Cassie Miles - Protective Confinement

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.