“I want to take you to an FBI safe house.”

“Is this one of those protected witness programs? Where you give up your identity?” She shook her head, sending ripples through her black hair. “That’s unacceptable.”

“It’s the only way to be sure you’re safe.”

“I can’t pick up and leave. I have responsibilities.”

Denial was one thing. This attitude was insanity. “We’re dealing with a serial killer. Make no mistake, Cara. He’ll come after you again.”

Her forehead pinched together in a frown. “But there must be another way. I don’t want to be at a safe house. I want my life back. I don’t want to be alone….”

“You’re not alone.” Dash sat on the edge of the bed. His hand rested on her shoulder. “I’m here.”

Protective Confinement
Cassie Miles

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Thanks to my daughter, Kersten, for her help on all things

anthropological. And, as always, to Rick.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

For Cassie Miles the best part about writing a story set in Eagle County near the Vail ski area is the ready-made excuse to head into the mountains for research. Though the winter snows are great for skiing, her favorite season is fall when the aspens turn gold.

The rest of the time Cassie lives in Denver where she takes urban hikes around Cheesman Park, reads a ton and critiques often.

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Cara Messinger—A 32-year-old, half Navajo archaeology professor who is the only surviving victim of a serial killer.

Dash Adams—After a privileged upbringing, he chose to become an FBI special agent. His current assignment is to investigate the serial murders and protect his witness.

The Judge—Legendary serial killer from the San Francisco area who is now active in Mesa Verde.

Russell Graff—An archaeology grad student who is obsessed with Cara, his former professor.

Flynn O’Conner—FBI special agent in charge of the Mesa Verde safe house.

Jonas Treadwell—A psychiatrist specializing in criminal psychology. He works with the FBI to profile the killer.

William Graff—The wealthy, powerful father of Russell Graff is determined to thwart the investigation.

George Petty—Archaeology professor supervising the dig site near Mesa Verde, where Russell worked.

Alexander Sterling—Renowned forensic anthropologist who unlocks the secrets of the bones.

Joanne Jones—Archaeology student having a dig-site romance with Russell Graff.

Yazzie—Cara’s big, fat, yellow-striped tomcat.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter One

Cara Messinger hated coming home to an empty house. Especially after dark.

At 11:22 on a Thursday night, she parked at the curb in her quiet neighborhood on the outskirts of Santa Fe and glanced toward her house. Two front windows stared back as if mocking her hesitation. Shadows from the windswept shrubs and piñon pines skittered across the white stucco walls like a thousand spiders gone wild.

She wasn’t usually so nervous. Cara thought of herself as being responsible, strong and resourceful. A bit of an overachiever. At age thirty-two, she’d been an archaeology professor for three years. She’d supervised digs and published academic papers. Other people respected her. Young women wanted to be her. Why was she crouched behind the wheel of her car, afraid to go into her own house?

It had to be the e-mails. For the past two months, she’d been receiving weird e-mails from someone who called himself the Judge. He was watching her, stalking her.

“Well, watch this,” she muttered as she shoved open her car door.

The night brought a chill to the thin air of the high desert even though it was springtime. She shivered as she gathered her briefcase and books from the back seat. When she slammed the car door, the sound echoed. From somewhere down the block, a dog howled.

Her keys jingled in her hand as she hurried up the sidewalk, and her sense of apprehension grew stronger. She was not alone in the night. Someone else was here. Something else. She felt a heavy jolt against her ankle and staggered backward. Her books fell on the concrete porch.

Two unblinking yellow eyes stared up at her. “Yazzie.”

The big orange-striped tomcat yawned.

“Yazzie, you scared me to death.”

The twenty-pound tom threaded his bulk between her arms and batted at a strand of her long black hair as she bent down to retrieve her books. His purr rumbled as loud as a motorboat.

“You really are a pest.” She’d never intended to have a pet, but Yazzie had adopted her. When he’d been only a kitten and the name Yazzie—Navajo for “little one”—had still applied, he’d shown up on her doorstep and had claimed this territory as his own. She really shouldn’t complain; the big orange tom was the closest to a relationship she’d had in months.

