happen with a few words into his ever-present cell phone, and she had no doubt that it was Dash giving the final nod that caused the doctors to release her.

He pulled up to the curb outside her house and parked behind her car. Though he’d warned her that she might not like what she found at home, Cara shuddered at the sight of yellow crime-scene tape tangled in her shrubs. Oh, God, this is embarrassing. All her neighbors would know what had happened to her. She’d be the center of gossip and speculation.

Dash circled the car and opened the door for her. She was determined to walk into her house without leaning on him. If she moved slowly, it wasn’t too painful.

At the porch, Dash tore off the seal and used a key to open her front door. Inside, she faced the chaos of broken pottery and kachinas—the aftermath of her struggle. Her gaze went from the shelves to the floor where her favorite possessions lay shattered.

Anger exploded in a red burst behind her eyelids. “I want this to be over. Let’s do the formal interview now. Then I can write out my narrative on my laptop.”

“We’ve confiscated your computer.”

“You can’t do that.” She glared at him. “I have a lot of information stored on that laptop. Papers that I’m working on. Research.”

“We’ll make sure we don’t lose any of your files. Everything will be backed up.”

“I need my computer.” Though it was the end of the semester, there was still a lot going on at the university. “I have my students’ grades on spreadsheets.”

“Your laptop is evidence. We used it to trace e-mails from the Judge. That’s how we knew about Russell Graff.”

“You could trace those e-mails?” She felt incredibly foolish. If she’d reported the threats right away, she would have known Russell’s identity. The authorities would have been alerted. “I could have prevented this whole thing.”