by Cassie Miles
“For what?”
“Russell promised to punish one person a day. He might take another victim.”
Though Dash hoped one encounter was enough for the day, she was right. They should expect the worst.
He checked the rearview mirror. The last thing he needed right now was for Russell to follow them to the safe house. If a serial killer discovered the location, safe-house security would be compromised.
There were no other vehicles on the road behind them. No cars. No motorcycles.
The first raindrop hit the windshield with a splat. If the rain picked up, helicopter search in the area would be curtailed. Nothing was going right.
He glanced toward Cara. “You did a good job talking to Joanne.”
“She makes me sad.” She shrugged as if she could shake off that feeling.
“Knowing that Russell has a dirt bike is helpful.” He could go to places where there were no roads, but the bike would leave tire tracks. “I put out an APB.”
“You never told me what was in that backpack you picked up on the rock.”
“Russell’s laptop.”
“Oh, my.” She gasped with surprise. “Why on earth would he leave that behind?”
“He meant for us to find it so I suspect it’s the start to another wild-goose chase. But he might have out-smarted himself this time. Our forensic computer experts can mine a lot of data from that machine.”
“Like what?”
“The times he logged on. Locations. Routing pat terns. Sites he’s visited. This data creates mathematical probabilities about what he’s planning to do next.”
“More experts?” She scoffed. “Why bother?”
He didn’t blame her for being cynical. Nothing had worked against Russell. Not crime-scene forensics. Not psychological profiling. “I’ll admit that our high-level technical advice hasn’t been real successful.”
“A complete failure.”
“Is there any grade lower than an F?”
“I’m not blaming you, Dash. Nor anyone else. I’m usually the first person in line to trust the opinion of experts, but nothing seems to be working. Nothing makes sense. Like Joanne.” She huffed an angry sigh. “I can’t believe she still has feelings for Russell.”
“Joanne wouldn’t be the first woman to fall in love with a monster.”
“But it’s so irrational.”
Her logic brought a smile to his lips. Only Cara—the total academic—would demand rationality from emotion. “I don’t think love is supposed to make sense.”
“Of course, it does. Initial physical attractions can be quantified and measured. Establishing a relationship takes a great deal of measured planning.”
“How do you quantify a kiss?”
She fidgeted in the passenger seat. “Accelerated pulse rate. Increased sensory stimulation. It can all be analyzed.”
Last night when they’d made love, she hadn’t been analyzing. “People in love are supposed to be overwhelmed, swept off their feet.”
“In fairy tales.”
When he glanced toward her, he felt the pull of that magic called love. With every moment he spent with her, she seemed more ideal. “I thought you were the one who believed in fairy tales—all those myths and legends.”
“I’ve studied them,” she admitted.
“So you know that love doesn’t always make sense. Cupid draws back his bow and zaps unlikely lovers. Like an archaeology professor and an FBI agent.”
A faint blush colored her cheeks, and her full lips smiled as she said, “What could possibly be more irrational?”
“Ignoring the attraction.”
He wouldn’t make that mistake.
RUSSELL SAT IN THE SHADOW of an overhanging rock ledge watching as the rain splattered on the dark red earth. He hugged his knees, making himself into a ball. Slowly, he rocked back and forth. He was lonely and wanted Cara to be with him, cradling his head against her breast and singing to him.
If Joanne had done as he’d told her, he’d talk to Cara today. But there were long hours stretching in front of him and so many other things he had to do. “I miss my computer.”
You had to get rid of it. The time was right.
“I’m bored.” When he was a boy, his mother had always told him to find something to occupy his mind. To quit bothering her. She was very busy. On the phone. Getting dressed up in lace and satin. “I’m bored.”
Find yourself a hobby, little boy. Make yourself useful.
“I collect things.”
Insects and rodents. A cat. A robin. It had started when his class had gone to the museum and had seen insects pinned to a board so they could be studied. He’d done the same, piercing their hard little shells with a long pin from his mother’s diamond brooch.
