Protective Confinement

by Cassie Miles

  Meier led the way through the small house to the rear bedroom. In spite of the guest bed, this room was clearly used as an office. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves were crammed full. The oak desk was piled high with papers. The beautiful Dr. Messinger wasn’t the tidiest woman on the planet. The lapse in perfection was endearing.

  Meier pointed to the broken glass in a casement window. “I figure he got inside through here. He was waiting for her. That’s part of your serial killer’s modus operandi.”

  “Do you have proof that he was waiting for her?”

  Meier shrugged. “I guess not.”

  Making assumptions was the downfall of too many investigations. Dash went to the casement window that opened with a crank—an open invitation to robbery. All an intruder had to do was break the glass, reach inside and unfasten the latch. He noticed the dust used by the CSI team to lift fingerprints.

  “Prints?”

  “Several,” Meier said. “We’re running them through the system. No identifications yet.”

  If this was the same guy, there wouldn’t be traceable prints. He never left forensic evidence. Not a print. Not a hair. Not a fiber. “Tell me about your witnesses.”

  Meier referred to a notebook. “Dr. Messinger was reported missing today by a friend who was supposed to meet her for lunch.”

  “A boyfriend?” Often the individual who reported the crime was the perpetrator.

  “Female. The friend got worried, came here, peeked through the window and called us.” He flipped a page in his notebook. “The last time Dr. Messinger was seen was on Thursday night. She got home late after an evening lecture at the university.”

  Dash wasn’t convinced that he was dealing with a serial killer. Not with so many other plausible explanations. Dr. Cara Messinger might have argued with a lover. Drugs could be involved. For all he knew, she’d had a psychological breakdown and decided to disappear all on her own.

  A massive orange-striped cat stalked into the room, sprang onto the bed and glared at them.

  Dash scowled back. “Who’s this feline witness?”

  “The neighbor said his name is Yazzie. The neighbor also reported that Dr. Messinger’s car has been parked out front since Friday morning.”

  “Which backs up your theory that she was snatched on Thursday night.” He sipped his coffee. “By a serial killer.”

  “It’s more than a theory,” Meier said heatedly.

  The young detective wanted credit for making this connection, even though he was probably overreacting.

  “Prove it to me,” Dash said.

  “There’s one more piece of evidence.”

  As Dash and Meier returned to the front room, the cat followed, muttering cantankerous growls with every step.

  Meier pointed to the laptop computer. “I just got it charged and booted up. Take a look.”

  Dash read the message line. The Judge.

  A burst of adrenaline shot through his veins. If Meier was correct, Dr. Messinger had been abducted on Thursday night. The Judge always held his victims, toyed with them. He killed on the fourth day. Tomorrow. Sunday. “We need to move fast.”

  He picked up the photograph again and stared at the attractive black-haired woman. She must be going through hell right now.

  Chapter Two

  Her tongue was dry. The inside of her mouth tasted as if she’d been eating sand. A plastic water bottle stood on a chair beside the narrow bed, but Cara didn’t dare drink from it.

  Earlier, she’d figured out that the liquid in the water bottle was drugged, probably with a hallucinogen. Every time she’d taken a sip, her wits had gone numb. She’d become dizzy and docile, nearly unconscious. Then came the nightmares. Terrible apparitions of kachina demons. Snake dancers. And spiders, hundreds of spiders crawling over her flesh. Then came the drumming—a thunderous, intense, throbbing beat that had resonated in every cell of her body.

  She shook her head to erase the horror of her dreams. Focus, Cara. Her imagination was nowhere near as bad as her reality. She was a captive with wrists and ankles bound. How long had it been? How many days and nights had she been locked inside this small, square room? She didn’t know. Her memory floated in a dank miasma. A blur.

  After the stun gun, he hadn’t hurt her further. Russell had used a soft cotton rope that didn’t dig into her skin, but the restraint was still painful. Her muscles ached. She needed to move, wanted to run.

  Through the single, uncurtained window, she saw pinpricks of stars. The glimmer was mesmerizing. As she watched, the stars seemed to streak toward her, closer and closer. They became spears, aimed at her head.

  With a frightened gasp, she turned away. Even the stars were against her. No one could help her.

  Frustrated, she struggled against the rope that tied her hands in front of her. This couldn’t be happening. But it was. She was here. A prisoner. And she had to escape.

  Before she could think or reason, Cara needed to move. She sat up on the bed. Opened her eyes. Waited for the room to stop spinning.

  She lifted the water bottle. God, she was thirsty. But she didn’t drink. Carefully, she dribbled out a portion of liquid behind the bed, out of sight. It was important for Russell to think she was still drugged.

  Now came the hard part: standing up. Her feet touched the worn, filthy carpet on the floor. Concentrating on balance, she stood. Her cramped muscles screamed. Her backbone felt as if she’d been twisted in a knot. Ignore the pain. She could do this. In baby steps, she inched toward the wooden table where Russell had laid out several items, including a knife.

  She clutched the leather-covered haft of the knife in her stiff fingers. Every movement was clumsy. Be strong. Concentrate. She manipulated the knife until she was able to saw at the cord binding her wrists. The edge of the blade was dull. This would be a slow process, but it was her only chance.

  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 th
at 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.”