by Cassie Miles
“He’s obsessed with you,” Dash said. “He won’t give up until he has you.”
She turned on her heel and walked out of the bedroom. Her hand covered her mouth, and he thought she might vomit. Her shoulders trembled. In a quiet voice, she said, “We need to return to my house. I’ll need to pack a few things before I go with you.”
“Smart decision.”
“And I want to take Yazzie with me.”
“Fine.”
If it meant getting Cara to safety, he’d agree to a dozen furry orange beasts.
RUSSELL GRAFF WATCHED from the parking lot in front of the diner down the road from the Broken Bow Resort as Cara emerged from the bungalow. She’d found herself a protector, but it wouldn’t do any good. She belonged to him. They were meant to be together.
He pulled his black cowboy hat lower on his forehead. As they drove past, he started his engine. It was a good thing that he was using a rental car. A good thing that he’d burned down the deserted house off Route 24, leaving no trace of evidence.
He merged into traffic and followed them. She was his property. Why didn’t the bitch understand? It looked as if he needed to teach Professor Cara a lesson.
This time, he wouldn’t be so gentle.
Chapter Four
If the circumstances had been different, Cara would have been enthusiastic about riding in a helicopter. The only other time she’d been up in one of these things was a tourist excursion on a family vacation in New York to view the man-made wonder of the Manhattan skyline.
Out here—in the wide-open spaces of the West— Mother Nature reigned supreme. An ethereal blue sky surrounded the chopper as they flew beyond the forested mountains outside Santa Fe and headed northwest along the route followed by the Rio Grande. A varied topography spread below her. A wide sandstone plain dotted with sagebrush and juniper. A craggy, red cliffside. A broad, flat mesa that cast shadows of deep purple worthy of a Georgia O’Keefe painting. “Beautiful,” she murmured.
Even though she was wearing ear protection, she could hear the whir of the rotors and feel the vibration of the helicopter. Dash sat an arm’s length away on the opposite side. His attention focused on a laptop computer balanced on his knees. Back to work? Apparently, today’s events were business as usual for him.
For her, everything had changed. Her own laptop had been confiscated. Her cozy, academic life had been shattered like the pottery in her living room. Though she told herself that she really didn’t care what other people thought, she wasn’t looking forward to being singled out as the person who had been abducted by one of her former students. A serial killer. A stalker. A monster.
Residual fear pressed in around her, skirting the edge of her consciousness, threatening to emerge in a full-blown panic attack. She couldn’t give in to these feelings.
Leaning back in her seat, she cradled Yazzie on her lap. He’d been screeching wildly inside his carrying case so she’d opted for using a leash fastened to a harness. As soon as she’d held him, he’d calmed down. His solid bulk comforted her. His fur was warm.
Her eyelids drooped. If she could sleep, she might wake up feeling safe and secure. She might trick her mind into believing nothing was wrong. But as she drifted off, the nightmares approached. The beating of the shamanic drum. Footsteps in the hallway. Her skin prickled as she imagined spiders crawling across her arm.
She knew better than to be afraid of spiders. In many of the Navajo legends, Spider Woman was a powerful totem who taught the dineh how to weave their rugs and showed them the fabric of the Universe as she whispered eternal wisdom in their ears. Cara stilled her fears and listened. Spider Woman would help her and show her the path.
Her dreams shifted. In her sleep, she saw ancient patterns. Bright, happy colors. She imagined herself wrapped in a gauzy rainbow, stepping into a warm pool. Oh yes, this was good. Sighing with contentment, she soaked in healing waters.
Unbidden, Dash Adams entered her dream. The crystal-blue of his eyes mesmerized her. His broad chest was bare. His biceps flexed as he reached toward her. She welcomed his touch, his strong hands gliding over her body.
Sudden darkness descended. The image of Dash vanished. Her only light was through the single square window of her prison. Russell was coming for her. He’d never give up, never quit until he had her in his claws. He was the cougar, hunting alone and stalking his prey. Coming closer. His hot breath touched the back of her neck.