He’d watched them die. Their souls belonged to him. Just as Cara would be his.
She wants to be with you. To die in your arms.
He pushed the hair off his forehead and looked out at the gray, drizzling rain.
Chapter Sixteen
By the time Dash parked the camper in front of the safe house, the rain was falling steadily. Glumly, he stared through the windshield. “I’ll see if I can find an umbrella in here somewhere.”
“No problem.” Cara pushed open her door.
“You’re going to get wet.”
“Then I’ll dry off again.” She flashed him a dazzling smile. “I like the rain.”
She ran toward the house with her black hair flipping gracefully behind her. Ironically, she seemed to draw strength from each new disaster.
Grabbing a few things from the camper, he followed her to the covered front porch where Grace Lennox sat in a rocking chair. She was reading a book with Yazzie draped across her lap.
Cara reached down to stroke the scruffy orange fur. “How was he, Grace? Did he miss me?”
Before she could answer, Yazzie spoke for himself. He let out a long, plaintive yowl. He rolled off Grace’s lap and landed on the porch with a clunk. Then he bashed against Cara’s shins. She scooped Yazzie up and held him so she was looking directly into his eyes. “Good grief,” she said. “He feels even heavier than before.”
“Nothing wrong with his appetite,” Grace said. “How was your tribal council meeting?”
“Oh my God. So much has happened that I almost forgot. It went very well. Everyone agreed that there was a need for more police presence at the casinos, and more social programs to deal with the gamblers.”
Dash asked, “How were things around here?”
“Flynn has been in a perfectly dreadful mood.” She carefully placed a bookmark in the pages and closed her book. “I think he’s upset with you, Agent Adams.”
“No doubt,” he said.
“On the plus side, that charming psychologist, Jonas Treadwell, is here, and he’ll certainly be staying for lunch.”
With all that had happened this morning, Dash could hardly believe it was only noon. Six hours ago, he’d been standing on a cliff with Cara, hearing her tell him that he deserved an A-plus for his sexual performance. Since then, everything had crashed and burned.
Dash wasn’t looking forward to this confrontation with Flynn, but he couldn’t put it off. “Excuse me, ladies.”
Flynn was waiting in the front room. He sat in one of the heavy armchairs near the fireplace. His eyes narrowed in a squint as he nodded a greeting.
Dash sat opposite him. “From what I hear, you’re in a perfectly dreadful mood.”
“How about you?”
“Been better,” Dash said. “I blew it.” He held his arms wide, inviting Flynn to take his best shot. He deserved the reprimand. He’d gone into a dangerous situation alone, putting Cara in danger. “All the waiting around and getting nowhere was making me crazy. I needed to go after him.”
“You followed a hunch. Took a risk.”
“I played right into his hands.”
Flynn rose slowly. He seemed exhausted, sleep-deprived. Resting an elbow on the mantel, he looke
d down at Dash. “Now you know how it feels. I was after the Judge for a year. A whole year when he killed seven women. No matter what I did, he was always one step ahead.” He stopped abruptly and shrugged. “You know the story.”
He sure as hell did. The pressure and the guilt had destroyed Flynn. Dash refused to let the same thing happen to him. Through the screen door leading to the porch, he heard Cara’s laughter as she chatted. More than anything, he wanted to keep her safe. “We need to start processing the information we got from the site.”
Flynn nodded. “We’ll debrief with Treadwell in the den. Bring Cara, too.”
Dash stepped back onto the porch. Slate-gray skies and sheets of rain formed a dull backdrop. In contrast, Cara seemed to shine. Her eyes were gray pearls. Her white teeth flashed. “Come with me. We need to talk with Treadwell.”
“Lucky you,” Grace said. She fluttered her hand as if she were fanning her face. “Find out if he likes older women.”
Cara patted her arm. “I’ll put in a good word for you.”