Inside the house, she flicked the switch by the door. A soft overhead light shone on her earth-tone sofa, chairs and coffee table. Being home usually soothed her; this place was her sanctuary. Instead, her tension deepened—a possible result of the two cups of espresso she’d had with her students to celebrate her last evening lecture of the semester. This academic year was almost over. She should have been relieved.

Her gaze scanned the shelves by the door that held an array of native pottery, artifacts and woven baskets she’d acquired while working at various archaeological sites throughout the Southwest. Color from the woven Navajo rug on the hardwood floor brightened the room. Nothing seemed out of place.

Yazzie had picked up on her mood. Instead of dashing to his food dish in the kitchen and yowling until she fed him, he leaped onto the center of the coffee table. His back arched, he bared his sharp teeth and hissed.

A shudder went through her. Cats were good at sensing danger. “What is it, Yaz?”

He hissed again. Then he bolted toward her and out the door into the night.

For a moment, she considered following the cat. Racing back to her car. And then what? Sleep in the car? Rent a motel room? Ridiculous. There was nothing to be afraid of.

Firmly, she closed the door and crossed behind the sofa to the dining area where her laptop sat on the table. She dropped her books on the table, peeled off her wool jacket and logged on. Might as well get this over with.

Immediately, the threat appeared on her computer screen. She had an e-mail from “Judge.” The message line said: Final. Possibly, a reference to final exams or final papers. The way she figured, her stalker had to be a student. A computer expert might be able to track him down, but Cara hadn’t wanted to report the e-mails. She took enough grief for being the youngest person in the department. Young and female. And half-Navajo.

Angrily, she ignored the Judge and opened a message from the Navajo tribal council reminding her of the meeting next week at Window Rock. No problem. The meeting was already on her calendar.

The next e-mail came from her half sister who was getting married next month in Denver in an epic production worthy of Hollywood. Cara had been recruited as a bridesmaid—a position she wasn’t thrilled about. For one thing, she was the oldest and ought to be getting married first. Also, Cara’s father was Navajo while her three half sisters were the offspring of her mother’s second husband, a blond, blue-eyed doctor. They looked just like him. Though they didn’t consciously treat her like an outsider, she didn’t fit into the family unit. With her long black hair amid all that blondness, she felt like a crow in a flock of canaries.

The only physical trait Cara had inherited from her mom was her pewter-gray eyes.

In the e-mail, her half sister reminded Cara about a final fitting for her coral-colored bridesmaid dress. Gritting her teeth, Cara responded that she was looking forward to those peachy ruffles and bows.

Then she opened the message from the Judge. It started innocently enough. Good evening, Cara. Congratulations on finishing the semester.

This seemingly innocent comment quickly turned sinister.

You’re very pretty tonight, the e-mail continued. Red is your color. Blood-red.

She glanced down at the dark crimson blouse she wore with a long khaki skirt. He’d been watching her tonight.

You really shouldn’t drink coffee so late, Cara. You’ll have the devil’s own time falling asleep. Before you close your eyes, you might read the Nora Roberts book on your bedside table.

He knew what was on her bedside table. Damn it. He must have been here at her house, peeking through the windows. Until now, his comments had been limited to the campus and her car. He was coming too close for comfort.

He always signed off with “catch you later.” Tonight, the difference was subtle but scary. Catch you soon.

She heard a creaking of floorboards and looked up. A tall young man stood in the hallway that led to her bedroom.

A scream caught in her throat. Her blood turned to ice water. She knew this man. His name was Russell Graff. When he was in her class, she was aware that he might have a bit of a crush on her. But nothing like this. Nothing crazy. Struggling for control, she asked, “What are you doing here, Russell?”

“I came to see you, Cara.”

He looked down at his sneakers. His thick brown curls fell across his forehead. Though he was the aggressor, his attitude was sheepish—almost as if he were embarrassed.

Hoping to assert her authority, Cara stood. She was the professor. She gave the orders. “You have to leave.”

“I want you to come with me.” His deep voice was almost inaudible. “There’s something I want to show you.”

If she remembered correctly, Russell was enrolled in a graduate program and working at a dig site near Mesa Verde. Maybe he’d uncovered an important artifact. But that didn’t explain or excuse his presence here. He’d broken into her house. “How did you get in here?”

“I thought you’d leave the door open for me.”

