﻿ “Until the police can free up someone to guard you, you’re coming with me.”

His authoritative tone that just five minutes ago she’d thought was reassuring now raised her hackles. “And I don’t have any say-so in this?”

“Nope.”

A splinter of fear stabbed her. “Why? What’s happened?” Resa knew how much Archer valued his privacy. How desperately he wanted to bury himself in that basement firing range of his and never come out.

There was only one reason he’d give all that up. Only one reason he’d even consider taking on the responsibility of keeping her safe.

He thought he had the chance to catch the man who’d destroyed his life…

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Mallory Kane credits her love of books to her mother, a librarian, who taught her that books are a precious resource and should be treated with loving respect. Her father and grandfather were steeped in the Southern tradition of oral history, and they could hold an audience spellbound for hours with their storytelling skills. Mallory aspires to be as good a storyteller as her father.

She loves romantic suspense with dangerous heroes and dauntless heroines and often uses her medical background to add an extra dose of intrigue to her books. Another fascination that she enjoys exploring in her reading and writing is the infinite capacity of the brain to adapt and develop higher skills.

Mallory lives in Mississippi with her computer-genius husband, their two fascinating cats and, at current count, seven computers.

She loves to hear from readers. You can write to her at rickey_m@bellsouth. net.

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Geoffrey Archer – This former police detective’s life was destroyed when his wife shot him and committed suicide after having been attacked by a serial rapist. Archer will do anything to stop the Lock Rapist – anything except unfreeze his heart.

Resa Wade – Her sister was attacked and raped by the Lock Rapist. The police say they’ve done all they can, but Resa isn’t giving up. She wants the rapist behind bars – or dead. There’s only one person who wants him more than she does, and that’s Geoffrey Archer.

Earl Slattery – An installer of home security systems, Slattery has the perfect job. He can get past any lock, any alarm. When the one person who can identify him teams up with his nemesis, Geoffrey Archer, he must destroy them both or the burning inside him will never stop.

Clint Banes – Banes took over as lead detective on the Lock Rapist case after Archer was injured. But is Clint as dedicated to bringing the perp to justice as Archer?

Frank Berry – Archer’s day manager of his basement firing range is a loyal friend. But associating with Archer could put his wife and himself in danger.

Silent Guardian

MALLORY KANE

www.millsandboon.co.uk

This book is dedicated to Tina Colombo,

whose help and encouragement have meant

more to me than she can possibly know.

Prologue

The bright winter sun sent a pale rainbow of color through the sheer curtains.

The facets of a diamond solitaire sparkled with prisms of light, almost overpowering the hard blue glint that shone from the barrel of the 9mm Glock aimed at her head.

“No!” he cried. The breakfast tray in his hands tumbled slowly, silently to the floor as he dived toward the bed.

But no matter how fast he was, the bullet was faster. It happened as if in slow motion—her sad brown eyes meeting his, her hand turning—pointing the barrel of the gun at him, the tears glistening on her pale cheeks like the diamond on her left ring finger.

He reached out just as the gun’s report echoed in his ears. The bullet stopped him in his tracks. Yet he still struggled to get to her, to somehow stop her. His bare feet slipped in juice, in coffee, in blood.

As he hit the bed and grabbed at her arm the second shot rang out, and her blood spattered his face and hands, mingling with his own.

Geoffrey Archer opened his eyes to darkness and nauseating, aching loss. He kicked away the sweat-soaked sheets and vaulted up, crossing the room in two long strides. In the bathroom, he splashed cold water on his face, then leaned his forearms against the lavatory and hung his head, waiting for the nausea to pass.

Finally, he straightened, pushing his hair back with his hands. His right hand cramped, and burning pain shot through his fingers and up his wrist.

His legacy from his wife’s suicide.

He massaged his wrist and flexed his fingers as he stepped to the window and threw back the drapes. The red and purple stain on the eastern sky reminded him of that last morning and his dream.

He’d been too slow. He was always too slow.

Chapter One

The barrel of the gun glinted blue in the bright lights. Theresa Wade stared at it, her fingers still chilled from touching the cold steel. She reached into her purse for a box of ammunition and set it down beside the gun. Then she set her purse aside and picked up the noise-canceling ear protectors.

After she’d donned the headgear and the safety goggles, she looked down the narrow corridor stretched out in front of her. At the far end, twenty-five yards away, was a piece of newsprint on which was printed the silhouette of a man’s head and torso in deep blue.

There was no face on the silhouette, nor was there one in her mind. Still, she knew who the target represented. It was the shadowed face of the Lock Rapist. The man who’d raped her sister and five other women, the man she’d seen sneaking out of her apartment building that night. The man who had seen her.

With renewed determination, she looked down at the gun. It didn’t look like much lying there. A few inches of blue-black metal. A hollow tube with a handle.

She reached for the box of bullets, but her jaw clenched and her temples pounded. Her fingers closed in a fist.

“Come on, Resa,” she whispered. Pick it up. She’d brought her gun in here. She’d set it on the counter. And if tonight went the way every other night had gone for the past two weeks, at the end of the evening she’d pick it up, slide it back into her purse alongside the box of bullets and leave the firing range.

But tonight wasn’t like every other night.

Tonight she stopped waiting for Geoffrey Archer to come to her.

Frank Berry, the day manager of Archer’s firing range outside of Nashville, had warned her, “You want to learn to handle that gun, come during the day. I’ll be happy to teach you. But I leave at seven. After that, you’re on your own.”

She’d asked him about Archer.

“Yep. He’s down here every evening till ten. But he’s not gonna help you. Don’t expect him to.”

But she did. Archer was the reason she was here. She could feel him, sitting in his office near the stairs that led up from the basement firing range into the foyer of his Victorian home.

Detective Geoffrey Archer. Former detective with the Nashville Police Department.

She glanced at her watch. Ten minutes to ten. Every evening, right around this time, he came out of his office. He walked down the row of lanes—checking, she supposed, to see if everyone had left. Usually the only people who stayed this late were cops—both uniformed and detective, and her.

Tonight there was no one else here.

She flattened her palms against the counter and kept her eyes on the target as she took a careful breath and waited for him to walk by.

How did she know when he was behind her? Was it a scent? A change in the conditioned air that swirled around her? The ear protectors kept her from hearing his approach. Still, she knew that even if she could hear, she’d have to depend on her other senses. Because he moved as silently as a cat through his shadowy lair.

Something changed and a warm finger of awareness slid down her spine. He was there, behind her. Her shoulders tightened and she suppressed a shiver.

It had been six months since her sister’s attack, but she still started at unexpected sounds and shied away from men. It had taken her weeks to step into an elevator if there was a man in it.

She took a deep breath and turned, but he was gone.

Damn him. He’d done what he did every night. He’d paced the length of his massive basement, then slunk back to wherever he went—his office, his lair, his underground dungeon. She mentally shook her head at her silly thoughts.

Archer was no mysterious phantom, stealing through underground caverns, hiding from the light. He was just a man. A wounded, heartbroken man.

He and she had a lot in common, although he didn’t know it. Not yet.

But he would find out tonight.

She removed the ear protectors and goggles and set them on the shelf, then stuffed the empty gun and ammunition into her purse.

She walked past the firing lanes toward the stairs. To her left was the table with the sign-in sheet for the range. To the right was his office. He was always in there sitting behind the desk when she came in. He’d never looked up.

Tonight she ignored the sign-in sheet. She turned and looked through the door into his office.

He was standing with his back to her, slowly and carefully writing something on a wall calendar. His white T-shirt stretched across his broad, spare shoulders and hung loosely over faded jeans that hugged his hips and butt in that way that only comes with years of wear and washing.

His body was long and lean, yet even with his back to her, he gave off a powerful presence that at once comforted and disturbed her.