Yazzie preceded them into the house. He swaggered toward the kitchen. The cat had the right idea; Dash would have killed for a decent cup of coffee, but there were more pressing concerns.
As he walked beside Cara toward the den, he slipped his arm around her slim waist. He wanted to tell her how important she was to him, how he wanted to be with her forever. All kinds of irrational thoughts crashed around inside his brain. He wanted to say that he could be the man she needed, that they belonged together. But those weren’t the words that came out of his mouth. “I might not have mentioned this lately, but you are very hot.”
She tossed her head. “Is that an expert opinion?”
“I’ve had some experience.”
“So have I.” She patted his butt.
In the den, Dash and Cara greeted Treadwell. In his red knit shirt and khakis, he might have just stepped off a golf course. Immediately, Cara started pitching the charms of Grace Lennox.
Dash interrupted. “We need to get started. First, there’s this.” He held up the cell phone. “Russell went to a lot of trouble to open this line of communication to Cara. We need to be ready for his call.”
Flynn went to the door and called to Wesley, the resident electronics expert.
“And this.” Dash held up the backpack he’d retrieved when he’d rescued Joanne. “Russell left us his laptop computer.”
“I don’t get it,” Flynn said. “Why?”
“Leaving clues seems to be his new thing.” Dash reached into the pack and pulled out the plastic-wrapped hunting knife. “Cara identified this knife. It’s the one he had when he was holding her captive.”
Treadwell came closer to get a better look. “He’s left other items behind.”
“A ceremonial pipe,” Dash said. That had been at Mesa Verde near the body. “And eagle feathers. And there was a bowl with his thumbprint at the lodge where his father was staying in Durango.”
“He’s divesting himself of precious objects,” Treadwell said. “This isn’t good.”
“What does it mean?”
“It signals a change.” He lowered himself onto the leather sofa. “The Judge is invested in his rituals. His satisfaction comes from doing the same thing, over and over. He always looks for the same physical characteristics in his victims. He stalks them, then holds them for four days.”
“Like he did with me,” Cara said.
“When you escaped, you interrupted his script.”
“But he killed again,” Dash said. “The woman at Mesa Verde.”
“That murder was different. He didn’t hold her for the ritual four days. And there are other behavioral anomalies. He used a gun when he shot the deputy,” Treadwell pointed out. “He captured one woman and didn’t kill her. The blonde didn’t fit his profile victim. Several distinctly different behaviors.”
Dash was well aware that the serial killer pattern had changed. “The only constant is his obsession with Cara.”
“True.”
“Can you tell me what Russell is going to do next?”
“If I had a crystal ball.”
Treadwell gave him a genial smile as if friendliness could defuse the tension that had taken root in Dash’s gut. He was glad when Wesley came into the room. Though this newbie agent was dressed like a cowboy, his language was high-tech.
If he hooked the cell phone into a global scan and trace, they might be able to triangulate on Russell’s position. “But that’s going to take some time,” Wesley said. “Right now, we can use the speaker function if Russell calls. Cara needs to stay close. He’ll expect to hear her voice.”
He took the laptop to the table by the window and booted up. They might as well take a look before they passed this on to the computer geniuses who could track all the data.
Finally, Dash sensed that they were making forward progress. He turned back to Treadwell. “All these changes Russell is making, do they point toward anything?”
“Suicide.”
Hard to believe. “I’m not a profiler, but I haven’t seen any sign of remorse from Russell.”
“Suicide doesn’t necessarily mean he’s sorry for what he’s done,” Treadwell explained. “Russell is clearly fascinated by death. After he kills, he spends a great deal of time with his victim. Postmortem.”
“And there was that note on the mirror,” Cara said. “In the motel room with all those photos of me, it said, ‘Mine in life. Mine in death.’”
“Suicide might be the final step in his ritual,” Treadwell said. “He’s giving away all his important objects before he takes his own life.”
Dash still didn’t believe it. “Any other interpretations?”