Why would he think that? They had no relationship.

“I had to break a window. Sorry.” His lower lip trembled. “Come quietly, Cara. Don’t make me hurt you.”

His shyness was more frightening than if he’d been raging and snarling. He was holding back, restrained by a thin leash that might snap at any moment.

She had to get away from him. Slowly and carefully, she circled the dining table and picked up her car keys. If she kept her distance, she might make it to the front door. And then to her car.

While she moved, she kept talking. “You were always a good student, Russell. I remember that paper you did comparing the Mayan culture to the Anasazi.”

Her thigh brushed against the sofa. The bulky piece of furniture stood between them. She continued, “Now you’re working at the dig with Dr. Petty. I was hoping to join that site later this summer.”

He looked up. His dark eyes were cold and flat. “The time for judgment is here.”

The Judge. Just like in his e-mails. “Listen to me, Russell. You don’t—”

He sprang into action, charging across the room toward her.

Just as quickly, she made a frantic run for the door. He shoved aside the coffee table, caught hold of her wrist and yanked her toward him. “You’re coming with me.”

His grip tightened. Viselike, he squeezed. Pain shot up her forearm. He was skinny but strong. No way could she win in a physical struggle. “Russell, please. Tell me what you want. I’ll cooperate.”

His eyes blazed. “You’re mine now, Cara.”

When he pulled his hand from his jacket pocket, she saw a flash of silver. A knife?

In a frantic effort, she threw all her weight toward the door, wrenching free of his hold and stumbling to her hands and knees. She scrambled to her feet and ran.

At the door, he caught up to her and pushed hard against her shoulder. She crashed into the shelves of Native American artwork. Pottery, vases and kachinas shattered as they hit the hardwood floor.

She darted away from him. He cut off her escape, backing her into a corner. She stared in shock as he came closer. Russell Graff, an A student. A young man from a good family. He brandished the silver object in his hand.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

She felt the metal prongs in her side, then the shock. A stun gun. Her body convulsed. She felt as if her heart would explode. Her muscles twitched, tied into knots. Her legs weakened and she fell to the floor.

Fighting her way through excruciating pain, she forced her hand to clutch the arm of a chair. Every muscle in her body screamed as she clawed her way upright. Trembling in horrible spasms, she faced her attacker.

When he reached toward her, she made a feeble slap at his hand. He gave her a sad smile. “I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“B-bastard.”

He plunged a hypodermic needle into her arm. Unable to fight him, unable to escape, she felt herself sinking into a dark, bottomless canyon.

CLUTCHING A FOAM CUP of caffeinated sludge, FBI Special Agent Dash Adams entered the home of Dr. Cara Messinger, archaeology professor. At a glance, he took in the obvious signs of a struggle. Furniture askew. Broken pottery on the floor. A Navajo rug crumpled against the sofa.

A plainclothes detective waved from the other side of the dining-room table. “Agent Adams, over here.”

Dash couldn’t remember if he’d met this detective before. During the past three days, he’d spoken to dozens of local investigators and issued a written memorandum outlining the profile of a serial killer who had been active in San Francisco three years ago. He’d been damned active, with seven documented kills in six months. Then the terror had ended. The killer had never been apprehended, never heard from again.

The FBI agents in the Violent Crime Apprehension Program had presumed he was dead or jailed for another crime. Now, Dash had reason to believe the ViCAP conclusion had been wrong. Five days ago, a New Mexico deputy had discovered the charred remains of a woman buried in a shallow grave, her wrists and ankles bound in a distinctive manner.

Dash had been sent to Santa Fe from the San Francisco bureau to head up this investigation. He wanted to believe that the arrangement of this corpse was nothing more than coincidence, but his gut told him differently. The Judge was active again.

Dash intended to succeed where ViCAP had failed. He wanted to close this case. Forever.

He shook hands with the Santa Fe detective. Though they were both wearing suits, the attitude in New Mexico was more relaxed. Knowing that, Dash hadn’t bothered with a necktie.

The detective introduced himself. “Josef Meier.”

“What have you got, Meier?”

“I think this is the guy you’re looking for.”