He needed a haircut, but his just-too-long hair suited him. The wavy strands at the nape of his neck drew her eye. If she were interested in him—which she wasn’t—she might be tempted to slide her fingers around his nape.

Just as she reminded herself that she only had one interest—learning to shoot her gun—his head angled like that of a predator sensing prey.

He turned and tossed the pen onto his desk, then raised his gaze to hers. His dark eyes were hooded, his brow furrowed. A few days’ growth of beard shadowed his lean cheeks.

She fought not to lower her eyes. She’d felt his sharp gaze on her as he prowled the range, but nothing had prepared her for the impact of his eyes. Even though everything about him conveyed competence and protection, his piercing stare was grim and disapproving.

Resa lifted her chin and stared back. She would not be the first one to look away. She needed him, and she wasn’t about to give him a reason to think she was a wimpy female.

A muscle in his jaw ticked. His mouth flattened into a frown and he crossed his arms.

“Can I help you?” he growled.

Resa’s whole body went cold. She nearly turned and ran. But two things kept her rooted in place. Running was exactly what he wanted her to do. He wanted her to leave him alone. And she knew that if she didn’t talk to him now she’d never get up the courage again.

Her jaw tightened. She sucked in courage with a deep breath. “I want you to help me.”

She hadn’t thought his eyes could get any darker, but they went as black and as opaque as coal.

“See Frank.” He sat down in his desk chair and picked up a sheet of paper.

“I’ve seen Frank. He can’t help me.”

Archer put down the paper and stared at it for a few seconds. Then he leaned back in his chair and sent her a quelling glance. “If Frank can’t help you, I sure can’t.”

“I’m paying a fee to rent a lane here.” A couple of stray hairs tickled her eyelashes, but her hands were trembling too much and she didn’t dare swipe them away.

Something flickered in his eyes. “Thank you,” he said wryly as his dark gaze slid over her pale ecru blouse and sleek black trousers, not stopping until it settled on her überfashionable round-toed black pumps. Then he raised his brows and retraced each inch of her until he was looking into her eyes again.

His stare took her breath away. She swallowed. “I want you to teach me to shoot.”

“No.”

“No? What—why—” She was speechless. She’d expected him to give her a hard time, but he’d shot that single word at her like a bullet.

She closed her eyes for an instant, struggling to stay calm. She couldn’t get rid of the urge to turn and run, and he knew it.

He was trying to intimidate her. Trying, ha. He’d succeeded, and he knew that too. But her sanity, maybe even her life, depended on persuading him to help her. She’d be damned if he would succeed in scaring her away.

When she opened her eyes he was watching her.

“Why not?” she asked. “This is a public range, isn’t it?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Well, Detective Archer, I’m paid through the end of the month.”

He winced. “Geoffrey Archer. Not Detective.”

His hostile growl rumbled through her. She’d thrown out his former title to try to gain a semblance of an advantage over him—and truthfully, to hit him where it hurt.

She’d definitely done that. Too well. She’d seen pain behind his narrowed eyes.

Involuntarily, she glanced down at his hands. They were big and elegant, with long blunt fingers. The only visible indication of the injury that had forced him to retire early was the network of scars across the back of his right hand, and the slight curve of his index finger.

She knew from newspaper reports that more than a year ago his wife had shot him in the hand before turning the gun on herself and committing suicide.

Feeling embarrassed that she’d deliberately baited him and unaccountably sorry for what had happened to him, Resa spun on her heel and walked back toward the lane she’d rented.

She stepped up to the counter and pulled the gun out of her purse. She ejected the empty magazine and laid it on the counter. Then she wrapped her fingers around the gun’s handle.

She wasn’t going to give up. She’d learn how to handle a gun. Eventually, she’d learn to shoot it, with or without Archer’s help.

“What the hell are you doing?”

She jumped. He’d sneaked up on her, something she’d have thought he could never do. She answered him without turning around. “Learning to hold my weapon.”

“It’s nearly ten.” His words were tight, squeezed out from his clenched jaw.

She felt a mean triumph. She’d forced him out from behind the barricade of his desk. She whirled and glared up at him. “I need a few more minutes.”

Without meeting her gaze, he stalked away.

Gritting her teeth and ignoring the frustrated stinging behind her eyes, Resa awkwardly aimed her empty gun at the silhouette of the man who’d raped her sister.

ARCHER HEARD her high heels echoing across the concrete floor of the firing range. He tilted the desk chair back and glanced at his watch. 10:15 p.m. on the nose. Same time every night for the past two weeks. It was almost as if she stayed those extra minutes after closing time to taunt him.

Well, she taunted him all right. But not the way she intended to, he was sure.

She was persistent. And stubborn as hell. It seemed to him that she’d been here every night for at least a month.

He’d have to ask Frank when she’d originally signed up. Frank usually handled the billing and he’d warned Archer that she’d been coming during the day, but was planning to switch to evenings.

There were so many contradictions about her. She was obviously terrified of guns, yet she was determined to teach herself to use one. She did her best to project an image of calm assurance, but her dark-green eyes held a fear that she couldn’t mask.

The bank of monitors on his office wall showed every accessible area of the range. He glanced up at the one connected to the camera at the top of the basement stairs. As she trudged up them, Archer saw the weariness etched in her face.

Quickly, he signed the last check and set down the pen. His hand ached. He rubbed his palm and then stretched his fingers, wincing as the tight muscles and newly reattached tendons resisted.

When he heard the door at the top of the stairs close, he stood and followed. At the top of the stairs, he flipped the light switch off. When he was fully cloaked in darkness, he opened the door and crossed the small foyer. He eased the front door open.

She was backing a white, late-model Sedan out of a parking space. He glanced at the dimly lit license plate—out of habit. He already knew her tag number. He’d watched her leave every night, just to make sure she got safely to her car.

She drove down the hill to the end of his driveway and turned right onto the farm road.

He stood there for a few seconds, then started to close the door. Just then he caught a flash through the brush, coming from where the driveway dead-ended into the road. He froze, stopping the door with his hand.

Within a few seconds, he saw another flash—the unmistakable reflection of the moon on metal. It was a car, running without lights. Following her.

“Damn,” he whispered. “Who are you?”

For an instant he considered jumping into his own car and taking off after them. He considered calling her to warn her.

But it was none of his business. The flash could have been anything. A soup can on the side of the road. A puddle of water.

Hell, even if it were a car, for all he knew it was her boyfriend, making sure she got home safely.

“None of my business,” he muttered as he locked the front door. He glanced to his right at the door that led to the main part of the house, but instead of locking up the firing range and heading to the kitchen to find something to eat, he pushed open the door labeled Firing Range and took the stairs back down to the basement.

The daily sign-in book was beside the entrance at the bottom of the stairs. The last line read, Resa Wade: in 8:03 p.m., out 10:15 p.m.

He flipped the pages backward.

Resa Wade: in 8:02 p.m., out 10:12 p.m.

Resa Wade: in 8:00 p.m., out 10:14 p.m.

His detective’s brain catalogued the information and categorized her. She was honest. Careful. Detail-oriented.

And familiar. At least her name was. He knew he’d never met her before she’d come to his range. He’d have remembered that creamy skin, those dark-green eyes, that sun-shot brown hair.

And that attitude. His mouth almost curved into a smile before he stopped it. Frowning, he headed for his office. There were only two reasons for him to be so certain he knew her. The first could be eliminated out of hand. He hadn’t been with a woman since his wife had died more than a year ago. In fact, he’d hardly seen a woman in all that time, until Resa Wade showed up.

So the reason he found her name familiar had to be reason number two. He went into his office and sat down at the desk. Locked in the bottom drawer was a thick file folder containing all the information he’d gathered over the past three years on the Lock Rapist—the monster who’d caused his wife’s death—who’d taken away the only two things that had ever mattered to him. His wife and his career.

