Protective Confinement

by Cassie Miles

  “There’s a ritual aspect in the posing of the body.”

  Cara wished she could move closer. She studied the remains as if they had come from an ancient grave site. Every culture since the beginning of time had rituals surrounding death. What would this dead woman tell her about Russell?

  “The remains are female,” she said.

  “How do you know?”

  “For one thing, the size.” She noted the length of the shin bone. “She was probably about five-one or five-two.”

  She stood and faced Dash. “May I move closer?”

  “Just don’t touch anything.”

  Close to the bones, she squatted down. “The pelvic structure is female. I doubt she ever had children.”

  Cara studied the crossed wrists below the jaw. The fingers curled into fists. Some of the smaller bones were missing.

  “An adult,” she said. “The cranium is fully formed. The occipital ridge is characteristic of a female.”

  The skeletal face stared back at her, and Cara felt her academic detachment crumble. Yesterday, this had been a living, breathing being. A woman with dreams and hopes. A woman like Cara herself.

  Her heart ached when she thought of a young, vibrant woman who deserved a chance at life. This unnatural death had come too soon.

  As she stared at the skeletal remains, the voices of the other people—the park rangers and officers, Flynn and Dash—became distant echoes. The wind stilled, and the afternoon sunlight took on a darker hue. Rather than deny it, she accepted the sensation. Her breathing became shallow. Her pulse slowed. She seemed to be alone with this woman on a different plane of existence.

  Their fates ran parallel. Yet, Cara had escaped. This victim had died.

  She wished for a way to mourn. Though she hadn’t been raised on the reservation, the Navajo had many ways of sending the dead on their way. Chants and rituals. Burial mounds. Lodge burials. Silently, Cara offered a blessing of her own. May you find peace.

  That wasn’t enough. This woman had been murdered. May you find justice.

  “Cara.” Dash’s voice called her back to this arid land within sight of the cliff dwellings. A special, mysterious place. She caught a gasp of air. Her lungs expanded within her rib cage. When she returned to her conscious body, she felt energized.

  Rising, she faced him. “You were right. This is different than uncovering an archaeological site. More empathic.”

  “More real.”

  This was Dash’s world. A place where violence was commonplace. She couldn’t imagine how he could face these terrible things, day after day.

  From outside the crime-scene circle, Flynn gave a shout. “There’s something over here.”

  She and Dash joined him beside a flat rock. Protruding from underneath were two eagle feathers.

  “Man Eagle,” she said. “He left them as a signature.”

  “And this.” Flynn pointed. “I don’t want to move it until the forensic people get here and take photos. Maybe you can identify it, Cara.”

  Beside the rock was a clay pipe with black and brown designs. “A ceremonial pipe. It looks like the one that was in the room where I was held.”

  “Evidence.” She heard satisfaction in Dash’s tone. “Even if there aren’t fingerprints, the pipe could tie him to this murder.”

  Cara took a step back and waited while Dash and Flynn conferred. Turning her head, she looked toward the Balcony House, an ancient fortress where the dineh sought protection from their enemies. Inside those stone walls, no one could reach them.

  She stood on her own battlefield, threatened by one man. But she wasn’t alone. All these officers were here to protect her. And Dash.

  His job was to keep her safe, and she trusted him. He’d spent a whole night comforting her. When nightmares threatened, he chased them away.

  He rejoined her. “We’ll leave Flynn here to supervise the forensics. I want to get you back to the safe house.”

  She offered no objection. “I’ve seen enough.”

  As they hiked up the hill toward the truck, she asked, “Why did you become a hunter?”

  “A hunter? I don’t think of myself that way.”

  Maybe not, but that was his identity within the tribe. He hunted the enemy and protected others. A hunter. A warrior. “A Fed, then. Why?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  She wasn’t about to be put off with a quick disclaimer. She planted herself at the door to the truck and looked up at him. “From what Flynn said, you had a comfortable childhood. Then Harvard. Then what?”