Though the detective’s mouth pinched in a scowl, his eyes flickered with suppressed excitement that made him look too young for the grisly job of investigating a notorious serial murderer who restrained his victims for four days before finally killing them and burning their bodies beyond all recognition.

Meier’s enthusiasm made Dash feel older than his thirty-four years. He was jaded, impatient. He dragged a hand through his close-cropped light brown hair and waited for Meier to continue.

“For one thing,” Meier said, “the woman who went missing—Dr. Cara Messinger—fits the typical victim profile.”

He held up a photograph of a young woman with long, straight black hair. In the picture, she wore baggy shorts and hiking boots. Her tanned legs were long and firm but not too muscular. Her shapeless khaki shirt didn’t conceal her high, full breasts. A striking, attractive woman.

“Cara,” Dash said. “Pretty name.”

“Yes, sir.”

Dash hoped he wasn’t looking at a photograph that would be displayed at her memorial service. “How tall is she?”

“Five feet, seven inches. She’s half-Navajo but wasn’t raised on the reservation. Her eyes aren’t brown.”

“What color are they?”

“Hard to say. One witness said blue.” He cocked his head and squinted into Dash’s face. “Not a bright blue like yours.”

Dash lifted a sardonic eyebrow. “Are you coming on to me, Detective?”

“No, sir.” Meier straightened up. “Her driver’s license says her eyes are gray.”

Dash sipped his cold, murky coffee. Cara Messinger fit the profile, but that wasn’t enough of a connection. There were a lot of dark-haired women who disappeared, and Dr. Messinger was more intelligent than the other victims of this killer. “She’s a Ph.D., right?”

“An archaeology professor at the university. And she’s only thirty-two.”

A high achiever. Competitive. Dash understood that personality type. He’d graduated from Harvard Law with honors at twenty-three. After two years in private practice at a prestigious firm, he’d realized that he wanted to take a more aggressive approach to justice and had joined the FBI—a career path that his family despised. “What else have you got, Detective?”

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 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.”

“Don’t blame yourself. Even if you had known Russell’s identity, you couldn’t guess his intentions.”

She picked her way carefully through the shards. Her meticulously arranged life was falling apart before her eyes.

“My mother,” she said suddenly. “Does my mother know what happened?”

“I spoke to her yesterday,” Dash said.

Oh, God! “I need to call her right now.”

WHILE SHE WAS IN THE SHOWER, Dash filled in reports and made arrangements. A chopper would be waiting for them at the airport. All he had to do now was convince Cara to go along with his plans.

He turned off the ringer on her telephone. Even though he’d warned the other officers, agents and firemen to keep the abduction quiet, it was only a matter of time before the news leaked. The media would be all over Cara. She was an attractive woman—one who would play well on television.

When she emerged from the bedroom wearing jeans and a soft white tunic, she looked a hundred percent better. In her sneakers, she was even walking with more confidence. The gray of her eyes was less murky.

Her recovery would have been miraculous…if he believed it. Cara was putting up a damn good facade, pretending that she wasn’t in the least traumatized. Later, he knew, she’d crash. Maybe not today or tomorrow. But soon.

She beamed a huge smile, but it wasn’t for his benefit. The big orange tomcat had sauntered into the room.

“Yazzie.” Cara squatted down to his level. “Come here, baby.”

Whipping his tail, the cat bulldozed his way into her waiting arms and allowed himself to be lifted. When he glanced toward Dash, he bared his sharp teeth and hissed.

“Stop it,” she chided the cat. “Dash is one of the good guys.”

Yazzie hissed again.

“Fine with me,” Dash muttered. Pets were a pain in the rear. “I don’t need to be friends with a furry Jabba the Hutt.”

Defensively, she said, “He has a healthy appetite.”

“Obviously.”

She sat at the end of the dining table with the cat sprawled over her lap. “When I talked to my mother in Denver, I convinced her that everything was fine and she didn’t need to come down here and take care of me.”

“That must have taken some convincing.” If he’d had a daughter who’d been held captive by a serial killer, he’d walk through fire to be with her. “Are you and your mother close?”

“Fairly close.” An involuntary grimace tugged at the corner of her mouth. “She was married to my father for only five years. For most of that time, he wasn’t around.”

“She remarried.”

She shot him a curious look. “How do you know that?”