With a cry, she forced her eyelids to open.
Dash was touching her arm. “Are you all right?”
“Bad dream.” She looked through the window. Forget Russell. Don’t let him get to you. The sun was high in the sky. “What time is it?”
“A little after four o’clock. You’ve been asleep for over two hours.”
The chopper swooped toward a vista of snow-capped peaks. When she leaned forward for a better view through the window, Yazzie scrambled around on her lap. The usually independent cat crawled up her torso, nuzzled against her throat and mewed pitifully. Though he’d allowed himself to be petted by the pilot, the cat had nothing but growls and hisses for Dash. Cara wondered if Yazzie was instinctively vying for her attention. Was the tomcat clever enough to sense that his mistress might be attracted to this cool, surprisingly sexy FBI agent?
She glanced toward him. Though his azure eyes were hidden behind dark sunglasses, she could tell that he was looking at her, scrutinizing her. The corner of his mouth cocked in a lazy grin, and she smiled back, perhaps a bit too broadly. A sudden warmth flushed through her. She remembered the first time she’d seen him—her rescuer. Her sensory memory was imprinted with the strength of his arms when he’d lifted her from the ground and carried her toward safety.
Because that was his job, she reminded herself. She’d be crazy to form any sort of attachment to him. As if to remind her to be cautious with her heart, Yazzie kneaded his claws on the shoulder of her shearling jacket.
She cleared her throat and pointed out the window. “What mountains are those?”
“San Juan Range in southern Colorado,” Dash said. “We’re going to the Four Corners region.”
The juncture of Colorado, New Mexico, Arizona and Utah was near the famous cliff dwellings at Mesa Verde. She often took her classes on weekend field trips to that ancient city.
The archaeological site where Russell had been working was farther west, toward Chaco Canyon. Her gaze scanned the vast terrain as if she might possibly catch sight of him. A manhunt in this area would be terribly difficult. In these hills and valleys, Russell could hide out for a long time. He might never be caught.
If not, what would happen to her? She couldn’t stay in protective custody forever. Even though she didn’t have a boyfriend or a family of her own, Cara had a life. She had plans.
Dash touched her elbow and nodded toward the window. “That’s the safe house.”
The two-story white clapboard house with a red barn and an attached bunkhouse sat in the middle of a wide green valley bordered by forested foothills leading to the San Juan Range. Utterly isolated. There were no neighboring houses in sight. The surrounding landscape was buffalo grass, sage and the wildflowers of spring.
“Looks like a farmhouse,” she said.
“It used to be.”
When the chopper landed, she held tightly to the leash attached to Yazzie’s harness. She didn’t want the cat to run off and get lost in these unfamiliar surroundings.
The rotors stilled, and there was silence except for the blowing of the wind.
Holding Yazzie in her arms, she allowed Dash to help her down from the helicopter. The soles of her feet prickled inside her shoes from numerous cuts and scratches. Her muscles were sore and the wound on her arm hurt. But her mind was clearer. That was really the most important thing. As long as she could think, everything else would take care of itself.
When she placed Yazzie on the ground, the cat ducked down behind a clump of buffalo grass and refused to move even when she tugged o
n the leash. “Come on, Yaz. This is going to be your new home for a while.”
“I could carry him,” Dash offered.
“You could try,” she said wryly. “But he doesn’t seem to like you.”
“We’ll see.”
He squatted down to the level of the cat and took off his sunglasses. They glared. It was a staring contest between man and feline. The first to look away would be the loser.
Dash lowered his voice. “You and me, cat. We both want the same thing. Cara’s safety.”
Yazzie hissed.
“You don’t have to like me, but we damn well better get along. Truce?”
When Dash held his hand toward Yazzie, the cat leaned toward him, sniffed, then rubbed his head against the back of Dash’s hand. Cara couldn’t believe her stubborn cat had been so easily won over.
Then, Yazzie bared his teeth and nipped at Dash’s knuckles, drawing blood.