With a gun hand that didn’t work, he’d had no choice but to take a disability pension. They’d offered him a desk job, but there was no way he could be chained to a desk for the next fifteen years. The forced retirement was marginally less humiliating than answering phones and doing computer searches while enduring his fellow officers’ pity.

He pulled his key ring from his pocket and unlocked the drawer. Using his left hand, he lifted the heavy folder out.

An icy chill of dread snaked down his spine as he opened the file. This had to be how he knew Resa Wade.

She was somehow connected to the Lock Rapist.

RESA WAS almost home. She glanced at the dashboard clock. Ten forty-five. A huge sigh escaped her lips. She was so tired. It was a bone-deep weariness that came from too much stress and too little sleep.

She’d been to Archer’s firing range every single night for the past two weeks, ever since she’d come back from Louisville, Kentucky.

That last trip to her mother’s home was her seventh in the six months since Celia had been attacked. Her mother wanted her to move to Louisville and help with her sister. Celia wasn’t doing well. She couldn’t sleep despite tranquilizers and sleeping pills. She sat in the living room looking out the picture window and chain-smoking. She wouldn’t wash her hair or eat unless someone was there to coax her.

Resa’s mother was at the end of her rope, and so was Resa. She’d offered to pay for Celia to go to a psychiatric facility, but her mom wouldn’t hear of that.

So Resa had told her there was nothing else she could do. She’d been away from her work too long, and her work was in Nashville. Her stress level wasn’t helped by her guilt over leaving her mother to deal with Celia.

She lifted her hair off her neck. A dull pounding headache reverberated through her skull. She was exhausted, and yet she felt jittery. It would be another long night without sleep. And tomorrow, she had two fittings and a consultation.

A country-music award ceremony was coming up in August. Her most important challenge yet. She was designing outfits for two of the nominees and a performer. She had to get some sleep. She couldn’t afford to screw up her biggest chance at exposure for her clothing designs.

She turned onto Valley Street, headed toward her new apartment. As she straightened the wheel, she glanced in the rearview mirror. A dark sedan had turned behind her, about three car lengths back.

She examined the shape of the headlights and the grille. It looked like the same car she’d spotted following her last week—last Tuesday to be precise.

Just like last week, she had no idea where she’d picked him up. She hadn’t noticed anyone behind her, then suddenly there he was. It had to be him. The Lock Rapist. Who else would follow her?

Despite the warm May night, her palms grew clammy and cold. Fear skittered up her spine. She reached over and dug the Glock out of her purse, a futile gesture. Even if she were able to load it, she’d never get off a shot in time to save her life. Her only hope was that maybe if he saw the gun, it would scare him.

The idea that the same man who’d brutally attacked her sister and five other innocent women was following her sent terror arrowing through her chest. But why would he follow her? And how had he found her? She’d moved and changed her phone number and her e-mail address.

Her face might be familiar. After all, she’d been interviewed several times about her sister’s attack. But she’d told all the reporters that she hadn’t gotten a good look at the face of the man she’d seen running from her apartment building.

She looked in the rearview mirror again without angling her head.

If it was he, what was he waiting for? Why hadn’t he made a move? He could grab her at any time. He could break into her apartment while she slept. That was what he’d done with the other women.

Celia had been asleep in Resa’s second bedroom. She hadn’t heard anything. Hadn’t known anything was wrong until a musty cloth covered her face. At that point, Celia’s account of the attack became sketchy and disjointed. Resa figured it was just as well if she didn’t remember the specifics.

The back of her neck prickled. She felt his eyes on her as the car inched closer—closer. She fought the urge to hunch her shoulders. She was gripping the steering wheel so tightly her hands cramped.

“Come on, you monster,” she whispered through clenched teeth. “Do something. Just give me one good look at you.” She glanced in her driver’s-side mirror. “Come a little bit closer.”

She squinted, trying to make out the letters and numbers on the front license plate. But the suburban street was too dark.

After she’d seen the car last Tuesday, she’d called the police and spoken to the detective who’d handled Celia’s case.

Detective Clint Banes had been polite and concerned about her fear that she was being followed, but he’d been careful not to give her false hope. He didn’t have enough manpower to put a twenty-four-hour watch on her, he’d said. Not even enough for a night watch.

You’ve got to be careful, he told her. Don’t go out alone. Get his license plates. Or at least the make of the car. If it is the Lock Rapist, and we can ID him through his vehicle, we can find the evidence to put him away.

He offered her the chance to come in and view photos of cars to try and pick out which one was following her. She’d thanked him and hung up.

She turned at the entrance to the gated community where she now lived, apprehension squeezing her chest. She had to stop a few feet ahead to swipe her entry card. She reached up and made sure her car doors were locked.

What would he do? Last week he’d turned just as she approached the well-lit apartment complex. Was he bolder this week? What would she do if he pulled in behind her?

If he did follow her up to the gate, she’d be able to see the color of his car, maybe even get his license plate.

But she’d also be vulnerable. The few seconds before the gates opened were plenty of time for him to jump out of his car and grab her.

She pulled up to the card reader, her card ready, and glanced in the mirror.

The dark sedan slowed down then continued on without turning. He drove under a streetlight, but the light’s glow wasn’t bright enough to give her a clue about whether the vehicle was black or dark blue or some other color.

At least he’d given up for the moment—or gotten tired—or received a cell phone call. Whatever the reason, he was gone for now.

Hardly daring to breathe, she swiped her entry card through the slot, keeping an eye out behind her. As soon as the gates began to swing open, she pulled forward.

The gates closed silently behind her. She was safe.

A shiver racked her body. Quickly, jerkily, she pulled into her parking place and ran up the stairs to her apartment.

As she closed and locked the door behind her, the feeling of safety dissolved into fear as her brain replayed what had just happened.

Her hands flew to her mouth as her throat closed up, threatening to cut off her breath.

She wasn’t safe. The Lock Rapist knew where she lived.

EARL SLATTERY quietly unlocked the door of the modest clapboard house. He sneaked in, eased the door closed and put on the chain. So far, so good.

He’d had a profitable evening. He’d found out where Theresa Wade lived. With a little judicious sneaking around he’d discovered a breach in the fence on the back side of her apartment complex. He had all the information he needed.

Now if he could just make it upstairs to bed without his wife waking up—

Bright lights blinded him. He jerked violently and whirled.

“Earl, where have you been?”

He cringed at his wife’s strident tone. He’d have thought he’d be used to it after twenty years of marriage. But no. It still shredded his nerves like a cheese grater.

“Hi, honey,” he said, giving her an innocent smile. “I told you I’d be working late tonight.”

“You install security systems. It’s after eleven. You expect me to believe you’ve been wiring somebody’s windows and doors all this time—in the dark?”

Earl went over to her and pressed a kiss to her damp forehead. “I do what my boss tells me to do, sweetheart—”

“You do what I tell you to do. And don’t feed me that sweetheart crap. I’m sick of your whining and I’m sick of your lies. Don’t forget my promise. If I ever find out you’re cheating on me I’ll cut off your—”

“Mom—I’m thirsty!”

“Well, at least you’re home. See if you can shut those kids up, will you?”

“Sure thing, sweetheart. And maybe after I take a shower, we can—” he waggled his eyebrows at her.

She cowed him with a disgusted look. “This time of night? Get home on time to help me with the kids tomorrow and we’ll see. Meantime, you need to get up in the morning and get the kids off to school. I’ll be too tired.”

Earl escaped upstairs, nearly tripping on a toy car on the floor in the hall. He fetched his youngest son a drink of water and told all three children to settle down and go to sleep. He stood at the door and watched the three of them bedded down in the same room.

“Someday,” he whispered. “Someday we’ll have a great big house. Each one of you will have your own room, with your own TV.” Things he’d never had living with his grandpa after his mom was murdered.

