Protective Confinement

by Cassie Miles

  “Not a bit. He’s in his sixties and consumed by his work. Though romances tend to crop up at these sites, it’s not a party atmosphere. No drinking. No smoking.” She hesitated for a moment, thinking. “Dr. Alexander Sterling is at this dig. He’s a forensic anthropologist. One of a handful in the country. Brilliant man.”

  Dash noticed that when she referred to Dr. Petty, she called him George. With Sterling, she’d used his title. A sign of respect. “Tell me about Sterling.”

  “As I said, brilliant. His comparative analysis of skeletal remains on North American natives has led to a new hypothesis on…”

  Blah, blah, blah. Dash couldn’t care less about archaeological data. But obviously, Cara did. As he watched her rattle on about occipital bones and cranial capacity, her expression brightened. Her cloudy gray eyes shimmered with an enticing glow.

  She gestured enthusiastically, pointing to her forehead and measuring her chin using her fingers as calipers. His gaze lingered on her mouth. For a moment, he wanted to yank her into his arms and silence her lecture with another kiss.

  “…I’m surprised you haven’t heard of Dr. Sterling,” she said. “I believe he’s been involved in some FBI matters.”

  Ironically, Dr. Alexander Sterling had been called in to offer an opinion on the Judge serial murders in San Francisco. “I’m aware of his reputation. I want your opinion of him as a man, someone who associated with Russell and might be able to tell us something about him.”

  “Dr. Sterling might be helpful in explaining the ritual aspects of Russell’s behavior.” She frowned, and her excitement disappeared behind a cloud. “When he held me captive, there was some sort of ritual. If I could remember the details, I could tell you more.”

  “That brings me around to something else we need to talk about. Dr. Jonas Treadwell is a psychiatrist who has had a lot of success in leading witnesses through reenactments of the crime. He doesn’t use hypnosis, but he takes you through the details.”

  “Like what?” She seemed hesitant.

  “Maybe you heard Russell mention a specific place. Or you saw a map or note he’d written. Clues that could help us find him. Are you willing to give this a try?”

  “I’ll try.” The very last thing Cara wanted was to plunge back into the emotional content of her abduction. The pain. The fear. The humiliation. But she truly did want to help the investigation. “Will you stay with me?”

  “I’ll be in the room, but I won’t interfere in the process.”

  “Let’s do it. The sooner Russell is caught, the sooner I can get back to my regular life.”

  “He’s with Flynn.” Dash stood. “I’ll tell them we’re ready.”

  He left her sitting on the beige suede sofa in the den. Facing her were two matching chairs. At the far end of the room was a desk with a computer. Every wall was lined with bookcases. A long window overlooked the front porch. Like most of the other rooms in the house, the atmosphere was neat, comfortable and very masculine. There were no knickknacks, no plants or flower arrangements, nothing that would suggest a woman’s touch. This was a houseful of men—FBI agents who weren’t interested in making things pretty.

  Dr. Jonas Treadwell fit that mold. Though probably in his fifties, his muscular shoulders suggested that he worked out on a regular basis. His hair was sun-bleached, his complexion tanned. When he shook her hand, his gaze confronted her directly.

  “I’m pleased to meet you, Cara. May I ask if you’ve ever had therapy before?”

  “While I was finishing my doctorate, I went to a psychiatrist twice a week.” Telling herself that she had nothing to be ashamed of, she glanced toward Dash who had taken a seat in one of the chairs opposite the sofa. “We were dealing with stress. And with abandonment issues.”

  Treadwell gestured for her to sit on the sofa. “You felt abandoned by your father.”

  “That was a fact. Not a feeling. He left when I was four, and I never saw him again.”

  “Did you stay in contact with anyone else in his family? I know you’re involved in Navajo tribal politics.”

  “His parents—my grandparents—passed away before he married my mother. Actually, I started working with the tribal council at the suggestion of my psychiatrist. It helps me stay in touch with my heritage.” She reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’ve worked through most of my abandonment issues.”

  “Have you?”

