Protective Confinement
Author
Cassie Miles
Reads
19.1K
Chapters
17
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.