He stepped into his bedroom and stopped cold. On the floor in front of the closet was his wife’s old hard-sided suitcase. His heart jumped into his throat. That meant only one thing.

It was time! She was leaving!

Thank goodness! The flame inside him had been building. Day by day it grew until his insides sizzled with the heat. He shook his head and licked his lips. It seemed as if the burning started sooner and built faster these days. He was having trouble controlling it for six long months between Mary Nell’s visits to her mother.

If he were lucky, maybe they’d leave before the weekend. As soon as she and the kids were out of the house, he could begin to prepare.

He took out his wallet and extracted the tiny worn envelope from a secret pocket. For an instant he looked at the faded postmark and the almost unreadable address on the front of the envelope. Mrs. Hannah Slattery. His mom.

He touched the name, then peeked inside. There was the lock of honey-blond hair. And beside it the few precious golden strands that remained of his mom’s hair. He brought the envelope to his nose and inhaled.

He loved the smell of freshly-washed hair—blond and soft like Mom’s. He squirmed and tugged at his pants. Damn that woman of his. He needed some relief.

Carefully, he tucked the envelope back in his wallet. Soon he’d be able to replace the lock of hair. Then he’d be okay for a few more months.

He headed for the shower. It angered him that his wife turned her nose up at him. In the whole time they’d been married, she’d never done anything when he wanted to. It was always her timetable. Sometimes he wondered what she’d do if he used her to ease the inferno building inside him.

He immediately wiped those thoughts out of his head. She was his wife. The mother of his children. He could never do that to her.

He held his face up to the shower spray, reliving the fragrance of his mom’s hair, and the girl’s. The smell renewed him and cooled the burning, at least for a while.

Mary Nell and the kids would leave in a few days. Then he’d be on his own for at least a week, maybe more. He could hold out that long.

Chapter Two

By the time Resa Wade showed up at the firing range the next night, Archer knew a lot more about her than he wanted to. He’d spent most of the previous night poring over the thick file in his desk drawer. It contained copies of the police reports for each of the Lock Rapist’s attacks.

Then, after a couple of hours’ restless sleep, he’d called his former partner, who’d taken over the case after Archer was injured.

Clint had verified what he’d already figured out. Theresa Wade was sister to the Lock Rapist’s sixth victim, Celia Ramsey. Celia had been separated from her husband and staying with Resa when the attack occurred.

He asked Clint what he thought about Resa.

“I don’t know,” Clint had answered. “She’s pretty, like her sister. Why?”

“She’s been here every night for the past two weeks.”

“Here? Where? You mean at your house?” Clint’s voice rose in disbelief.

“At the range.”

“Oh.” Clint took a deep breath. “She called me about a week ago. Said she was being followed. Said she was sure it was the Lock Rapist.”

“What?” It was Archer’s turn to be surprised—and furious. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Clint hesitated for a beat. “You’re not on the case, Geoff.”

“I’ve got a stake in it!”

“I know you do.”

“You think it’s him? How would he know about her?”

“I don’t know if he’s following her or if she’s just nervous after her sister’s attack. But she’s kind of an eyewitness.”

Archer slammed his fist down on the desk. “What the hell is kind of an eyewitness?”

“She saw the Lock Rapist running from the scene that night.”

“Damn it, Clint. You promised you’d keep me in the loop.”

“Geoff, you need to get past this. You chose to leave the force.”

He flexed his fingers, flinching when they ached. “Some choice. Sit behind a desk or retire.”

Clint was silent.

“So are you censoring what you think I can handle and what I can’t? You don’t get to do that.”

“Actually I do. I’m already skating pretty close to busting regulations by copying reports and depositions for you.”

Clint was right. He wasn’t obligated to tell Archer anything about the case. Archer was no longer a cop.

“Have you at least got a car tailing her?”

“Can’t afford it. Crime is up twenty percent in our precinct and the governor wants to keep up with surrounding states that are enacting no-tolerance policies for conviction. I told her to get his license-plate number and let me know.”

“Get his license—Clint, you know as well as I do that it’s him. If you don’t give her some protection, she’s a sitting duck.” He winced at the harsh words, knowing they were true.

“I wish I could. The budget’s worse than it was last year.”

“This might be your big chance to break the case. He follows her here. I saw a reflection from a car last night. He was waiting for her at the end of my driveway.”

“You were watching her drive away?”

“It was kind of late. I just wanted to make sure everything was okay. After I saw that I thought about following her.”

“Why didn’t you?”

Archer’s shoulders lifted involuntarily in a shrug. “For all I knew it could have been her boyfriend. It could have been a car passing on the road, although that doesn’t happen very often out here. Besides, it’s none of my business.”

The words hung between them for a few seconds.

“None of your business. I see. So why’d you call me? Just to hassle me?”

Archer clamped his jaw shut. What could he say? He couldn’t tell Clint how Resa’s determination and naive bravery tugged at his sore heart. “You’re going to have another rape. You know that.”

Clint didn’t respond.

“And maybe even a murder, if the Lock Rapist thinks Resa can ID him.”

“Off the record—if I were you, I’d make sure she knows how to shoot to kill.”

Archer planned to do just that. He’d tamped down his anger and frustration and asked Clint to fax him Resa’s statement and any other pertinent information he was missing.

Now he looked down at the statement Resa had given police on the night of her sister’s rape. She’d reported seeing a slight, medium-height figure in a dark hoodie running from her apartment building as she entered that night. She’d wondered about him, but figured he could be anybody from a spooked would-be burglar to a college student out for a late jog. So she’d gone on up to her apartment, where she discovered the door unlocked and her sister collapsed on the floor.

Archer shuffled the papers Clint had faxed to him, but nothing else stood out, except that the follow-up of her statement had been perfunctory.

After making sure the files were locked in his bottom desk drawer, Archer stepped out of his office and looked down the long corridor of firing lanes set up for shooting practice.

A pair of street cops from the 10th were just wrapping up. He made small talk with them for a couple of minutes before they took off. Once they were gone he walked down to lane fourteen and stopped at the edge of the free-standing cubicle.

Resa stood behind the counter with goggles and noise-canceling ear protectors on. She held the gun in one shaky hand.

She wore a frilly blouse and a dark-green straight skirt that strained over her bottom and hugged her hips as she stood balanced with her legs apart.

For a minute, he just watched her. In heels, she was about three inches shorter than he. Her legs were long and curvy, her bottom was shapely and her blouse outlined the delicately toned muscles in her back and shoulders. Her hair was a sort of medium brown—nothing special, except that under the harsh fluorescent lights it shimmered with dozens of unnamable colors.

As he watched, she dropped her gun hand to the counter and uttered a sigh.

Anger, swift and hot, rushed through him. The pressure had been building all day, ever since he’d talked to Clint. He was angry at her for coming here, angry at Clint for dismissing the danger to her, and angry at himself for not nailing the bastard who’d followed her.

But mostly he was furious with her. He knew what she was doing. He’d seen it in victims and their loved ones. She wanted to learn how to shoot so she could take out the man who’d attacked her sister.

Despite what Clint had said, and his initial agreement, he’d decided that arming her against the unknown predator was a stupid plan. It was more likely to get her killed than to protect her.

But he knew how she felt. For months after his wife’s death, he’d dreamed one dream. In it he tracked down the monster who had killed Natalie as surely as if he’d fired the gun himself.

And every time Archer found him, he held his police-issue SIG 220 in his right hand and pulled the trigger—once, twice, three times, until blood coated everything and he was sure the bastard was dead.

But that was just a dream. He no longer had the luxury of shooting with his right hand. The bullet Natalie had shot at him had severed three tendons and made mincemeat out of the nerves running to his trigger finger.

He couldn’t shoot worth a damn with his left hand, and Resa knew nothing at all about guns or shooting. Neither one of them would ever make good on their dream of stopping the Lock Rapist.

