Protective Confinement

by Cassie Miles

  From the time he’d been adopted, Russell had been her good little boy, her smart little boy with the curly brown hair. She’d chosen his outfits and dressed him until he was fourteen. She’d undressed him, too.

  “Come on,” the blonde whined. “I want to have some fun. I want to go dancing.”

  She did a clumsy shuffle across the mesa top. Her breasts flopped around inside her tight pink T-shirt. A mottled red flush crawled up her throat. Then she stopped, planted her fists on her hips and glared at him. “Come play with me, honey. I know all kinds of games.”

  He pulled the handgun from the holster clipped to his belt. “Don’t move.”

  She gasped. Her eyes opened wide in surprise.

  He took aim. Fired.

  The snake that had been only a few feet away from her thick ankles was thrown in the air from the impact of his bullet. It fell lifeless to the dusty rock surface.

  The woman whimpered. Pathetic and ugly. There was no need to subject her to testing; he already knew that she was unworthy. “I have no further use for you.”

  He strode past her to the rental car he intended to exchange immediately for a more anonymous vehicle. The woman clutched his arm. “You saved my life. That was a rattlesnake.”

  The gun was still in his hand. He pressed the barrel into her soft midsection. “Back off.”

  She stepped away, finally aware that she might be in danger.

  He needed to shoot her, to fill his quota of one victim per day. But guns were ultimately unsatisfying.

  He opened the car door and reached into his backpack, finding a pair of handcuffs. He threw them toward her. “Put these on.”

  “Honey, I don’t like this game.”

  “Do it or I’ll shoot off your foot.”

  Whimpering, she did as he said.

  “On your belly,” he ordered.

  Using a length of rope, he tied her ankles.

  “What are you doing?” she cried. “You’re not leaving me here?”

  Actually, he was. Leaving her behind. Just the way he’d left Adele. But he wanted to make this threat count. Cara had to know he was serious. Drawing his knife, he slashed a careless “X” across her back. Her red blood stained the pink T-shirt.

  She screamed.

  “Silence. Or I’ll cut you again.”

  Kicking wildly with both feet, she yelled louder.

  He flipped her onto her back. He didn’t need his knowledge of the human body to know how to make her be quiet. He slashed her throat and stepped back, avoiding the gush of her blood.

  In moments, she was still.

  He dipped the point of his knife in her blood and scrawled in the sand. One word. Cara.

  As he drove away, he tossed three eagle feathers out the car window.

  There was someone he wanted to talk to. The one person who would tell him he was doing the right thing, that his judgment was correct. But he knew what that voice would say.

  He had to do this alone. His own voice was enough. His voice and the sound of his mother crooning at his bedside, stroking his hair off his forehead. He was Mother’s good little boy.

  Chapter Eleven

  Outside the town of Window Rock, Cara moved from the rear of the vehicle into the passenger seat. She could have pointed out the many signs depicting the landmark that had given the town its name—a sandstone arch shaped in a huge circle like a window framing the sky. But she was done playing tour guide.

  Russell’s elaborate ruse with his car showed that he was willing to risk being caught if it meant getting closer to her. He needed to be stopped. She needed to convince Dash that she should be part of this investigation.

  He clicked his cell phone closed. “Before I take you to the council meeting, we need to make a stop at tribal police headquarters. Lieutenant Perry Longhand wants to meet with me.”

  “I know Perry.” A good man. But why did he want to see Dash? “I hope this is more than professional courtesy. A couple of lawmen shaking hands and giving each other steely eyed glares.”

  “You think I’m steely eyed?”

  More like sapphire-blue, but she wasn’t about to tell him that his eyes were jewels. That description was much too girlie. “You’re very bossy.”

  “Only when I need to be.”

  “Not just with me. You snap out orders to other agents and officers. You’d never win the prize for Mr. Congeniality.”

  “Good,” he said. “How do you know Lieutenant Longhand?”

