Protective Confinement

by Cassie Miles

  As she stared down at the paper, the neatly typed words swam in her vision. Maybe she should just give all these students As and move on. Some things were more important than academics.

  No way. Her life had always been about learning and school. She loved her career. Being a professor was hugely important. Wasn’t it?

  Ever since that night when she’d fallen apart in Dash’s arms, she’d been thinking about family. Finding that one special man. Her priorities had changed. Once, she would have been happy with papers to grade, future lesson plans to consider and a summer of research in the field. Now, she wanted more.

  She startled at the knock on her door. “Come in.”

  One look at Dash’s face told her that he had bad news.

  Bracing her hands on the table, she forced herself to stand like a defendant facing the verdict.

  “It was a deputy sheriff in Utah,” he said. “A man. Russell ambushed him with the stun gun, then shot him.”

  “Is he dead?”

  “In the hospital,” Dash said. “He’s expected to recover. He was shot in the leg. No bones broken.”

  Relief poured through her. This time, the punishment wasn’t death.

  “A man?” she questioned. This was such a radical change in his usual pattern. “Are you sure it was Russell?”

  “He had a message for you,” Dash said. “It went like this—‘Tell Cara that tomorrow is another day.’”

  He wasn’t through killing.

  Chapter Ten

  The next morning, after a breakfast of huevos rancheros, cantaloupe and fantastic coffee, Dash showed Cara the camper van they’d use to drive to the tribal council meeting.

  From the outside, it didn’t appear to be much larger than an SUV. But inside, the camper was fully furnished and surprisingly roomy. The two seats facing the windshield were captain’s chairs that swiveled around to face a fold-down table. In the back was a tiny sink, stove and fridge. There was other seating against the wall of the van. And a narrow bed. It was a mini-home.

  “Very nice,” she said. “Where did you get it?”

  “FBI.”

  His standard explanation for so many things. His version of the FBI was part law enforcement, part snoopy aunt, and part Santa Claus. “Was this camper just laying around? Waiting until someone happened to need it?”

  “Our people have access to a lot of equipment.”

  “Very cool. And does it come equipped with special FBI stuff? Like a machine-gun turret on the roof or bulletproof glass?”

  “The doors lock, and it’s enclosed. One hell of a lot safer than a pup tent in a campground.”

  The plan was to stay overnight. Window Rock was across two state borders in Arizona, about 125 miles away. A three-hour drive.

  While he stowed her overnight bag and his own gear in the rear, Grace Lennox strolled up to the passenger-side window and gave Cara a sly smile. “This camper is so very cozy. I suppose you’ll be spending the night with Dash.”

  “Not in the same bed,” Cara whispered.

  “That’s what they always say in the soaps. And in the very next scene, the happy couple is bare-chested and kissing under rather artistic lighting.”

  “You and Bud need to find something else to watch on television.”

  She winked. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

  Cara had no conscious intention of pouncing on Dash and forcing him into a lip-lock, but if things happened to heat up, she wouldn’t be averse to another kiss. Maybe two.

  He slid behind the wheel and slammed the door with enough force to knock all the romantic notions out of her head. Though he was wearing jeans and a sweater instead of his official FBI suit and tie, he couldn’t have been more uptight if he’d been clad in armor.

  “Something wrong?”

  “Taking you to this meeting might be a big mistake. It’s dangerous.”

  She’d heard this song before. “And you don’t want to take a chance on losing me. Or my testimony.” She fastened her seat belt. “Sometimes, I think that’s all I am to you. A piece of evidence.”

  “Most evidence is more cooperative.” He guided the camper to the end of the long driveway and turned south on a two-lane road. “Most evidence can be bagged, tagged and locked up until the trial.”

  She gave him a wide smile. “That other evidence isn’t as interesting as I am.”

  “Granted.” A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “You’re a lot more fun than fingerprints and fibers.”

  “Not much of a compliment. Want to try again?”

