by Cassie Miles
Her gaze took a detour and came to rest on Dash’s profile. A Harvard man. A preppy. She wondered which of his illustrious forefathers was responsible for those incredible blue eyes.
When he noticed her watching and turned toward her, she averted her gaze. There was something growing between them, but she wasn’t sure if she could call it a relationship.
AT AN ATTRACTIVE LODGE on the outskirts of Durango, the three of them were ushered into a sitting room where William Graff was waiting. Though Russell was adopted, Cara saw a resemblance to the gray-haired man who glared as she entered the room flanked by Dash and Flynn. Like Russell, he was tall and thin. William Graff’s mouth pulled into a severe grimace, and she realized that she’d seen that same expression on Russell’s less mature face.
Dash stepped forward and exchanged handshakes with the senior Graff.
“I appreciate your willingness to meet with us,” Dash said. “The sooner that we find your son, the better for everyone.”
“Agreed,” Graff snapped. “My son would never do these things you’ve accused him of. The FBI is dead wrong, and I want this crap over with as soon as possible.”
When Graff tried to approach her, Dash cut him off. “Please take a seat, sir.”
He did as ordered, and Cara was glad not to be forced to shake his hand. There was something cold and forbidding about William Graff. When he looked at her, she could feel his disapproval. She and Flynn remained standing while Dash sat in an armchair beside Graff and leaned forward attentively.
Dash got down to business. “When was your last contact with Russell?”
“He called home a week ago. Seemed to be enjoying his time at the dig site. Why he chose something as useless as archaeology for a major, I’ll never know.” He shot a glare at Cara. “You gave him an A in the class you taught.”
She nodded. “Russell was a good student.”
“You liked him,” Graff said.
Before she could respond, Dash said, “Sir, can you tell me what you and Russell talked about when he called?”
“Nothing important,” he growled. “The weather.”
“Where was he when he called?”
“Hell if I know. He was on his cell phone.”
“Can you tell me what kind of vehicle he drives?”
“He has a Ford Explorer. Dark green. I gave it to him on his twenty-first birthday. He needed a vehicle capable of going off-road since he’s determined to pursue a career that takes him to godforsaken locations.”
“Russell went to high school in San Francisco,” Dash said.
“That’s right. Private school.”
“Did he participate in after-school activities?”
“He’s not antisocial. If that’s what you’re getting at. Russell is a marathon runner. Like me.” Again, he looked past Dash toward her. “He got decent grades. Not good enough for an Ivy League school. But decent.”
“Did he—”
William Graff interrupted, “Once he had a crush on a teacher. She looked a little bit like you, Cara.”
Did he kidnap her, too? She swallowed to keep from blurting out a statement she might regret.
Dash spoke for her. “Did he tell you about this crush?”
“He mentioned it. Said his teacher was more interesting than the girls his own age. She was worthy of his attention.”
Again, Cara stifled her response. Russell had said the same thing to her. She had to prove herself worthy.
“And what happened?” Dash asked. “Was he ever actually involved with this teacher?”
“The boy was only fifteen, and I wasn’t about to let him have an inappropriate affair.” Graff’s scowl deepened. “I had the bitch fired.”
“I see,” Dash said tersely. “Were there other women?”
William Graff stood and pointed at Cara. “That’s what I should have done with you. I should have had you fired for seducing my son.”
She couldn’t stay silent. “My relationship with your son was professor to student. Nothing more.”
“I don’t believe you, Cara.”
“Dr. Messinger,” she corrected him coldly. “Call me Dr. Messinger.”
“You got my boy into trouble, didn’t you?”
She knew he was baiting her. His allegations were baseless and absurd, but she couldn’t hold back. “Your boy—as you keep calling him—broke into my house.”
“You’re lying.”
“You’re blind,” she fired back. “You couldn’t see how troubled Russell was.”
“Don’t blame this on me. I raised him the right way. Adopted him, gave him everything.” He took another step toward her. “You’re the problem. You dragged him off for a little rendezvous, didn’t you?”
“I most certainly did not ask for—”
“That’s what this is all about.” He took another step toward her, raised his arm and pointed an accusing finger. “You had an affair with a student and now you’re trying to cover it up. Your word against his.”
Dash grabbed his wrist, spun Graff around and twisted his arm behind his back.
Graff yelped. “Take your hands off me.”
“I suggest you settle down, Mr. Graff.”
“Who the hell do you think you are?”
“FBI. Don’t threaten me or my witness.”
“Or else what?”
“Federal prison,” Dash said as he released his hold.
Graff stumbled away from him. His face contorted with rage. “You have nothing to connect Russell to these other murders. Nothing but the word of this…woman.”
When Dash reached into his inner coat pocket, Cara thought for a moment that he was going for the gun in his shoulder holster. Instead, he pulled out a rectangular silver case filled with business cards.
“Your son,” Dash said, “is a fugitive. If you or your wife have any contact with him, you will contact me.”
“And if I don’t?”
“I’ll take great pleasure in arresting you or Mrs. Graff for aiding and abetting. And obstruction of justice.” He flipped the card toward Graff’s chest and turned on his heel. “Good day, sir.”