  Of course, there was that issue last night about her desperate need to find a good man and settle down. She hadn’t really acknowledged those feelings until the words had spilled through her lips. “Mostly.”

  He went to the desk, picked up a large tablet and brought it to her. He placed a charcoal pencil in her hand. “While we’re talking, I’d like for you to doodle.”

  “Doodling?” A strange request. She couldn’t imagine what a bunch of scribbles were supposed to accomplish. “Okay, you’re the expert.”

  He sat in the chair opposite her and turned to Dash. “I have a job for you, too. I want you to read Cara’s written account of what happened. Sentence by sentence. Start now.”

  The sound of Dash’s baritone voice reading her written words disconcerted her. There wasn’t the slightest hint of fear in his tone as he read about her coming home from work, opening her door and checking her e-mail.

  Treadwell gestured for Dash to stop. To Cara, he said, “Draw me a picture of your house. Or of one object in the house.”

  She started with the dining-room table. A rectangular surface cluttered with books and papers. Before she was really aware of what she’d drawn, Cara had sketched an aloe vera plant in a brown-and-white pot. When she’d finished, the sheet of paper was almost full.

  At the far left edge, she sketched in the hallway arch leading toward her bedroom. The place she’d seen Russell standing. But she didn’t want to place him there. Instead, she scribbled over that space until it was solid black.

  “Tell me about what you’ve drawn,” Treadwell said.

  She described the room, noticing details that she hadn’t been aware of before. The shock of seeing Russell in her house came back to her full force.

  The memory generated a searing heat deep within her. She began to sweat. Instinctively, she looked toward Dash. His steady strength reassured her. He would protect her. He wouldn’t let anything bad happen to her.

  When Treadwell nodded, Dash read again from her written account of when Russell had attacked her with the stun gun.

  “How did he get into your house?” Treadwell asked.

  “The window.” She could hear Russell’s voice. “He apologized for breaking my window. He was shy. Almost as scared as I was.”

  “Did you see the broken window?”

  “No.”

  “What did you see? Draw it.”

  Step by step, Treadwell lead her through the abduction. She filled several pages with lines and scribbles that were becoming more and more abstract. She couldn’t stop drawing. The edge of her hand was blackened by charcoal.

  She remembered the small square room of her prison. The drugged water bottle.

  “Spiders,” she whispered. “I know they weren’t real, but I saw hundreds of spiders.”

  On the table were ritual objects. With furious strokes, she drew them. An eagle feather. A bowl of corn maize. A ceremonial pipe. The knife. Sage branches.

  She dropped the charcoal pencil as if it had suddenly become red-hot. “I know what he was doing.”

  Chapter Six

  Dash watched as Cara rose from her chair and began to pace, so excited that she wasn’t even limping on her injured feet. Maybe she’d come up with a clue, a glimmer of memory that would lead to Russell’s hideout.

  She faced him and Treadwell. Her gray eyes fringed by thick black lashes actually seemed to sparkle. When she gestured, her silver bracelets flashed.

  In a clear voice, she said, “The eagle feathers are important. The Hopi myth of Man Eagle is the story of a serial killer.”

&
nbsp; What the hell was she talking about? Now wasn’t the time for a lecture on Native American history.

  But Treadwell, the supershrink, nodded encouragingly. “Tell us the myth.”

  “Man Eagle captured many women from the tribe and killed them. Any person who entered his lair and attempted to save them was never heard from again, until he kidnapped the young wife of Son of Light who was clever enough to enlist the aid of magical beings like Spider Woman and Mole.”

  Though watching Cara was a treat, Dash didn’t give a damn about Spider Woman and her mythical friends. Not when he had a real killer to catch.

  She continued. “When Son of Light faced off with Man Eagle, there were several tests to determine who was superior. The winner got the girl. One test involved seeing who could eat the most.”

  “Hence the corn maize,” Treadwell said.

  “Others were feats of strength, tearing trees from the earth and breaking tree limbs. Which might be represented by the sage branches.”

  “Go on,” Treadwell encouraged.