  His gaze darted. Clearly, he was uncomfortable talking about himself. “Why do you need to know?”

  “I’ve placed my life in your hands. At the very least, I deserve a brief biography.”

  He exhaled a slow breath. “After Harvard, I did what my family wanted. Joined the family law firm. Got married.”

  “Married?”

  “She was a beautiful woman. Great social skills. She would have made a better attorney than I ever was. After I quit the firm and joined the FBI, we grew apart. Divorced. No kids. And that’s my brief biography.” He pulled open the door to the truck. “Let’s go.”

  “Not yet.” She slammed the door shut. “I still want to know why you joined the FBI.”

  “For one thing, I’m not real good at riding a desk. I like a more hands-on approach.”

  Like the way he’d questioned William Graff. An attorney wouldn’t have yanked the man’s arm behind his back and threatened prison. “What’s the other thing?”

  “Murders like this one.” A muscle in his jaw clenched. “No one can ever make something like this right. I can’t give this woman her life back. But I can give her justice by finding her killer.”

  A worthy goal, and she wholeheartedly agreed. “I want to help.”

  He eyed her curiously. “I thought you were anxious to get back to your normal life and put this behind you.”

  “That was before I saw the victim.” She would never forget her visceral connection to the dead woman. “I want the same thing you do, Dash. Justice.”

  “Which is why you need to stay safe. Your testimony is our best evidence.” He took her hands in his. “The most important thing is to protect you.”

  She looked down at his fingers, laced with hers. He offered comfort, safety and a warmth that had nothing to do with the investigation. She knew that he cared about her. Whether or not either of them admitted it, their connection was deeper than that of bodyguard and witness. “Do you think he’ll come after me?”

  “He’s obsessed with you.”

  “Maybe we should let him find me. That’s one way to draw him into the open.”

  “Not a chance.”

  “You’ve got to stop him, Dash. Before he kills again.”

  “I’ll find a way.”

  “Promise me that he’ll be stopped.”

  When she lifted her gaze, she saw her own intensity reflected in the determined set of his jaw, but she knew he couldn’t guarantee that Russell would be caught before another woman died.

  Chapter Eight

  That evening after dinner, Cara lingered over coffee at the long dining-room table in the safe house. Her thoughts bounced back and forth like a Ping-Pong ball. When she’d been talking to Dash, she’d offered to use herself as bait to draw Russell into the open. It was a good plan, and not completely irrational.

  On the drive back, Dash had argued against anything that would put her at risk. When they’d arrived, he’d disappeared into the office area in the bunkhouse, claiming that he had reports to file. But he hadn’t come out for dinner, and she suspected he was avoiding her. The big, brave FBI agent was hiding from her questions.

  With the two agents who lived at the safe house in the kitchen cleaning up the dishes, Cara was left at the table with the two other protected witnesses who were currently housed at this facility. One was a sophisticated-looking woman with a long gray braid. Her name was Grace Lennox, and she was a judge. The other
was a wiry man with a bald head and sharp features—Bud Rosetti.

  Though they weren’t supposed to talk about why they were here, Bud had a lot to say about everything else. Mostly complaints about the food.

  “Meat loaf,” he grumbled. “I haven’t had meat loaf since I was a kid and my mom was pinching pennies to feed seven of us brats.”

  “Seven boys,” Grace Lennox said with a nod to Cara. “Bud has told me all about his family, and I tend to think of them as the seven little dwarves. Bud must have been Grumpy.”

  He cracked a grin. “Was there a dwarf named Sexy? Because that suits me better.”

  “Apparently,” Grace said with an arch of her eyebrow, “we’re still talking about fairy tales.”

  Cara hid her grin behind her mug and took a sip of cappuccino. Delicious. Though she agreed about the bland meat loaf, the coffee was excellent.

  Bud’s beady little eyes narrowed as he studied her. “So what’s your story? Are you Indian?”

