Cassie Miles - Protective Confinement

“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.”

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

anthropological. And, as always, to Rick.

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.

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.

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

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.