  “We’ve talked about this report I’m presenting at tribal council. It’s mostly data on the social problems caused by gambling casinos on reservations. Longhand supports the idea that more funds should be allocated to dealing with increased crime and addictive behavior.”

  “More money for the police,” Dash said. “Of course, he’ll support that.”

  “With increased revenue from the gambling, the tribe can afford it.”

  She directed him through the dusty little town of adobe shops, small hogan-style houses and the ubiquitous McDonald’s. In seconds, they were at police headquarters.

  In Longhand’s office, the lieutenant came around his desk and greeted her with a warm hug. Perry was a big, barrel-chested man whose stern features would have been intimidating if he hadn’t been so quick to grin.

  She smiled back at him. Cara saw him as a brother. On the reservation, a lot of people looked like her. Same broad forehead, same wide jaw, same black hair. When she’d first come here seven years ago, she’d decided to grow her hair long, hoping to be a part of this family.

  Longhand pointed out a couple of seats and lowered himself into the swivel chair behind his desk. His office was simple. The desk. A computer. And a window with dusty blinds. One wall was hung with dozens of framed certificates and pictures of his family, including his four children and lovely wife. One of the photographs was an old sepia print of a gray-haired woman in traditional Navajo garb. A grandmother?

  Centered on the blotter in front of him was a folder. He toyed with the edges as he spoke. “The chief of police wants me to be your official liaison while the FBI is on the res. We have no problem with your helicopter search, but we want to know before your agents take any sort of action.”

  “I’ll keep you informed,” Dash said.

  “I read your memo and the APB on this serial killer. The Judge.” His eyebrows lowered as he looked toward Cara. “This killer came after you. I’m sorry.”

  She appreciated his simple offering of sympathy. “I’m all right now.”

  “He must have been loco to attack you.” His smile broadened and lit up his dark eyes. “You’re a porcupine, Cara. You look playful and innocent. But when somebody crosses you, they’re going to get stung.”

  “You got that right,” Dash muttered.

  “She giving you a hard time?”

  “She refuses to follow simple instructions. Like stay in the car.”

  Longhand chuckled. “You should have heard her lecture the council about the dangers of casino gambling. I never knew anybody could talk that fast.”

  “Hey,” she interrupted. “I do whatever is necessary.”

  “And you usually come out on top.” As Longhand looked down at the folder, his grin faded. “Now, if you don’t mind, Cara. We have police business to discuss. You might want to leave the room. There’s coffee in the outer offices and—”

  “I’ll stay,” she said in her authoritative professorial tone. “I might be able to help.”

  “Police business,” he repeated. “About the serial killer.”

  “I understand.”

  Longhand looked toward Dash. “Your call, Agent Adams. Does she stay or go?”

  Dash studied her, coolly assessing. She matched his gaze with her own determination. If he threw her out, she’d make him sorry.

  He gave a quick nod. “She stays.”

  Perry passed the folder to Dash. “Over a year ago, we found a body. Burned in a fire pit. It could be the work of your serial killer.”

/>   Though Dash held the folder so she couldn’t see, his expression told her all she needed to know. As he leafed through several photographs, his eyes darkened. His brows arrowed into an angry scowl. “What happened to the body?”

  “Buried. It was a long time ago.”

  “I don’t see an autopsy. Or a positive identification. Was there DNA testing?”

  “There was jewelry found with her. A ring and a necklace. Silver and onyx. Handmade. They belonged to the daughter of one of our tribal elders—a girl who had gone missing. The elder refused to allow autopsy or any other testing.”

  Slowly, Dash closed the folder. “Is there any possibility of exhuming the remains?”

  She couldn’t believe he’d asked that question. Native American burial grounds were sacred. A tribal elder would never allow the FBI to disturb the bones of his daughter.

  “You have the crime-scene photos.” Longhand’s tone was less friendly than a moment ago. “That should be enough.”

  “Our medical examiners and forensic experts might learn something from her body.”

  “You have other victims,” Longhand said.

  “Not from a year ago.”