She left the gun on the counter and flexed her fingers. Just as he was about to tap her shoulder, she went still.

She realized he was there. She turned, removing the ear protectors and sent him a narrow glance.

“What do you think you’re doing with that gun?” he growled.

Her dark-green eyes flashed. “Learning how to shoot it, Detective.”

He blew out an exasperated breath. “You’ll never learn like that,” he growled through clenched teeth. “And I told you I’m not a detective. Call me Geoff, or Archer.”

Something dark and soft flickered in her green eyes for an instant. “Sorry. I’ll be more careful, Mr. Archer.”

Mr. Archer. Was she deliberately trying to rile him? If so, she was doing a damn good job of it.

“I thought you were going to come back during the day and see Frank.”

“That was your idea. I told you Frank can’t help me with what I want.”

“All right, I’ll bite. What do you want?”

Her gaze faltered. She looked down at her fingers. “I want you to teach me how to protect myself.”

His jaw ached from clenching. He ought to turn on his heel right now. He sure as hell shouldn’t keep talking to her. “Protect yourself from whom? And why me?”

She opened her mouth, then closed it. Closed her eyes briefly, then opened them. Suddenly she looked tired and small and vulnerable.

He steeled himself against the feeling that he should be nicer to her. Nice wasn’t going to keep her from doing something stupid. Nice wouldn’t keep her safe.

He’d had enough. Time to stop dancing around the truth. “I know who you are.”

Her back stiffened. “Do you?”

“Yes, I do. And I know that there’s a firing range about four miles from your brand-new apartment complex. So why did you come all the way out here to Cheatham County—three times that distance, to stand in a firing lane and stare at your empty gun?”

She shrugged, but her effort to appear nonchalant failed. “I heard about your range—”

He cut her off. “No, you didn’t. I don’t advertise. I don’t give lessons.”

“But you are open to the public.”

“Unfortunately.” His accountant had recommended that he make the range available to the public. He couldn’t afford to maintain the house just on his pension and his teaching salary. “But this range is primarily for my personal use and for the use of the Nashville P.D.”

She shrugged. “Well, your day manager, Frank, took my money quickly enough and assigned me a firing lane. You let me know if I’m taking up valuable space that your police buddies could be using.” She started to turn back to the range, but he caught her arm.

“You came here because of me, didn’t you?” He glared at her.

Resa swallowed and tried to look innocent. She hadn’t realized it herself at first. She’d convinced herself that she needed her days free for designing, sewing and client fittings.

She’d made friends with Frank, and through their conversations she’d found out that Archer spent his mornings at Tennessee State University where he taught two graduate courses in Criminal Justice. Then he drove to Vanderbilt Medical Center for two hours a day of physical therapy on his hand.

It had taken her a few days to admit to herself that she’d changed to evenings so she could see him.

All those thoughts rushed through her head in the few seconds while Archer took a deep breath.

“Don’t give me that wide-eyed look,” he said. “If you think I’m going to help you because we’ve both been affected by the Lock Rapist, you can get that out of your head right now.”

“Affected?” She stared at him. “Mr. Archer, people are affected by a sad movie or an unexpected compliment.”

Archer felt pinned by her dark-green eyes. “What do you want me to say? That he ripped our lives to shreds?” The words rasped in his throat. “Okay. I’ll give you that.”

She glanced down at his right hand, which was aching with the effort to hold on to her arm. When she looked back up, he saw that same soft, dark flicker in her eyes that he’d seen before. He jerked his hand away.

“You haven’t told me why you came here. Why me?”

“If you know who I am, then you know why I’m here.” She wrapped her arms around herself and looked at a point beyond his shoulder. “My sister left her husband in June of last year. She’d had enough of his drinking and violence. She came to stay with me to—as she put it—absorb some of my strength.” She laughed shortly. “If she only knew.”

He waited.

“Anyhow, she was doing really well. By December, she’d decided to file for divorce. But—”

“But she was attacked.”

She nodded, looking down. Her fingertips whitened as she tightened her grip on her arms. “It destroyed her. She was never strong—” Resa raised her gaze to his. “She depended on me to keep her safe. And I didn’t.”

Pain sliced through Archer’s chest. She depended on me. How many times had he thought the same thing? Resa’s sister sounded a lot like his wife. Fragile. Fearful. She’d depended on him to protect her. And he’d failed.

He and Resa were more alike than he’d realized. And he hated it. He didn’t want to be like her. He sure as hell didn’t want to know how she felt, or recognize how badly she hurt.

Resolutely, he pushed his own pain and regret back where it belonged, in the lockbox where he kept his heart. “So what now? You’re going to become a one-woman vigilante force and go after the guy the Nashville P.D. hasn’t been able to catch in three years?”

Her face turned bright pink, but she lifted her chin and met his gaze. “I want to learn how to protect myself.”

Archer felt something break inside him. He tried to ignore it, but it was too late. The box around his heart had developed a crack, and compassion was leaking out and taunting him with his failure.

He hadn’t been able to save his wife. Hadn’t been able to stop the attacks. Could he leave Resa alone to face the monster who’d destroyed both their lives? He knew he couldn’t.

“Put your ear protectors on,” he said. He dug in his jeans’ pocket for a pair of earplugs and stuck them in his ears. “Can you hear me?”

She nodded. “Barely.”

“Good. Pick up the gun.”

Her head turned toward him. “You’re going to teach me? I thought you said—”

He shrugged. “I’d have a mess to clean up if you blew off your toe, or someone else’s.”

He heard a quiet huff. It almost made him smile.

She picked up the Glock 19 9mm. It was a compact gun, ideal for carrying as a concealed weapon.

“First thing—every time you pick up your weapon, check to see if it’s loaded.” His voice cracked. Self-loathing blanketed him. He knew better than to leave his gun loaded. Knew better than to leave it in plain view on his dresser. But it was too late now.

“It’s loaded,” Resa said. “I loaded it a little while ago. For the first time.”

“Check it. Check it every single time. Do you know how to eject the magazine?”

She pressed the release and the magazine dropped into her left hand.

“Now inspect it. Make sure the rounds are straight and ready to feed.”

“What if I’m being attacked or carjacked? I can’t tell the guy ‘Hang on while I check my weapon.’”

“This is basic maintenance. You check it twice a day. And once a week, you clean it, whether you’ve fired it or not.”

She glanced at the top of the magazine and ran her thumb across the bullets. She had sixteen rounds. Archer would bet money she wouldn’t get a single shot off if she were in a desperate situation. “Good. Slap the magazine back into place.”

She followed his instructions, her hands shaking a little.

“It’s okay. You’re doing great,” he murmured. “Now, rest your right hand in your left palm.”

She complied clumsily. “I don’t know about this. It feels awkward. Can you show me how?”

He grimaced. He could, but it would be hard, in more ways than one. Even after spending months in physical therapy, and doing strengthening reps on his own, he still had trouble grasping anything heavier than a wine bottle. His buddies on the force, with the exception of Clint, didn’t know how bad the damage to his hand was.

But there was a second problem. It had been months since he’d talked to anyone other than Frank or Clint or his students. He’d had his basement enlarged into an indoor range so he could practice shooting. But after Natalie’s funeral and his surgeries, the cavernous below-ground range appealed to his need to hide out and lick his wounds. He’d forgotten how to talk to people.

So, whether he tried to shoot the gun himself or got close enough to her to show her how, he’d be revealing his weakness to her. He weighed his two options and decided he’d rather touch her than the gun. He was too proud and stubborn to risk dropping it in front of her.

He took a step forward and reached around her, which placed her back and bottom firmly against him. She stiffened slightly. To his surprise his body stirred to life.

He hadn’t felt anything in so long. Not lust, or curiosity, or even much pain. After Natalie had shot him and killed herself, he’d cut off the last of his emotions.