  “The final competition,” she said, “between Man Eagle and Son of Light was a trial by fire. Man Eagle had a magic shirt made of arrowheads that would protect him from heat. But Son of Light switched shirts with him. When Man Eagle stepped into the blaze, he was burned.”

  Treadwell seemed fascinated. “The way the Judge has burned all his victims.”

  “Russell must have been acting out his own version of this story. He spoke of tests, of how I could prove myself worthy.”

  “Wait a minute,” Dash said. “The woman wasn’t being tested. According to your story, the trials were between this other guy—Son of Whatever—and Man Eagle.”

  “It’s a myth. Open to many interpretations.” She met his gaze. “Maybe Russell is sending a message to you. Not you, personally. But to law enforcement. Challenging someone to step forward and face him.”

  “That fits the Judge’s profile.” Now Dash was interested. He remembered Flynn’s comment about how the Judge had taunted him and enjoyed matching wits. “Some of his thrill comes from outsmarting law enforcement. What’s the moral to this story?”

  “Man Eagle was a monster,” Cara said. “But he was also invincible. He could take any woman he wanted. No one could stop him until he faced the Son of Light.”

  “And was killed.”

  “In the end, Man Eagle was redeemed,” she said. “After he had been burned to ashes, he was brought back to life as a good man.”

  Dash was interested in the story, but he had hoped that her memories might provide more tangible clues. License-plate numbers. A matchbook with a logo. A business card.

  Treadwell didn’t share his disappointment. The shrink was nodding like a bobble-head. “Russell sees himself as a monster. He asserts his power by kidnapping women and putting them through a ritual death that feeds his ego and, at the same time, promises ultimate redemption for him. I suspect that he endured an abusive childhood.”

  Dash scoffed. “I’ve heard plenty of versions of this story. Pity the poor monster—he can’t help what he does.”

  “That’s not what I’m saying.” Treadwell shot him a vaguely hostile gaze. “Childhood abuse and trauma doesn’t always result in criminal behavior. Nor does it excuse serial killing. There’s always a choice.”

  “Why a Hopi myth?” Dash asked.

  “The Native American myth is specific to archaeology—Russell’s field of knowledge.”

  Which didn’t provide any new clues or information. Russell was still invisible in spite of the manhunt that was underway right now in the Santa Fe area. “What do you think, Dr. Treadwell? Will he take another victim?”

  The psychologist ran his hand through his sun-bleached hair that was beginning to thin in the back like a monk’s tonsure. His gesture was nervous but his manner was smug. Like so many experts, he thought he had all the answers.

  “I’m not sure. He hasn’t yet finished with Cara.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “None of the Judge’s other victims have escaped. My assumption is that Russell will come after Cara again. She’s a threat to his omnipotence.”

  Cara returned to the sofa. Her lips pressed tightly together. Clearly, this wasn’t what she wanted to hear.

  Nor did Dash. “What else can you tell us about Russell?”

  “As I mentioned before, there was probably childhood trauma. We know Russell was adopted at age five, and his early days may have affected his behavior. It would be useful if you could speak with his adoptive parents.”

  Finally, Dash had a course of action. Russell’s father was in Durango, only thirty miles from here. And he had demanded to meet with Cara. Not that William Graff had the right to make demands, but suddenly it became a useful excuse.

  Dash would exhaust all other possibilities before asking this of Cara. Involving her in the active investigation went against all the rules. But it might be the only way.

  AFTER LUNCH ON THE FOLLOWING day, Cara stepped into the sunlight of a brilliant spring day. She turned back toward the safe house and blew a farewell kiss to Yazzie who had taken up permanent residence on the windowsill of her second-floor bedroom, then she climbed into the cab of a truck. Though leaving the safe house, she felt very well-protected, sandwiched between two federal agents. Flynn was behind the wheel. Dash sat to her right. Both men were armed and potentially dangerous to wrongdoers.

  There was nothing to be afraid of. Last night, she’d slept well. Her wounds were healing; it was no longer painful to walk in shoes. With every hour that passed, she felt more like herself. In control. Steady. Stable.