  He allowed his grin to blossom into a full smile. “You look very nice today.”

  She was dressed appropriately for a council meeting in a brown pantsuit with a coral shirt. Around her throat, she wore turquoise beads that matched the stone in her cuff bracelet and her dangling earrings.

  “Much better,” she said. “Thank you.”

  He nodded acknowledgment and turned to stare though the windshield. Though they could be driving straight into disaster, it felt good to leave the safe house. At least they were doing something. “What’s our plan?”

  “We drive south to Shiprock where we’ll pick up another couple of agents in a second vehicle. They’ll follow us to Window Rock.”

  “I hope you’re not planning to come to the tribal council with me.” The octagonal meeting room was huge, with plenty of room for eighty-eight delegates and spectators, but she really didn’t want an FBI entourage. “You’ll be bored silly.”

  “I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

  She tried a different tactic. “It’s really not allowed for outsiders to—”

  “I have permission. I’ve already explained the situation to the tribal cops, and they’re willing to let me carry a handgun on the reservation.”

  She hadn’t even considered the jurisdictional issue. Technically, the reservation was a sovereign nation that didn’t fall under the purview of the FBI.

  “A lot of precautions,” she said. “Do you really think Russell will show up?”

  “He might.” Even behind his sunglasses, she could tell that Dash was scowling. “I’m not using you as bait, but it has occurred to me that Russell might know about your plan to attend this meeting. He might try something. If he does, I’m armed. And I have backup. No way will he get away from three federal agents.”

  “Can I have a gun?”

  “Do you know how to shoot?”

  “Not a bit.”

  “Then forget it,” Dash said. “How are you coming with those papers you’ve been grading?”

  It was an obvious change of subject, but she didn’t mind. While they drove south into an arid landscape of mesa and canyon, she talked about the more interesting research subjects, including the site where Russell had been working. “An intricate cliff dwelling with signs of an irrigation system on the land below.”

  “Like Mesa Verde,” he said.

  “There are enough differences to make it unique, including communal burial mounds. That’s a possible indication that several people died at the same time. Maybe in an epidemic. Maybe a famine.”

  She checked his expression for signs of apathy, not wanting to force him to listen to an archaeology lecture. But his interest seemed sincere. At least, he was asking all the right questions.

  To their west was the Chuska mountain range, but this terrain was relatively flat. The road shot straight across the sparse landscape. In the distance, she spotted Shiprock—a jagged, natural monument of stone, rising fifteen hundred feet high. It looked like the prow of a ghostly ship sailing across the plains, hence the name.

  Dash saw it, too. “How the hell did that get there?”

  “This is a volcanic field. Shiprock is the neck of a volcano.” She knew the geology but preferred a more poetic explanation. “Shiprock poked straight up from the hot center of the earth. Like Devil’s Tower in Wyoming.”

  “You really love this country, don’t you?”

  “It’s home. A pla
ce where I fit in.”

  “And that’s what you’re looking for. A home.”

  “Someday I want more family than just Yazzie. Don’t you?”

  “If anything, I’ve always had too much family. If you look under Adams in the phone book, there’s usually ten pages of listing. Dozens of cousins. Mobs of overbearing aunts.”

  “I was talking about a family of your own. You know, children. A wife. A golden retriever.”

  “Settling down.” He let the words lay there for a moment. “I’ve given it some thought.”

  “And?”

  “Still thinking.”

  In Shiprock, they met up with the other agents who fell into line behind them as they proceeded onward toward the tribal meeting place just over the border in Arizona.

  The final stretch of road leading to Window Rock zigzagged through rising foothills with thick shrubs. As Dash rounded a curve, he leaned forward and stared. “Son of a bitch,” he whispered.

  “What is it?”

  “A dark green Ford Explorer. That’s the car William Graff bought for Russell.”