The idea that he could react to a woman’s body dismayed him. It felt like a betrayal of his wife. He swallowed.

Even though his arms were longer than Resa’s, the tiny cubicle made it difficult to move away from the warm firmness of her body. Not to mention that his nose was practically buried in her hair. It was soft and smooth, and smelled like summer, like melons and sunshine.

He clenched his jaw and concentrated on showing her how to hold the squarish, chunky little Glock.

He pressed the grip against her right palm. “Wrap your thumb and these three fingers around the handle, and your index finger on the trigger.”

Then he showed her how to rest her right hand in the palm of her left. Her hands were cold. He could feel her trembling. Was it because she was afraid of the gun? Or of him?

“There. That’s how you should hold a gun. No one-handed gunslinging. No ridiculous sideways shots like you see in movies. Hold it gently but firmly in both hands.” He bent his head toward her ear. “And relax. You’re too stiff.”

Okay, that was close. He let go of her and leaned against the bulletproof wall. He sighed, hoping to expel the scent of her hair from his nostrils. He forced himself to concentrate on her hands. She was the first woman he’d even looked at since his wife had died. And he wasn’t happy about it.

“Now line the sights up with your right eye,” he ordered gruffly. “No, don’t close the left one. Keep them both open. Aim for his chest.”

She uttered a little moan and the barrel wavered.

“Come on, Resa. You said you wanted to protect yourself. Well, this is how you do it. If you’re going to handle a gun, you’ve got to master it. You’re in charge. You—not the gun. Now grip it like I showed you.”

Her shoulders squared and her chin rose. Her fingers tightened around the gun.

“Look at the target. That’s a dangerous man.”

“The Lock Rapist,” she whispered.

“If you had to, could you shoot him?” He saw her throat move as she swallowed.

“Resa,” he snapped. “Could you shoot him?”

“Yes.” Her voice was shaky. “I think so.”

“Because if you don’t know you could pull the trigger, we’ll stop right now. If you aren’t ready to defend yourself with deadly force, you’ll just end up putting yourself in more danger.”

She took a deep breath and a round bit of creamy flesh swelled above the low neckline of her top.

“I can do it.” This time her voice was stronger.

“Good.” He forced his attention back to the gun.

“Now, when I say so, squeeze the trigger smoothly. Don’t jerk, don’t hesitate. Just squeeze.”

She raised the gun a bit and sighted down it as she took another long breath.

Archer breathed with her, unable to take his eyes off her strong, delicately rounded arms. He watched, fascinated, as her index finger tightened on the trigger, just like he’d told her.

The gun went off.

Resa had expected the gun to kick, but it still surprised her.

“Oh!” Her heart pounded. Her fingers tingled with reaction from the gun’s report.

Archer stood behind and to the left of her, so close she could feel his breaths on her neck. So close she could smell his clean, citrus scent.

“That was good. Very smooth.”

“Smooth? Really? I thought I was going to drop it. I’m not sure I could do it again. I didn’t expect the trigger to be that hard to pull.” Her voice was as shaky as the rest of her.

“Glocks don’t have a safety. You can adjust the trigger sensitivity but I wouldn’t recommend it.”

She took off the headphones and let them rest around her neck. Leaning forward, she squinted at the target. “How do you think I did?”

“On your first shot? There’s a small chance you hit the target.”

His voice sounded amused, but when she glanced up there was no trace of a smile on his hard, classically molded face. Instead, he frowned and turned his attention to the recall button. Was he embarrassed by his joke? Or by the fact that he’d been lured into small talk? His cheeks seemed pinker than they had been.

The target swayed in the breeze it created as it floated toward them. She didn’t see a hole.

“I missed the whole thing.” Her ears burned with chagrin.

The target came to a stop in front of the counter.

“No, you didn’t. Look right there.” Archer pointed at the lower left of the silhouette. “You got him in the kidneys.”

“I was aiming for his heart,” she said harshly. The silhouette was the rapist, and right then she wanted him to die for what he’d done to her sister.

Archer’s black eyelashes floated down and back up, and he sent her a searching look. Then he nodded.

“Shoot again. This time get off three shots as fast as you can.” He sent the target back downrange.

She fired, then she put the gun down as if it had burned her. “That’s all.” She held out her hands, splaying the fingers. “I’m too shaky, and I closed my eyes on the last shot.”

He took her hands in his and turned them palm up. “You might want to wear gloves for a while—driving gloves so your fingers aren’t covered, until your skin toughens up.” He touched a red place on her palm. “You could get blisters.”

His warm hands bothered her. She didn’t like the way his touch made her feel—cared for, protected. She knew from long experience that she couldn’t trust that feeling. She’d never been able to depend on others to take care of her. Her mother had worked two jobs and juggled a string of boyfriends. With teaching during the day and waitressing at night, she’d never had time for Resa and her sister, so Resa had raised Celia. And of course it was Resa that Celia had come to when she left her deadbeat jerk of a husband.

She pulled her hands away from Archer’s touch.

“So what’s your plan, Resa?”

His question caught her off guard. “My plan? Oh, you mean for the gun?” She swallowed and prepared to lie. “After what happened to my sister, I just think I’ll feel better knowing I have protection.”

“You’re not fooling me, you know.”

She took off the headphones and set them on the shelf, then picked up the gun and ejected the magazine. “Fooling you? I’m not trying to fool you.”

“You saw him.”

The blunt words shocked her. She dropped the magazine to the countertop. “I saw—I saw someone. I have no idea if it was him or not. How could I know?”

“You’re the only witness they have, other than the victims. And they all swear he threw something over their faces so they couldn’t see anything. They could be lying—out of fear, maybe, but so far we haven’t been able to crack them.”

“I knew Celia couldn’t give a description. But none of the others could, either?”

He shook his head. “They were all attacked in the dark. All asleep. None of them heard anything before he covered their faces. So you’re the only person who can possibly identify him. And he saw you.”

Again, his words, uttered in that low, deep voice, ripped through her like a bullet. “He turned and looked at me. He had on a hooded jacket. His face was shadowed. I couldn’t see anything but his eyes, and I’m not completely sure that I saw them. I felt them.”

She shuddered and took a step toward him. She had to get out of the tiny cubicle. It suddenly felt too small, too hot. “Excuse me.”

Archer didn’t move. “Not yet.” He put a hand on either wall. With his height and his broad shoulders, he loomed over her. The fact that he was so much bigger and stronger than her and was blocking her way should have alarmed her, but oddly she felt safe, protected.

“Do you know the person who’s following you?”

“Following me? How—” Her throat closed up. She hadn’t told anyone except the police detective about the dark sedan. It took her a moment to get her voice back. “How do you know that?”

“I saw a car pull out behind you last night.”

“You did?” A small shred of hope dangled in front of her like a carrot. Maybe if he thought she was in danger, he would help her after all. “You were watching?” “This house is on a hill. I could see the moon glinting off a metal surface. Then after you turned, it moved. It wasn’t somebody you know?”

She shook her head. “It’s him. I can feel it. It’s like he’s toying with me. If I slow down, he slows down with me. If I try to maneuver under a streetlight so I can see the make of his car or get a glimpse of the front plate, he hangs back or turns.” She shuddered. “Last night he followed me all the way to my apartment complex.”

Archer pinned her with his glare. “You knew he was behind you and you led him to your apartment?”

“I live in a gated community.”

He cursed. “That only works if you’re behind the gate.”

“The gatehouse is well-lit. He turned away when I pulled up to the gate. What else could I have done?”

“You could have turned around and come back here. You could have called the police.” He massaged his right palm.

“Right. I called Detective Banes last week. Fat lot of good it did.”

“So now the Lock Rapist knows where you live.”

She nodded miserably.