Without flinching, Dash swept Yazzie off the ground and held him tightly against his shoulder. They were eyeball to eyeball.
After one final hiss, Yazzie settled against him and cast an arch look in Cara’s direction.
“Nice job,” she said. “I guess this officially makes you the alpha male.”
“King of the cats.”
He strode down a wide dirt pathway toward the split-rail fence that enclosed the house and barn, and she followed. Cara had thought an FBI safe house would be more clandestine. This charming white farmhouse with dark gray trim looked as clean and wholesome as fresh milk. Not that she’d know what milk straight from the cow tasted like. In spite of her Native American heritage, Cara had been raised in urban environments.
A tall, lanky cowboy sauntered down from the porch and approached them. His features were hard and chiseled; his hair and eyes were brown. He reminded her of a hard-edged wood sculpture as he eyed Yazzie.
“This is a first,” he drawled. “A protected witness cat.”
Dash introduced him. “Special Agent Flynn O’Conner. We worked together in San Francisco.”
As she shook his callused hand, Cara saw a flash of sharp intellect in those brown eyes. “Are you familiar with the Judge?”
“He was my case. Before I took over the running of this safe house, I used to be with ViCAP.”
Certainly, this was no coincidence. Dash had brought her to this particular safe house because Flynn O’Conner was an expert. Though Cara would rather forget what had happened to her, there was no escape.
WITH CARA AND JABBA THE CAT settled in one of the upstairs bedrooms, Dash went with Flynn into the kitchen, which appeared to be the largest room in this old ranch house. The windows over the sink faced the red painted barn with attached corral. Closer to the house were a couple of cottonwood trees, one of which had an old-fashioned wood swing hanging from the branches.
A family had once lived in this six-bedroom house, and this was a functional kitchen with a double oven and huge refrigerator. Pots and pans hung from a rack over a large butcher block, and there was a long table with benches where eight people could sit comfortably.
Flynn poured two mugs of coffee and brought them to the table. He looked tanned and relaxed—a hell of a lot healthier than the last time Dash had seen him in San Francisco. Toward the end of the Judge investigation, Flynn had been a wreck. Unable to sleep. Eating crap food. He’d refused to leave the office. Night and day, he’d pored over the case files. Special Agent Flynn O’Conner had blamed himself for the deaths of those seven women.
“You look fit,” Dash said. “Colorado agrees with you.”
“This is a plum assignment. Plenty of time to work out. Ride horses. We’re not far from skiing at Telluride.” His elbows rested on the tabletop as he lifted his coffee mug. “Sometimes it feels more like I’m running a bed-and-breakfast than an FBI safe house.”
“How many people are staying here now?”
“Two protected witnesses, plus Cara and her cat. And I have a rotating staff of two newbie agents who do the cooking and cleaning. They file the reports and keep all the high-tech surveillance gear maintained.”
“You never liked electronic equipment,” Dash said.
“Computers will never be a substitute for instinct. Always go with your gut.”
Dash had to wonder if his old friend was happy with this semiretirement. Back in San Francisco, Flynn had been one of ViCAP’s best profilers; he’d pursued active investigations with a dogged intensity. “Tell me, Flynn. Do you miss it?”
“What?”
“The chase.”
When Flynn shook his head, his hair fell across his forehead. The cut was a little too shaggy, too casual, too relaxed. “I’m not like you, Dash.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Supercompetitive. You’re a risk-taker. An adrenaline junkie. You enjoy running headlong into danger, flying by the seat of your pants.”
Not a flattering assessment. Dash would have been ticked off if he hadn’t heard this personality analysis at virtually every review session with his superiors. “It works for me.”
“You get results.” Flynn laced his fingers together on the tabletop. “But this time you’re off and running in the wrong direction. This guy, Russell Graff, isn’t the Judge.”
Taking a moment to digest Flynn’s plainspoken opinion, Dash sipped his coffee. “This brew isn’t half-bad.”