  Dash noted the California license plates and the logo from a San Francisco dealership. It had to be Russell. He’d come onto this road knowing that Cara would be headed to the tribal council.

  “It can’t be,” she said. “How can be he driving along like nobody is after him? Russell isn’t stupid.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong. Criminals—even psychotic madmen—aren’t as clever as we give them credit for. That’s his car.”

  Using his cell phone, Dash called the two agents in the following car. “The subject is in the dark green Ford Explorer directly in front of me. I’m going to pass him. Then you close in from behind.”

  “What should I do?” Cara asked.

  “Get in the back and duck down so he won’t see you.”

  While she unfastened her seat belt and went into the rear of the camper, he unholstered his weapon.

  “What are you doing?” Cara demanded.

  “Pulling my Glock.”

  “You have no idea how sleazy that sounds.”

  “For a piece of evidence, you sure are opinionated.” She didn’t seem the least bit scared. For that, he was glad. “Whatever happens, don’t get out of the camper. Understand?”

  “Got it.”

  Though he hadn’t intended to use her as bait, that tactic had already proved effective. Until this moment, the manhunt had been futile. No one had seen any sign of Russell. Now he was here. Within sight.

  Dash punched the accelerator and edged up beside the Explorer. He wasn’t expecting a high-speed chase. There was no reason for Russell to suspect an innocent camper cruising on the paved highway.

  Instead of speeding up, the Explorer took an exit. Dash slammed on the brake and swerved right to follow. The camper maneuvered with all the grace of a giant sea turtle. He followed the other vehicle onto a winding two-lane road that pointed toward a low hogback with jagged rocks that looked like the battlements of a medieval castle.

  The road was deserted. Why had he gone this way? They passed a couple of ramshackle little houses, similar to the place where he’d held Cara. Was he leading them to his next victim?

  Tension knotted Dash’s muscles. His fingers tightened on the steering wheel. He wanted this guy, and he was sick of playing—waiting for the next threatening e-mail, putting up with his father’s bitching, trying to understand his warped psychology. He wanted Russell now.

  In a burst of speed that pushed the camper’s engine to the max, Dash pulled even with the driver’s side window and peered through. The man behind the wheel wore sunglasses. A baseball cap shadowed his features. But this had to be Russell.

  Dash edged in front of the Explorer. He feathered the brake, gradually slowing down. The Explorer did the same.

  “This is weird,” Dash said.

  “What is?” Cara asked.

  “He’s not putting up any resistance. He’s letting us catch him.”

  A trap? Some kind of ambush? As soon as the Explorer stopped, trapped between Dash and the other agents, Dash jumped out and dodged behind his car door, using it as a shield. He aimed his gun at the Explorer. He shouted, “FBI. Put your hands where I can see them.”

  Through the windshield, he saw the driver raise both hands. “Don’t shoot,” he cried out. “Please don’t shoot.”

  “Keep your hands up.”

  The other two agents encircled the Explorer. This operation was too simple. Something wasn’t right. The Judge had eluded the San Francisco ViCAP force for months. He’d been invisible since he’d kidnapped Cara. Why would he give up so easily now?

  Carefully Dash approached the Explorer. He yanked open the driver’s side door and stared into the face of a grizzled older man in a stained denim jacket. Not Russell.

  “Get out,” Dash ordered. “Keep your hands up.”

  “I ain’t done anything wrong,” the man whined. “I got the worst damn luck in the world.”

  When he was cuffed, Dash faced him. “Where did you get this vehicle?”

  “It’s mine. You can look in the glove compartment, and the title is right there. The kid signed his car over to me. I swear, he did.”

  “What kid? What’s his name?”

  “Rusty or something like that. I met him in a diner back in Gallup.”

  They’d been set up, played for fools. “Why were you on this road?”

  “Well, that was part of the deal.” The old man licked his lips. “The kid told me I could have this fine vehicle. All’s I had to do in return was drive along this stretch of highway for ten miles, then get off at an exit, turn around and drive back the other way.”