“Okay. Get out your cell phone. I want to give you my number and get yours.”

She retrieved her cell phone from her purse and entered his number.

“Now. You should move—immediately. And hire a security service.”

“I just moved there. It was the only gated complex in Nashville that I could afford, and I can barely pay the rent now. There’s no way I can move again. And I’d never manage to pay a private security firm.” She managed a small smile. “So it looks like I’m on my own. Now can I leave?”

His brow furrowed and he studied her with those dark eyes. She stepped forward, violating his comfort zone and her own. She felt heat radiating from him through the barriers of their clothes. It had to be her imagination.

He lowered his arms and stood aside, giving her a free path out of the lane.

“I’ll follow you home tonight.”

She turned to look at him. “What? No. I can’t let you do that. I’m fine—besides…”

He watched her expectantly.

She swallowed. “You’re going to think I’m crazy.”

A tight smile lit his face. “I doubt it. Hell, most days I feel like I’m going nuts myself.”

“I think he only follows me on Tuesday. But then I’ve only noticed him twice, so that’s hardly a representative sample.”

“No, but it could be significant. The attacks have occurred in a regular pattern too. June and December, with one exception.” Bitterness edged his voice.

She considered his words. “My sister’s attack was this past December. When exactly were the others?”

“December two years ago, then the next June, then December again—” he paused for an instant “—then February, June, and your sister this past December.”

February. The one anomaly in the rapist’s pattern. Archer’s wife’s attack. “And you were on the case for—?”

“I took over as lead detective after the second rape.” He wiped his face. The pale web of scars on the back of his hand glimmered in the harsh range lights. “The first thing I did was cut off all media attention. He wasn’t happy about that.”

“Media attention? Why would he want attention?” Resa asked.

“Serial offenders typically crave the notoriety. Plus, they need to gloat over how far behind the investigators are. They’ll go to almost any lengths to keep the media’s attention focused on them.”

Resa’s stomach churned with a sudden relization. “Oh, Archer. That’s why he attacked your wife,” she whispered.

He nodded shortly, and Resa saw his jaw muscles tense. “This guy is obviously very organized. Maybe not by choice. His job could force him into a pattern. Or it could be his home situation. He may have a family—”

Resa gasped. “A family? That can’t be possible. How could a man with a wife and children do the things he does?”

Archer turned off a bank of lights, throwing the firing range into darkness. His office and the entrance to the stairs were the only lighted areas. “Many serial offenders have families. If you were to look in on them at home, they’d seem like ordinary working stiffs. He might even coach Little League.”

“Oh my God.” She’d thought of the Lock Rapist as a shadowy entity who emerged to attack his victims, then faded back into some dark abyss until his next attack.

She’d never considered the possibility that he had a life.

“How can someone who has a family—a wife—” her voice choked.

Archer shook his head. “There are certain common predictors of deviant behavior or violence. But nothing’s ever that easy. No one knows why one man crosses the line and another doesn’t.” He stepped into his office and grabbed a set of keys from his desktop. “Are you ready?”

“You don’t have to follow me home. Like I told you, I’ve only noticed him on Tuesdays.” The idea that the man who’d attacked her sister had placed following her on his regular schedule spooked her.

Tuesday: pick up milk, call the plumber, follow Theresa Wade.

An icy chill slid down her spine and she shuddered.

Archer turned out the lights in his office, then placed a guiding hand on the small of her back. “Let’s go.”

Resa opened her mouth to protest again, but Archer’s warm protective touch at the small of her back made her feel safer than she’d felt in months, maybe ever.

On the other hand, his certainty that she needed protection increased the cold fear that had haunted her ever since her sister’s attack.

The Lock Rapist thought she could recognize him. He considered her a threat. And when he caught her, he’d kill her.

Chapter Three

The following Tuesday Earl Slattery got out of the shower and grabbed two towels. Mary Nell didn’t like for him to use two—wasteful, she said.

But tonight was special. He scrubbed his wet hair with one and wrapped the other around his waist. Then he grinned at himself in the mirror.

He’d suggested to his boss that having one night a week set aside for evening installations and repair of security equipment would increase business. His boss had gone for it, so Earl had volunteered for late shift on Tuesdays.

It was perfect. Especially now that he’d picked up the scent of the woman he’d seen that night. If he busted his butt to finish by nine o’clock on Tuesday nights, he had plenty of time to follow Theresa home.

After her initial suspicion, Mary Nell had gotten used to his late hours on Tuesdays. That sure made it easier on him. As long as he was careful and got his installations done in plenty of time, he could do anything he wanted.

It bothered him that Theresa Wade was going to Detective Archer’s gun range. He’d considered going in there himself, to see if she was shooting or if she and Archer had a thing going.

But that was high risk, and Earl avoided as many high-risk behaviors as he could.

Last Tuesday night, he’d discovered a way to slip inside the fence that surrounded Theresa’s gated community, so earlier tonight he’d sneaked in, bypassed the security system in a matter of seconds, and entered her apartment. He’d slipped a note under the edge of her windowsill, as if it had been slid under from outside. Then he’d driven out to Detective Archer’s house, waited until he and Theresa left, and stuck the second note in Archer’s mailbox.

That had been exciting. Much more exciting than following Theresa’s car. More danger. More adrenaline. But not really more risk.

He liked that. All this sneaking around gave him a nearly fail-safe way to experience the excitement without risking so much.

Slinging the towel around his neck, Earl closed his eyes. Tonight’s excitement had almost dulled the burning for a little while.

And tomorrow… He couldn’t wait for tomorrow to get here. The kids had been out of school for a week, but Mary Nell had delayed her trip because the car needed a tune-up. Tomorrow morning she and the kids were heading up to Knoxville, to her mother’s.

It was time. Earl shuddered in anticipation. Soon he could feed the hungry monster that lurked inside him and the burning would ease—for a while. He smacked his lips, then picked up his comb.

“Earl!”

Grimacing, he quickly ran the comb through his thinning hair.

“Earl! Are you listening to me? What are you doing in there? If you want any of this, you’d better come on. I’m about ready to go to sleep.”

“Go ahead, you old bag,” Earl muttered under his breath. “You dole it out like it was gold anyhow. And I can testify that it ain’t gold.” He chuckled quietly.

Then for a few seconds, he closed his eyes and gave in to the need that never really left him. It was almost to fever pitch, but that was okay.

Tomorrow he could begin his quest to quench it.

ARCHER SAW the scrap of paper as soon as he turned into his driveway after following Resa to her apartment gates. It was fluttering precariously at the edge of his mailbox.

He slowed to a stop, eyeing the road and the surrounding area. Nothing.

He’d followed Resa home every night for a week. Tonight, Tuesday night, he’d anticipated seeing the dark sedan she’d noticed the two previous Tuesdays, but it hadn’t showed.

If Resa was right, and he only followed her on Tuesdays, he must have seen Archer and aborted.

“So you left a note instead,” Archer muttered. “Coward.”

He pulled a small, high-powered flashlight out of his glove compartment and shone it on the scrap of paper. It was caught at the edge of the mailbox door, and he could see writing on it.

He wrinkled his brow. He didn’t have an exam glove—not even a handkerchief. He’d have to grab the paper with his bare fingers and take a chance of contaminating it.

He glanced around the interior of his car for anything that would preserve the fingerprints and possible trace evidence on the note. On the floor on the passenger side, he spotted an empty envelope. He’d tossed it there the other day while glancing through his mail before he got out of his car.

Carefully, he used the tips of his thumb and index finger to grasp the edge of the note while he loosened the closure of the mailbox enough to slide it out. The breeze picked up just as the note came free and he almost lost it, but his damaged fingers managed to hold on.

With the note and his arms back inside his car window, he dropped the note into the envelope, and stuck the envelope in his inside coat pocket. He could barely resist pulling it out and reading it, but his detective’s caution told him to wait until he was safely inside his house, with good lighting and a place to set the note so he wouldn’t have to handle it.