  “Why is the timing important?”

  “The Judge was active in San Francisco three years ago. He killed seven women, then stopped. The FBI assumed he was dead. Then the killing started again.”

  “With the woman in Santa Fe,” Longhand said. “And the attack on Cara where the killer identified himself.”

  “Your murder a year ago provides a link between San Francisco and the present day. If the method is the same, it ties all the crimes more closely to Russell Graff.” The timing provided a link to the San Francisco murders. Was it possible that Russell wasn’t a copycat, after all? Was he the Judge? “Maybe he never stopped killing.”

  “Makes sense to me,” Longhand said. “But you will never have permission to dig up her body, especially not if you plan to transport her bones to a distant FBI lab. She must be allowed to rest peacefully in her native soil.”

  Clearly, they were at an impasse. Dash had no jurisdiction in the Navajo nation. He couldn’t force an exhumation. Not without creating an incident.

  Cara cleared her throat. “I might have a solution.”

  The two lawmen looked at her as if she were a talking cat—not expected to say anything useful.

  “What is it?” Longhand asked.

  “There’s an archaeological excavation site up toward Mesa Verde—the site where Russell was working. One of the scientists there is a respected forensic anthropologist—Dr. Alexander Sterling. He’s working with burial mounds, and he has the sanctioned approval of many tribes.”

  “I’ve heard of Dr. Sterling,” Longhand said.

  “He could be trusted to handle the remains of the murdered woman with the respect they deserve.”

  Longhand rubbed his hand across his chin, then he slowly nodded. “I’ll talk to the father.”

  “Thank you,” Dash said. “If there’s any way I can help, don’t hesitate to contact me.”

  Perry Longhand stood behind his desk. “If it’s all the same, I’ll talk to Cara. She can keep you informed.”

  She bit her lip to keep from gloating. Whether or not Dash approved, she had become an integral part of this investigation.

  IN THE TRIBAL COUNCIL BUILDING, Dash paced the hallway outside the assembly room where business was being discussed. If he’d wanted to be inside, he could have pressured someone to let him observe even though everyone on the reservation seemed to take great pleasure in reminding him that the FBI had no jurisdiction here. But he couldn’t care less about politics. Not for the Navajo or for anybody else.

  Politics and law represented the life he’d rejected long ago. Cara had called him a hunter, and he was itching to get back to the chase. During the last two hours, a lot had happened.

  The tribal elder had given his permission to allow Dr. Sterling to exhume and examine his daughter’s remains. Sterling had agreed and was on his way here.

  Dash had arranged for the pertinent autopsy documents to be faxed to Lieutenant Longhand’s office so Sterling could compare them to his findings.

  A helicopter search of the reservation was underway along the highway corridor. The results so far: zippo.

  And, somehow, Cara had gone from being a protected witness to joining the investigative team. Whether or not he approved, there were things she could do that no one else could. Her suggestion to use Dr. Sterling for the autopsy was brilliant.

  His cell phone rang, and he stepped outside to take the call. It was one of the field agents on the helicopter search. “We found something. A young woman.”

  Silently, Dash prayed. Not another victim. “Is she dead?”

  “Yes. A blonde. She was out here in the middle of nowhere. Handcuffed. Her ankles were tied. Her throat slashed.”

  Dash continued his pacing outside. He went along the sidewalk leading to the parking lot outside the council building and back again.

  Bitter disappointment rose in the back of his throat. “Anything else?”

  “Russell had a message.”

  Dash was pretty damned sure he didn’t want to hear it. Still, he said, “Give it to me.”

  “Until he has what he wants, others will die.”

  Of course. “Keep me posted on new developments.”

  Dash disconnected the call with a snap. He hated the way Russell was toying with him. This twenty-four-year-old punk was playing a sick poker game where he held all the good cards. Except for one. Dash had the ace in the hole. Cara.