With Flynn, they walked from the room and down the hallway. Cara’s pulse raced, pumping adrenaline through her veins and heightening her senses. She wasn’t accustomed to the FBI methods of conversation but appreciated the way Dash came to her defense. It might be useful to learn how to do that arm-twisting thing.
“Nice job,” Flynn drawled. “Real subtle.”
“I perceived a threat,” Dash muttered. “He’s lucky I didn’t break his arm.”
In the paneled front lobby opposite the reservation desk, Cara saw something that caused her to halt. On a side table beside a flowering cactus was a ceramic bowl. The black-and-white pattern of interlocking rectangles resonated in her memory.
“What’s wrong?” Dash asked.
She pointed. “That bowl looks exactly like the one that was in the room where Russell held me captive. It was filled with maize.”
“Are you sure?”
She couldn’t be positive. The pattern was similar to many others from the southwestern tribes, especially the Ute. “It looks like the same one.”
“Okay,” Flynn said as he turned toward the reservation desk. “We can take this bowl as evidence. There might be fingerprints.”
Outside, she inhaled a breath of fresh mountain air, hoping to clear her mind and rid herself of the ugliness she’d felt when confronted by William Graff. She wanted to get away from here and quickly followed Dash into the parking lot.
“I owe you an apology,” he said. “I shouldn’t have subjected you to this.”
“I’m glad you did.” She walked faster to keep up with him. “Now I have an idea of what to expect. Is what William Graff said true?”
“About what?”
“Evidence,” she said. “Is my testimony the only thing connecting Russell to these other crimes?”
“If Russell actually is the Judge, you’re the only link. Th
e other victims are dead, their bodies incinerated. We’ve never found DNA or fingerprints.”
“So Russell might not be the serial killer.”
At the truck, Dash opened the door for her. “Proving the case isn’t something you need to worry about. What Russell did to you is enough to have him locked up.”
But it was only her word against Russell’s. Though she’d never done anything to lead him on, the implication was there. Like William Graff, people might think she’d encouraged Russell, that she wanted his sick attentions. “I hope this never comes to trial.”
“Why not?”
“You heard what he said. That I’m some kind of tease.” If William Graff hired a dream team of high-priced lawyers, she’d be dragged through the muck. Every facet of her sex life—as boring as it was—would be put on display. “This is so wrong.”
“If it goes to trial, I’ll defend you,” Dash said. “And I’m Harvard. Cum laude.”
“That and four bucks,” she said.
Flynn ran toward them. In one hand, he held the ceramic bowl wrapped in a plastic bag. In the other was his cell phone. “Let’s go. We’ve got to move.”
“What is it?” Dash asked.
“They found another body. About forty miles west of here.”
Chapter Seven
Dash hated riding shotgun, but he had to admit that Flynn was making good time. They’d left the highway and were following side roads through a land of mesa and canyon. In Dash’s opinion, it was too damned much scenery—too much open space for a killer to hide.
Russell could be anywhere. If he knew his father was in town, he could be following them, coming after Cara. It was unfortunate that they didn’t have time to take her back to the safe house, but that trip would have added more than an hour. He and Flynn needed to be at the crime scene as quickly as possible. Though Dash had nothing against local law enforcement, the FBI had the best lab in the country for handling forensic details, and they needed evidence.
William Graff had been correct when he’d said they didn’t have tangible proof that Russell was the Judge. Though he signed his e-mails as the Judge and left fingerprints in Cara’s house, there was no incontrovertible link with the prior murders. Their case against Russell boiled down to similarities, and Cara’s testimony. Her word against his.
Dash glanced down at her. It was his job to keep her safe. Instead, he’d dragged her into a confrontation with William Graff, that abusive bastard. Living with him would be constant trauma. Dash was damn certain that Dr. Treadwell would say the elder Graff contributed to his son’s psychotic behavior.
Cara looked up at him through her thick lashes. “Dash, are you all right?”
“I’m supposed to be asking you that question.”
“You look worried,” she said. “Are you thinking about the maize bowl?”
“Maybe.” If Russell had left that bowl, his reason might be connected to his father. A greeting. Or a way of saying goodbye. A threat?
Dash was also bothered by the fact that this killing had taken place in Colorado instead of New Mexico. Though they were over forty miles away from the safe house, Russell was too close.
Flynn parked the truck on the shoulder of a two-lane road. Half a dozen other vehicles, including those of local police and park rangers were pulled off to the side. Flynn was quick to get out of the truck.
Dash stayed behind with Cara. “Don’t leave the truck. Keep the windows up. Doors locked.”
She tucked a strand of shining black hair behind her ear. “I want to come with you.”
“Not a chance.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll be safe.”
Her gaze was steady, almost too calm. “Why are you so sure?”
“Because of where we are.”
She pointed, and he turned to look. The afternoon sunlight outlined the shape of ancient cliff dwellings. The view was remarkable: a two-story stone house among several smaller structures tucked under the overhanging lip of a mesa. This village was perched on a ledge high above the ground. “How did they get up there?”
“You’ve never been to Mesa Verde before?”
“No.”