It burned a hole in his jacket as he drove the fifty yards up the driveway to his Victorian house. He parked in the circular drive.

Just as he was getting out of his car, his cell phone rang. He looked at the caller ID and his heart slammed into his chest wall. It was Resa.

“Resa? What is it?”

“Archer?” Her voice was small and trembly. “You told me to call you first.”

“What’s the matter? Are you okay?”

“I don’t know. There’s—a note.”

“Where? In your apartment?” Archer’s heart rate tripled.

“Get out of there, Resa. Now!”

“It’s not in my apartment—not exactly—” Her voice caught. He heard her take a shaky breath. “It’s inside my windowsill. I think it was slipped underneath from the outside.”

“Resa, listen to me. Have you checked your apartment?”

“Yes. Nothing’s out of place. I don’t think anybody’s been inside.”

“Good. Leave the note where it is. Call 911, and stay there with all the doors locked. Don’t open the door to anyone until the police get there. I’m on my way.”

“Archer? Hurry.”

“Stay put, Resa.”

He pocketed his phone, patted his jacket pocket to assure himself that the envelope was still there, and climbed back into his car.

On the way he called Clint and told him what Resa had told him. Clint said he’d meet the 911 team there.

Twenty-one long minutes later, Archer pulled up to the entrance to Resa’s apartment complex. A uniformed officer he didn’t know was stationed at the gate. Archer flashed his ID and explained that he was working on the Lock Rapist case as an independent investigator with Detective Banes.

The officer nodded. Clint had cleared him. He waved him through.

Ahead of him, Archer saw several parked police vehicles. He pulled up behind one and scanned the breezeways of the nearest apartment building. On the second floor, the front apartment’s lights blazed, spotlighting an officer standing at the door.

He sprinted up the stairs. When he entered the apartment, he saw Resa sitting in a dining-room chair, her arms wrapped around herself, her eyes wide, her face pale. She saw him and her shoulders relaxed visibly.

Across the room, Clint glanced up from examining the inside of the windowsill. He gave Archer a slight nod, glanced at Resa, then went back to his job.

A kid who looked like a college student except for the badge pinned to his belt was balanced precariously on a tiny, non-functional fake balcony under the window and dusting the outside sill.

Archer reined in the urge to yell at the kid to watch where he parked his butt. This wasn’t his case, he reminded himself. It was his ex-partner’s.

Instead, he went over and knelt down beside Resa’s chair. She reached out to him, her green eyes searching his face. After an instant’s hesitation, he took her hand.

“I’m not sure they can decide if he was inside or not. Detective Banes said he could have slipped the note under the windowsill from the inside.” Her voice quavered. “He thinks the Lock Rapist has been inside.”

She squeezed his fingers and it took a lot of willpower not to wince.

“You did the right thing—almost. You got the phone calls backward.” He gave her a little smile. “You should have called 911 first, then called me.”

She nodded miserably. “You were the first person I thought of.”

That surprised him. He frowned. The idea that she’d thought of him first scared him. Being someone’s first choice in a crisis was the last thing he wanted. All he wanted was to be left alone.

The envelope in his jacket pocket burned his skin through the layers of fabric—a painful reminder that being left alone was no longer a choice. He was involved.

“Hey, you did good.”

She pulled her hand free of his. Her fingers intertwined in her lap. Their knuckles turned white. He had an unwanted urge to touch her again. To untangle her fingers and rub them until warmth spread through them and up to put color back into her face.

He glanced at Clint, who was still involved in the evidence gathering.

“Resa,” he said quietly. “Did you touch the note?”

“No,” she said. “You told me not to.”

“Could you read it?”

She nodded, pressing her lips together tightly.

“Tell me what it said.”

She shut her eyes. Tears squeezed out between her closed lids. “It said, ‘You can’t shut me out. I’ll get you.’”

He stood and patted her shoulder. “I’ll be right back.”

He stepped through the front door onto the concrete balustrade that connected the apartments.

“Hey, bud,” he said to the young officer at the door. “Got a glove on you?”

“Sure, Detective.” The officer dug in his pocket and pulled out a latex-free exam glove.

Archer took it and stretched it over his hand, then he retrieved the envelope from his pocket and slid the scrap of paper out of it.

Detective Archer. You’re not as smart as you think you are. I’m looking forward to Theresa Wade. Think she’ll be as good as her sister was? Or your wife? I’m pleased to be working with you again. If you release these two notes to the media, I might give you a break.

“Son of a—”

“Geoff.” Clint appeared at his side. “What’s that?”

He put the note inside the envelope and handed it to his ex-partner. “Resa’s not the only one who got a note tonight.”

Clint pulled the envelope open and peeked inside. “I’ll be damned,” he muttered. “It is the Lock Rapist.”

“That’s right. Now do you think you can put a guard on her?”

Clint sent Archer a frustrated look. “Don’t you think I wish I could? I don’t want any more attacks. But we’re past stretched to the max. The president is on his way down here tomorrow to present some award to the Tennessee Valley Authority, so almost all my men are working double duty.”

“She’s in danger, Clint.”

His ex-partner’s green eyes darkened. “I understand that. I’m hoping I can free up an officer within a couple of days.”

“A couple of days? What’s she supposed to do in the meantime?”

“Come on, Geoff. What do you want me to do? I can’t pull a babysitter out of thin air.”

Archer felt frustration rise up in him like bile. “Damn it, Clint.”

“You’re so worried, why don’t you keep her?”

“Me?” He laughed harshly.

“Sure. Let her stay with you until I can free somebody up.”

“No. No way.”

“Okay, then yeah, I guess she will be on her own.”

He glared at Clint. “That’s unacceptable. Okay. Hell, why not? I’ll take her home with me. She’s already there till all hours of the night anyhow.”

“Are you kidding me? You’re not really considering it. You can barely take care of yourself.”

“What does that mean? I’m doing just fine.” He flexed his hand, stretching the shortened tendons and setting his jaw to keep from wincing. “If you’re worried about my ability to protect her—if I have to shoot anybody, I’ll just use a blowgun and poisoned darts.”

Clint stared narrowly at him for a few seconds, his brows wrinkled with doubt. “I’ll free up an officer as soon as I can.” He looked down at his shoes, then back up. “Geoff, take care that she doesn’t become a pawn in your self-destructive game. She’s had a hard time.”

Archer stared at him, anger burning through his nerve endings. “My self-destructive game? What the hell, Clint? Is that what you think I’m doing?”

Clint shrugged without speaking.

He clenched his fists. “Trust me, Detective,” he growled, “I have no intention of committing Suicide by Perp. If it comes down to him or me—it’s going to be him on that cold slab in the morgue.”

“So now you’re a vigilante.”

“Get off my case. You’re the one who wanted me to protect her. You work on freeing up an officer to guard her. Meanwhile, she’s going back with me.”

“Well she’s got to come downtown first, and give us a statement.”

“Fine.”

“Good.”

Archer’s scalp burned with the fury he was struggling to hold in check. Clint had no right acting so high and mighty. The Lock Rapist case had been his before it was Clint’s. He was the one who’d failed to stop him, whose arrogance and certainty that he was doing the right thing had caused the rapist to escalate, and that had caused the death of his wife.

Keeping Resa Wade safe was his responsibility, because it was his fault that she was in danger.

RESA WATCHED the two men go head to head. She knew that Archer and Detective Banes had been partners before Archer was injured.

The two of them were alarmingly alike, and noticeably different. Both had dark hair and eyes. Both were tall—Archer was six feet, and Banes was a couple of inches taller than him. And both of them were obviously serious about their work.

Banes’s face was more rounded. His stance was more relaxed, his demeanor friendlier.

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