“One of the newbies is a coffee nut. We’ve even got an espresso machine.”
“I like him already.”
“How long are you planning to stay?” Flynn asked.
“Until the job is done. Cara is my best lead.”
He’d promised that he’d stay with her and keep her safe. Not a bad assignment. She was easy on the eyes, and he liked her spirit.
In the chopper, he’d watched her as she’d slept fitfully. Even with her eyes closed, her face was expressive. Her lips were full but tense. The way she kept everything bottled up inside made her mysterious, made him want to know her better.
After another sip of the excellent coffee, he turned toward Flynn. “You’re sure this isn’t the Judge?”
“Positive.”
“The forensics and the autopsy on the first victim—the woman found in Santa Fe—were a fairly good match for the Judge’s other kills.”
“But there wasn’t enough left of the ropes to know what kind of knots were used.”
The forensic details hadn’t been perfectly recorded, but there was enough evidence to make the connection. Dash enumerated the details. “The body was burned beyond recognition. The accelerant used was the same as the Judge. She was buried in a shallow grave.”
“There was no note,” Flynn said. “No grandstanding for the investigators. The Judge needs that atten tion, needs to feel like he’s superior by outsmarting law enforcement.”
“He did that with you.”
“That’s right.” Though Flynn’s voice stayed calm, his fingers tightened into fists. “When I was investigating him, he sent me personal letters. Taunts. He announced when he would kill again. He signed his letters with aloha, a word that means hello and goodbye.”
“Russell Graff used the phrase catch you later in his e-mails to Cara.”
“I’m telling you, it’s not Russell Graff,” Flynn said. “He’s a twisted, sick son of a bitch who’s probably obsessed with your pretty little professor. But he’s not the Judge.”
“He called himself Judge in the e-mails.”
Flynn countered. “Why would he leave that evidence behind? Why not take her laptop? When he abducted Cara, he left fingerprints and trace evidence. The Judge never made a mistake like that.”
“Do you really believe he’s dead? In your gut. Do you believe it?”
Doubt flickered in Flynn’s eyes. Though ViCAP had found a burned body in a hideout used by the Judge, the man identified had no prior connection to the crimes. “The proof is that the killing stopped.”
“Maybe not. Maybe he just moved to New Mexico. Out here, in these wid
e-open spaces, we aren’t as likely to find the bodies.”
Stubbornly, Flynn repeated, “It’s not Graff.”
Though Dash respected Flynn’s experience and his detailed knowledge of the serial murders in San Francisco, he wasn’t about to dismiss the similarities between Russell Graff and the Judge. Evidence pointed to a resurrection; the Judge had risen from the ashes to kill again.
But was Russell the same killer who was active in San Francisco? Could those murders be pinned on him? Or had Russell taken on the Judge’s legacy?
“Here’s another theory,” he said. “Russell Graff lived in San Francisco at the time when the Judge killings were making headlines. Russell was twenty-one. By most accounts, he was a quiet young man, a good student from a wealthy family.”
“Not exactly the profile of a serial killer.”
“Which profile is that?” Dash asked sarcastically. “Every time we investigate another one of these sick bastards, the profile changes.”
“Tell me about Russell.”
“Key character trait—he’s obsessive,” Dash said. “Let’s assume he fixated on the Judge, identified with his seeming invulnerability and power.”
“Could be.”
It was an unfortunate fact that serial killers tended to have cult followings. Dash suspected that if they could check Russell’s computer, they’d find that he was a frequent visitor to the dozens of Web sites devoted to the Judge’s heinous exploits.
“Here’s what I think,” Dash said. “Russell Graff is a copycat killer.”
RUSSELL LEANED AGAINST the locked door and listened to the whimpers of a young woman who looked like Cara. She wasn’t as pretty. No other woman matched Cara’s beauty. Certainly not this skinny little runt.
She kept sobbing. “Please. Please.”
Her pathetic little cries disgusted him. He hadn’t been careful in his selection, hadn’t taken pictures of her, hadn’t learned her habits.