“FBI,” he reminded her. “We know everything.”

“Well, yes. She remarried. My stepfather is a great guy. A doctor. And I have three half sisters. All blond.”

Which made Cara the outsider. He was beginning to understand her need to prove herself. “How much did you tell your mother?”

“Not everything.” She straightened her shoulders and said, “I’m ready to do that formal interview and written report. Let’s get this over with.”

“There’s something we need to discuss first.” There was no easy way to break this news. “Like I said before, you’re an important witness, and you need to be protected. I want to take you to an FBI safe house.”

“Is this one of those protected witness programs? Where you give up your identity?” She shook her head, sending ripples through her thick black hair. “That’s unacceptable.”

“It’s the only way to be sure you’re safe.”

“I can’t pick up and leave. I have responsibilities.” She stroked Yazzie vigorously. “This is the end of the semester. Next week are final exams. I have a ton of papers to be graded.”

Denial was one thing. This attitude was insanity. “We’re dealing with a serial killer. Make no mistake, Cara. He’ll come after you again.”

Her forehead pinched in a frown. “Of course, I don’t want to take risks, but there must be another way. I don’t want to be at a safe house. I want my life back.”

“He’s a serial killer.” Though Dash was trying to be sensitive, he grew impatient. “Trust me. I know what’s best.”

“What if you don’t find him for weeks? I have places I need to be. There’s a Navajo tribal council meeting this Thursday that I can’t miss. My half sister is getting married and I need to go up to Denver for a fitting on my bridesmaid dress.”

“Neither of which is important compared to your personal safety.”

“There must be some other way. I could hire a bodyguard.”

Dash wasn’t about to leave her protection to some half-baked rent-a-cop. He stood and picked up his car keys. “Come with me, Cara. There’s something you need to see.”

IT WAS A SHORT DRIVE to the Broken Bow Resort. In the morning light, the place looked even more seedy and dilapidated than the night before when Dash and his men had charged into an empty bungalow.

“Why are we here?” she asked.

“Russell rented one of these bungalows. We thought he was holding you here.” He shoved open the car door. “Come with me.”

Her gait was halting, and he could see that she was half-exhausted though she wouldn’t admit her weakness to the paramedics or him. Or even to her mother.

As they approached, he nodded toward a motor home. Inside were a couple of agents who were keeping an eye on the place in case Russell returned.

Last night, they’d gone through this door with a battering ram. Though it appeared to be closed, the lock didn’t work. Dash pushed it open and walked into the dingy little room. “Russell isn’t going to give up easily. He wants you, Cara.”

“I know,” she said quietly.

“He’ll do anything to get his hands on you again. Anything.”

In her eyes, he saw a healthy glimmer of fear; she was beginning to comprehend the danger that surrounded her.

In the bedroom, he directed her toward the mirror. “Take a look.”

Taped to the mirror were fourteen snapshots of Cara in various settings. In the classroom. Walking across the campus. Laughing. Poring over a textbook. Each picture was carefully annotated with time and date. The center photo was inside a lipstick heart. Above it all was a neatly printed banner that read: Mine in Life. Mine in Death.

“He’s obsessed with you,” Dash said. “He won’t give up until he has you.”

She turned on her heel and walked out of the bedroom. Her hand covered her mouth, and he thought she might vomit. Her shoulders trembled. In a quiet voice, she said, “We need to return to my house. I’ll need to pack a few things before I go with you.”

“Smart decision.”

“And I want to take Yazzie with me.”

“Fine.”

If it meant getting Cara to safety, he’d agree to a dozen furry orange beasts.

RUSSELL GRAFF WATCHED from the parking lot in front of the diner down the road from the Broken Bow Resort as Cara emerged from the bungalow. She’d found herself a protector, but it wouldn’t do any good. She belonged to him. They were meant to be together.

He pulled his black cowboy hat lower on his forehead. As they drove past, he started his engine. It was a good thing that he was using a rental car. A good thing that he’d burned down the deserted house off Route 24, leaving no trace of evidence.

He merged into traffic and followed them. She was his property. Why didn’t the bitch understand? It looked as if he needed to teach Professor Cara a lesson.

This time, he wouldn’t be so gentle.

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