Cassie Miles - Protective Confinement

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.