  Cara was under no obligation to help with the investigation. Both Dash and Flynn had made it crystal clear that she didn’t need to come along on this visit to Russell Graff’s father, even though the elder Graff had said that he wanted to talk with her, and her presence might encourage him to open up.

  How could she refuse? She wanted Russell caught. If there was any way to help, she wouldn’t say no.

  Dash reached toward the knob on the radio that was playing country-western music. “Mind if I change the station?”

  “Yes, I mind,” Flynn said. “I like this music.”

  “You’ve really gone cowboy. The Stetson. The boots. The whole damn thing.” Through his FBI-issue dark glasses, Dash glanced toward Cara. “Would you believe this guy grew up in west Los Angeles?”

  Flynn looked like the archetypal cowboy. He even had the squint of someone accustomed to staring at the distant horizon. She said, “People have the right to change.”

  “That’s called personal growth,” Flynn said. “Something Dash knows nothing about.”

  Dash slid his thumbs down the lapels of the navy-blue sports coat he wore over a white shirt and Levi’s. “Are you giving me a hard time because I’m dressed like a grown-up?”

  “An adult?” Flynn scoffed. “You still look like a spoiled little rich kid who graduated cum laude from Harvard Law School.”

  Cara was surprised. “You went to Harvard?”

  “It was a long time ago.”

  A lot of men would have worked that prestigious bit of information into the conversation right after hello, but Dash had neglected to mention his education. He didn’t like to talk about himself. So she turned to Flynn. “What do you mean when you say he’s a rich kid?”

  “Adams is a common name,” Flynn said. “But Dash can trace his roots back to a couple of presidents of the United States. In fact, I think his middle name is Quincy. Dashiell Quincy Adams. His family had deck chairs on the Mayflower.”

  “No big deal,” Dash muttered. “That and four bucks will get me a latte at Starbucks.”

  “The difference is,” Flynn said, “you could buy your own Starbucks. His family is a bunch of rich lawyers. Dash was prep school and polo games all the way.”

  Dash shifted uncomfortably beside her, and his thigh rubbed against hers, reminding her of their more intimate physical contact. She’d never kissed a rich ma
n before, and she had to wonder if it would ever happen again. He’d barely spoken to her since yesterday. “Did you wear one of those little jackets with a crest over the pocket?”

  “Enough about me,” he said. “We should discuss what we’re going to say to Russell’s father.”

  “He’s rich, too.” Flynn grinned. “You should do the talking, Dash. You can relate to the upper crust.”

  “His family wasn’t wealthy,” Dash said. “William Graff has a successful import/export company based in San Francisco, but the business was mostly financed by money from his wife’s family.”

  “Old money?” Flynn asked.

  “Nob Hill,” Dash confirmed. “She’s active in charities. Helping the homeless. They adopted two disadvantaged kids. Russell when he was five. Another boy from infancy.”

  “Sounds like an admirable thing to do,” she said.

  “Don’t get your hopes up,” Dash warned. “Good intentions don’t always lead to good results.”

  “Why is Mr. Graff in Durango?”

  “He has connections there, and he wants to be in this area because he doesn’t believe that his son—who’s had every advantage money can buy—would turn out to be a serial killer.”

  That had to be a parent’s worst nightmare. She almost felt sorry for William Graff. “Do you have any idea why he wants to talk to me?”

  “Intimidation,” Dash said. “Though I’d like to think William Graff was looking for the truth about his son, I suspect he’ll try to browbeat you.”

  Cara straightened her shoulders. Nobody browbeat her. “And what do we hope to gain from this meeting?”

  “Two things,” Dash said. “First, we want info on Russell. Second, we want his father to understand that if Russell contacts him, he’s required to turn over any leads to the FBI.”

  Dash’s purpose seemed to be much the same as that of William Graff. Intimidation.

  Not her favorite thing. She leaned back against the seat and watched the scenery go by. This part of southern Colorado wasn’t all that different from the land surrounding Santa Fe. Mountains and mesas and hardy vegetation that could thrive in the arid climate.