“This is called the Balcony House.” Her voice slipped into professor mode. “An excellent example of stone-and-mortar construction. The only way to reach it is to climb a thirty-foot ladder and crawl through a tunnel.”
“When was it built?”
“Around 1l00 or 1200 AD,” she said.
“The Middle Ages,” he said. “Same time as the Notre Dame Cathedral was being built in Paris.”
“I suppose so.” She eyed him curiously. “Are you interested in European history?”
“Not really. Some things just stick in my head. I’m good with dates.”
“Me, too.” She flashed a conspiratorial grin. “You might be as big a nerd as I am.”
“God, I hope not.”
She laughed. “It might sound superstitious, but I always feel calm here. And safe.”
“A spiritual thing.”
“Not really,” she said. “I’m Navajo and the cliff dwellings were built by the Pueblo or Anasazi. Although I guess I could call them ancestors. We’re all dineh, the people.”
Through the windshield, he saw a number of men in uniforms. Yellow crime-scene tape fluttered from tree branches. He was itching to join them, but he also wanted to stay here with Cara, listening to her lecture about the ancients.
He had never known anyone like her before. Obviously intelligent and ambitious enough to become a full professor in her twenties. Those were characteristics he could relate to. But she also had an otherworldly quality—a well-guarded, secretive inner life that made him want to peel away her defenses and know her completely.
“I guess,” she said, “I feel peaceful here because I’m an archaeologist. Drawn to the past. When I’m working a dig site, I forget to eat. I don’t want to sleep. It’s completely intriguing. The centuries of human existence make my own problems seem small and trivial.”
“I understand,” he said. “Being at a crime scene is like that for me.”
“Then let’s go.”
“Not a good idea.” Though he would have preferred dealing with a more cooperative individual, he had to admire her grit. “I don’t want to go into details, but this is a murder scene. With a corpse.”
“I’m an archaeologist. I’ve dealt with human remains before.”
“It’s not the same,” he said. “This victim hasn’t been dead for years, buried in a tomb.”
“I want to see the remains.”
Her voice was clear and confident. Unafraid. He could hardly believe this was the same woman who had wept in his arms. “What about the nightmares?”
“Hallucinations. They came from my imagination. I need facts. I can’t bury my head in the sand and pretend this isn’t happening. I can’t hide from what Russell is doing.”
Though her request went against procedure, he understood her need. Cara had a right to know about the man who was after her. “You can come with me. But this is a crime scene, so don’t touch anything.”
He cracked open the door to the truck and escorted her down the slight incline to an open area in the midst of fir trees and juniper. He and Cara joined Flynn, who was talking to a uniformed officer.
Flynn squinted in her direction. “Are you sure you want to be here?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.” He turned to Dash. “This murder doesn’t fit the pattern. The Judge holds his captives four days, and it’s only been two since Cara escaped.”
Dash was growing impatient with Flynn’s insistence that Russell wasn’t the Judge. “He’s stepping up his timetable.”
“It doesn’t work that way,” Flynn said. “There’s a ritual involved with these murders.”
“He never had a victim escape before,” Dash pointed out. “Cara interrupted his regular proce dure. He’s making changes to adapt, set things right again.”
“Maybe,” Flynn said grudgin
gly.
Dash turned to the officer and asked, “Who found the body?”
“Park rangers. They spotted a fire, and this isn’t a sanctioned camping area.”
“Why here?” Flynn questioned. “Why in Mesa Verde?”
Though Dash had scoffed at Cara’s story of Man Eagle, it made a certain amount of sense in this context. “There’s a Hopi legend about a serial killer. Russell might be acting out that story, leaving his victim in the shadow of the cliff dwellings.”
“As a challenge,” Cara added. “He knew the body would be found when the rangers saw the fire.”
“What kind of challenge?” Flynn asked.
“Between us and him,” Dash said. “According to the legend, there was a series of contests.”
Russell was playing a game where he was the only one who knew the rules. Dash turned to the officer. “Mesa Verde is a national park. Is there any check-in process?”
“This area includes over fifty thousand acres and a limited staff of park rangers. No cameras. No surveillance.”
“Let’s see the body.”
At this point, he expected Cara to show some reaction. Instead, she remained stoic. Her delicate features betrayed nothing of what was going on inside her head.
Inside the yellow tape was a neat fire circle of rocks and a charred corpse. Like the other victims of the Judge, she was curled in a fetal position with wrists crossed below her chin and her knees pulled up. The earth beneath her wasn’t burned, leading to the conclusion that she was already dead before he’d brought her here.
“We tried not to disturb anything,” the officer said. “But you won’t find much in way of footprints. The ground is too rocky and dry.”
From four feet away, Dash studied the remains. The flesh had been burned away, leaving charred bones—an end result that was both macabre and strangely compelling.
“Fascinating,” Cara said as she crouched down to get a better look. “Intense heat is required to incinerate human flesh. Yet he’s taken care to maintain the integrity of the skeleton. He must have burned the body for hours in a fire pit or used a blowtorch to sear away the skin, muscle and organs.”
He recognized the professorial tone in her voice. “What else do you see?”