“He might be planning to move. To start over.”
A hell of a thought. Russell had access to money. He’d pulled almost forty thousand dollars from an account his father had known nothing about, and there was likely more where that had come from. “He could go anywhere.”
“But not right away,” Treadwell said. “He has unfinished business here. His threat to punish one person a day. And his obsession with Cara.”
She seemed to take this statement calmly. If Dash hadn’t known her so intimately, he might not have noticed the tightness in her shoulders. “Is Cara the only reason he’s staying here?”
“One of the reasons,” Treadwell said. “You are also part of Russell’s obsession, Dash. So is Flynn.”
“The mind games.”
“It gives him a sense of power that was probably lacking in his upbringing. He acts out his rage at his mother by dominating and murdering women. Law enforcement authorities represent his father, who was probably abusive.”
“Let’s talk about William Graff.” Dash told them about his meeting with the elder Graff in Window Rock and his suspicion that Russell and his father might be working together. “You both remember that Cara said she heard a second voice while she was being held captive. An angry male voice.”
“I’ve given this matter some thought,” Treadwell said. “When Cara mentioned the other voice, I first assumed she was hallucinating, which is still a possibility. But there might be another person involved. A dominating personality.”
“Like his father.”
“The idea of father-son serial killers is fascinating. Unprecedented in my experience.” Treadwell looked pleased. “But there could be someone else. Perhaps a mentor.”
“Like Dr. George Petty at the dig site,” Dash said. “Or Dr. Sterling.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Cara said.
“Hey, I met Sterling. He’s a dominating personality.”
“But he didn’t know Russell in San Francisco,” she pointed out.
“Excuse me,” Wesley said. “Flynn, you should take a look at this.”
Dash followed Flynn to the computer where they stood behind Wesley’s shoulder. Several files were listed. One was labeled with Flynn’s name.
“Open it,” he said tersely.
A map took sh
ape on the screen. The area displayed was Cortez and it included the safe house. A note at the bottom said: “She’s buried by the four aspens below La Rana.”
“La Rana is a rock formation,” Wesley said. “It’s about six miles from here.”
The carefully pinpointed location changed everything. Russell knew about the safe house. Security was compromised. With one computer message from an Internet café, Russell could send his map all across the country, exposing the safe house and destroying this entire operation.
Before Dash’s eyes, Flynn aged ten years in a minute. This had to be his worst nightmare. The Judge had found him. He’d laid another victim at Flynn’s doorstep.
WITHIN A FEW SHORT HOURS, the whole atmosphere of the safe house underwent a dramatic transformation. Cara stood at the window in the den, watching the mobilization of FBI forces. The decision had been made that the safe house was no longer to be treated as a secret location. This quiet little farmhouse had become the center of operations. The rain had stopped as suddenly as it had started. The sun beat down.
Though Dash had been telling her all along that there was a manhunt underway, she had no idea how much was entailed. Field agents carrying guns. Behavioral analysts. A forensic team who had deployed to La Rana where—as Russell had promised—another burned corpse had been found.
Though most of the operation was sequestered in the bunkhouse offices, Cara was in the den with an electronics specialist who was rigging the cell phone. Yazzie stood at her side, hissing furiously at these strangers who’d invaded his territory and occasionally lashing out at passing ankles.
Cara felt much the same way. Though she was gratified to see the efforts being made, all this organized confusion was rather unnerving. She eyed the phones spread across the desk in the den and wished she could call her mother. Just to hear a familiar voice.
It had been years since she’d felt the need to go back home. Her academic life separated her from the family she’d grown up with. Lately, she’d been resenting her half sister’s wedding and the horrid peach-colored bridesmaid dress she’d be expected to wear. Right now, going home sounded wonderful and safe. And when her mother asked if there were any new men in her life, she might mention Dashiell Quincy Adams with his gorgeous blue eyes and his Plymouth Rock pedigree. Or maybe not.