  “Half-Navajo.” She was accustomed to rude inquiries from children and people who didn’t know any better. Tonight, she looked more Native American than usual with a patterned vest over her white shirt and her hair hanging loose past her shoulders. “But I grew up in a city. Like you.”

  “So you don’t do the dances and feathers and stuff?”

  “I’ve been to powwows and ceremonies.” More as an observer than a participant. Wryly, she added, “And I have a lot of turquoise jewelry.”

  Grace chuckled, catching the sarcasm that flew right over Bud’s bald little head. Undeterred, he said, “Tell me about the Indian casinos.”

  “I hate them.”

  “C’mon. Your people have got to be raking in the dough with those little gambling palaces.”

  “We’ll see.”

  The first casino on the Navajo reservation had opened only recently, and she was concerned about the effect on the people who lived nearby. Gambling wasn’t part of her tribe’s culture; an ancient Navajo myth warned against the danger of losing everything to a clever gambler.

  Like many others, she hoped the casino would provide much needed revenue, but she feared the worst. Increased crime rate. Gambling addiction. Alcoholism.

  Discussion about the social problems brought by the casino was the first priority for the tribal council meeting on Thursday in Window Rock. Only two days away. She was determined to attend.

  Bud bounced to his feet. “I’m gonna watch TV. Anybody else coming?”

  “Perhaps later.” Grace smiled at Cara. “I was hoping for a few moments of civilized conversation.”

  “Suit yourself, ladies.” Bud stepped away from the table. “This means I get control of the remote.”

  “You always control the remote,” Grace said.

  “Hey, I watched that penguin movie with you. Two hours about birds that can’t even fly.” He sneered, revealing sharp little teeth. “If we gotta do the Nature Channel, it better be shark week.”

  He trotted down the hall, leaving the two women alone in companionable quiet. Some women felt the need to fill the air with birdlike chatter. Not Grace. With her long gray braid, she reminded Cara of the archetypal Crone, or elderly wise woman.

  Savoring her frothy cappuccino, Cara relaxed. The furnishings in the dining room—like the rest of the safe house—showed a masculine simplicity. Plain surfaces. Very few knickknacks. The only wall decoration was an antlered deer head that loomed above the sideboard, looking down on their conversation.

  The two women talked about the loneliness of being in protective custody, sequestered from family and friends, and their work. Grace missed her courtroom, and Cara was reminded that she needed to grade final papers and access the information on her computer so she could file those grades.

  Then Grace mentioned Dash. “Such a handsome young man. He’s quite taken with you, Cara.”

  “He’s only doing his job. Protecting me.”

  But the memory of their kiss contradicted her words. In that moment, that perfect moment, they had connected. She remembered the strength in his arms when he’d embraced her. His warmth. His scent.

  Despite her words, when she heard the kitchen door slam shut and the low rumble of Dash’s voice as he talked to the men in the other room, a buzz of anticipation spread through her.

  “I believe his interest is far deeper.” Grace tapped her neatly manicured fingernails on the tabletop. “Or perhaps, I’ve been watching too many soap operas with Bud.”

  “Bud watches the soaps?”

  “When there isn’t a sporting event.”

  Though Cara murmured a response about men and their games, her attention focused on the door leading through a pantry to the kitchen. Any moment, Dash would walk through. And what did she expect? Fireworks?

  They’d spent most of the day together. There wasn’t any logical reason for her to have missed him, but she was practically drooling with expectation.

  Dash strode into the dining room with a mug in his fist. The sight of him did not disappoint. Even at the end of a long day with exhaustion pulling at the corners of his mouth, the man looked great. It was his eyes—his silvery-blue eyes, filled with the promise of strength, laughter and…sex. When he looked at her, she began to melt.

  Then she saw Yazzie following close at Dash’s heels. The big orange cat swaggered with his tail high in the air. The fur on his haunches was filthy. Cara glared at both of them. “What have you done to my cat?”

  “I didn’t mean for him to go outside.” Dash took a seat at the table beside her. “He slipped through the door and followed me to the bunkhouse.”