  She’d volunteered to be used as bait, and at this point he was almost ready to take her up on the offer. It was doubtful that the FBI would give official approval for that kind of action, but he’d gone against procedure before. As Flynn had pointed out, Dash had a reputation for risk-aggressive behavior.

  If he set up a sting, she’d agree to do it. Her motivation came from Russell’s current strategy of “punishing one person a day” and blaming it on her. She wasn’t the sort to accept that. Cara was strong, and she had more self-control than a Zen master. She was brave enough. After that one long night when she’d sobbed in his arms, she hadn’t shown much fear.

  But she’d also told him her dreams. She wanted a home and family. She wanted to belong with someone. If he could give it to her, if he could be that someone…

  Instead, he was planning to use her.

  Standing in the parking lot outside the building where the tribal delegates had gathered, he noticed a sharp disparity. Among the mostly beat-up older cars were a couple of big, shiny new Cadillacs—an indication that the casino revenues had begun to kick in.

  His gaze lifted to the hazy blue skies that hung above dull red hills. Even the green of springtime seemed muted. As the afternoon sun slipped lower, shadows stretched out from the mesas, carving layers of texture from the hills and rocks. If he stared long enough, this land—Cara’s land—wasn’t plain and ugly. It wasn’t pretty, but it was…

  He watched another car pull into the parking lot. A new one. Probably a rental. This could be the famous Dr. Alexander Sterling, but he doubted it. The anthropologist was coming from a dig site; he probably drove something more rugged.

  The sedan parked. The door opened. William Graff strode toward him. What the hell was he doing here?

  Dressed in a long-sleeved black sweater and gray trousers, Russell’s father looked sophisticated and urban, more at home on a golf course than the Navajo reservation. His face pulled into a deep frown like a mask of tragedy.

  Dash braced himself, ready for a fight. Almost eager, in fact. He hated Graff for the way he’d disrespected Cara, suggesting that she’d seduced his son. For a moment, he considered greeting the elder Graff with a left jab to the face, hard enough to break that long, thin nose.

  “Agent Adams,” Graff snapped. “I understand my son’s car has been located.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Can I have the veh
icle released to me?”

  “No.” Dash was blunt.

  “On the drive here, I saw helicopters. Are you chasing him down with choppers?”

  I wish. “Russell has not been taken into custody.”

  When Graff removed his sunglasses, his dark eyes were underlined with exhaustion. “I’ve come here to offer my assistance in your investigation.”

  Dash doubted that his motives were innocent. “What do you want in return?”

  “Russell needs help. Both his mother and I agree. Our boy is troubled. He needs a psychiatric evaluation.”

  Dash recognized the ploy. William Graff was trying to set up an insanity plea for his serial-killer son, trying to get Russell off with a few years of counseling in a posh psychiatric facility. “How can you help me find your son?”

  “In the past two days, he has made substantial cash withdrawals from an account set up to pay for his education. The total amount is nearly forty thousand dollars.”

  “I thought we had all of Russell’s financial information.” Following the money was one of the best ways to track a fugitive. “Did you purposely withhold this information?”

  “I didn’t know. This account is administered by his mother. She told me about the withdrawal this morning.”

  “Your wife could be charged with aiding and abetting.”

  Graff’s frown deepened. “I didn’t have to tell you about this. I’m cooperating. She’s cooperating.”

  And trying to save his own ass. Dash turned away from him and pulled his cell phone from his pocket. “As of now, all your accounts are frozen pending further investigation.”

  “You can’t do that.”

  “The hell I can’t.” The damage had already been done. Russell had enough cash that he didn’t need to use his bank withdrawal cards or credit cards. That doorway for tracking his movements had slammed shut.

  “Listen to me,” Graff demanded. “I’m trying to help.”

  “All you’ve done thus far is obstruct a federal investigation. You’re not above the law, Mr. Graff. Nor is your wife. And especially not your son.”

  Graff sneered as he replaced his sunglasses on the bridge of his thin nose. “I’ll tell you this much. My son might be crazy, but he’s not wrong.”