  “Why?”

  “Don’t know and don’t care. I never had a brand-new car in my whole life.”

  “How long were you supposed to drive back and forth?”

  “From ten o’clock until noon.” Under the rim of his baseball cap, his dark eyes flickered nervously. He whispered, “That kid. He was looking for somebody.”

  “Who?”

  He nodded toward Dash’s vehicle. “Her.”

  Cara had gotten out of the camper and was coming toward them—casually disregarding his instructions not to leave the vehicle.

  Dash turned back to the grizzled idiot. “How do you know it was her?”

  “Well, now. He showed me a picture. Said she was his girlfriend and they had a little spat. You know, a lovers’ quarrel.”

  Dash lifted his gaze to the jagged rock battlements, then looked toward a beat-up shack in the distance. There was a good chance that Russell was nearby, watching them and enjoying his clever little ruse. With a long-range rifle, he could hide in the brush and pick them off one by one.

  Quickly, Dash gave orders to the other agents. They should take this moron into custody and turn over the vehicle to forensics for a thorough workup. “Prints, fibers, particles, the whole nine yards.”

  “Do you think he’s in the area?”

  “He’s probably watching us right now, laughing his damn head off.”

  “Yes, sir,” the agent said. “I’ll order a full search with choppers.”

  “Be sure to clear it through the tribal cops. We’re technically on reservation land.” He took Cara’s arm and pointed her back toward the camper. “I’ll take her the rest of the way to Window Rock, and I’ll be in touch.”

  She was rushing to keep up. “What’s going on? Who’s that guy?”

  “I told you to stay in the vehicle.”

  “But I could see that Russell wasn’t here.”

  “Get in.” He slammed his door and started the engine, halfway expecting a bullet through the windshield. As soon as she was inside, he said, “Get in the back and avoid the windows.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Russell could be out there, hiding in the rocks. Because he could have a high-powered rifle aimed at the center of your forehead.”

  “Good reason.” But she wasn’t cowed. Though she
got in the back, she knelt on the camper floor right behind him. Her face was level with his elbow.

  “Hang on,” he said. “I want to get away from here fast.”

  He cranked the steering wheel and sped down the two-lane road toward the highway. The camper wasn’t built for speed, but he was moving at a decent clip.

  “I guess Russell won this contest,” she said.

  “You don’t need to remind me.”

  “Like Man Eagle and Son of Light. But there’s only one contest that really counts. The last one.”

  Her rationale didn’t make him feel much better.

  Russell had proved his point. He knew where Cara would be headed. He was clever enough to call the shots and not get caught.

  Dash cursed under his breath.

  LYING FLAT ON HIS BELLY atop a mesa, Russell watched through binoculars as the camper driven by the FBI agent whipped down the road toward Window Rock. The big bad federal agent must be feeling pretty stupid, chasing down a wrinkled, old loser who thought he’d gotten a new car.

  Something for nothing? There was no such thing. There was always a cost. Scales to be balanced. Judgments to be made.

  This time, Russell was the winner. He’d shown them who was in charge. All the stupid cops were forced to dance to his tune.

  “What are you doing?” The busty little bleached blonde he’d picked up in Shiprock wriggled up next to him. “What are you looking at?”

  “Nothing that concerns you.”

  “You don’t know that, honey.”

  When she leaned forward to kiss his cheek, he pushed her away. She’d served her purpose, driving the Explorer while he’d followed in his rental car. He had no further need for her. Except as his next victim. Another warning for Cara.

  Without a word, he rose and strode back to the car.

  “Let’s go to Gallup and have some fun.” She fluffed her straggly curls. “It’s almost noon, and I’m ready for a little drinky-poo.”

  Her blond hair reminded him of his mother—a com parison that the very upper-class Adele Graff would have despised. His mother owned the best of everything and she flaunted her possessions. Especially him.