  Yazzie sprawled at her feet. If he’d had any feline self-respect, he would have been cleaning himself. But no. With his pink tongue, he lazily licked his whiskers.

  “What has he been eating?”

  “Might have caught a chipmunk,” Dash said.

  It wouldn’t do any good to reprimand the beast. Yazzie loved to hunt. He was constantly bringing her all sorts of disgustingly bloody trophies.

  Apparently, her cat had found a way to keep busy. Cara needed to do the same if she hoped to hang on to her sanity. “I wanted to ask you when I could get my computer back.”

  “No problem. I can set you up right now.”

  “You can?”

  “All the information is saved. I can plug it into one of the computers in the office.” Leaning back in the dining-room chair, his long legs stretched out in front of him. He lifted his mug to his lips, took a sip and exhaled a long, contented moan. “This is one hell of a good cup of coffee.”

  This was a man who adored his caffeine. His sensual groaning sent her thoughts spiraling again toward sex, but Cara managed to focus. “Can I use my e-mail?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  He lapped up another taste of coffee. “You’re in protective custody.”

  She looked toward Grace for a more cogent explanation. “Do you understand why we can’t use e-mail?”

  “I believe there’s some possibility that the signal can be traced to an area,” she said. “Or you might say something that would betray your location, perhaps an innocent comment about the weather.”

  “Well, that’s ridiculous. I’d be careful.”

  “But the killer wouldn’t know that. They might go looking for your e-mail contacts.”

  “And those people would be in danger.” That much she could understand. “What if I just read the e-mail?”

  “No,” Dash said. “This whole thing started with e-mails. Remember?”

  She wouldn’t soon forget Russell’s veiled threats that had turned real. Finishing the last dregs of her cappuccino, she stood. “I’d like to use the computer now.”

  He held up his coffee. “Give me a chance to appreciate this excellent brew. It’s been a long day.”

  Though he looked exhausted, his sexiness was undiminished, innate, recumbent. She was drawn toward him. If she didn’t pull away soon, she might do something she’d regret. “Just
point me toward the computers.”

  “As if I’d trust you not to answer your e-mails?” He hauled himself to his feet. “Let’s go.”

  Before leaving the dining room, she smiled at Grace. “I enjoyed our conversation.”

  “As did I.” The older woman cast an appreciative glance toward Dash’s retreating backside. “Just like the soaps.”

  In the kitchen, Cara turned and spoke to Yazzie, who had followed them. “You stay here, Yaz.”

  He planted his furry bulk in front of the door, making it impossible to open.

  Dash smirked. “He’s not listening to you.”

  Yazzie was an outdoor cat, utterly independent. Cara scooped him off the floor. Not an easy task. He was twenty-plus pounds of limp weight. She glanced toward the refrigerator. “He might be hungry.”

  “Right,” Dash said. “The cat is obviously malnourished and wasting away.”

  Yazzie hissed at him.

  Cara resettled Yazzie’s weight in her arms. “I don’t feel comfortable about having him running loose. There must be coyotes around here.”

  “And hawks and owls. And bears in the mountains.”

  “I’ll carry him to the office.”

  Though it was dark outdoors, the yard was well lit. Only a few yards away was the entrance to the whitewashed bunkhouse, a long building with few windows. Beyond the three cottonwood trees, she saw the big red barn.

  Yazzie wriggled in her arms. With a few twitches, he wrenched free and hit the ground running.

  “Yazzie.” She chased after him toward the barn.

  The barn door was ajar, and she raced inside. The smell of hay and horses overwhelmed her and her nostrils twitched. When she looked up, she found herself staring into the barrel of a handgun.

  Wesley, the agent holding the gun, quickly lowered his weapon. “Sorry.”

  “No problem,” said Dash, who had come up behind her. “It’s good to know you’re alert.”

  “Can’t be too careful,” Wesley said.

  The atmosphere at the safe house was so calm and homey that she’d almost forgotten the potential for danger. “Is there any reason to believe that Russell knows I’m here?”