Cassie Miles - Protective Confinement

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.”