by Mallory Kane
February. The one anomaly in the rapist's pattern. Archer's wife's attack. "And you were on the case for—?"
"I took over as lead detective after the second rape." He wiped his face. The pale web of scars on the back of his hand glimmered in the harsh range lights. "The first thing I did was cut off all media attention. He wasn't happy about that."
"Media attention? Why would he want attention?" Resa asked.
"Serial offenders typically crave the notoriety. Plus, they need to gloat over how far behind the investigators are. They'll go to almost any lengths to keep the media's attention focused on them."
Resa's stomach churned with a sudden relization. "Oh, Archer. That's why he attacked your wife," she whispered.
He nodded shortly, and Resa saw his jaw muscles tense. 'This guy is obviously very organized. Maybe not by choice. His job could force him into a pattern. Or it could be his home situation. He may have a family—"
Resa gasped. "A family? That can't be possible. How could a man with a wife and children do the things he does?"
Archer turned off a bank of lights, throwing the firing range into darkness. His office and the entrance to the stairs were the only lighted areas. "Many serial offenders have families. If you were to look in on them at home, they'd seem like ordinary working stiffs. He might even coach Little League."
"Oh my God." She'd thought of the Lock Rapist as a shadowy entity who emerged to attack his victims, then faded back into some dark abyss until his next attack.
She'd never considered the possibility that he had a life.
"How can someone who has a family—a wife—" her voice choked.
Archer shook his head. "There are certain common predictors of deviant behavior or violence. But nothing's ever that easy. No one knows why one man crosses the line and another doesn't." He stepped into his office and grabbed a set of keys from his desktop. "Are you ready?"
"You don't have to follow me home. Like I told you, I've only noticed him on Tuesdays." The idea that the man who'd attacked her sister had placed following her on his regular schedule spooked her.
Tuesday: pick up milk, call the plumber, follow Theresa Wade.
An icy chill slid down her spine and she shuddered.
Archer turned out the lights in his office, then placed a guiding hand on the small of her back. "Let's go."
Resa opened her mouth to protest again, but Archer's warm protective touch at the small of her back made her feel safer than she'd felt in months, maybe ever.
On the other hand, his certainty that she needed protection increased the cold fear that had haunted her ever since her sister's attack.
The Lock Rapist thought she could recognize him. He considered her a threat. And when he caught her, he'd kill her.
Chapter Three
The following Tuesday Earl Slattery got out of the shower and grabbed two towels. Mary Nell didn't like for him to use two—wasteful, she said.
But tonight was special. He scrubbed his wet hair with one and wrapped the other around his waist. Then he grinned at himself in the mirror.
He'd suggested to his boss that having one night a week set aside for evening installations and repair of security equipment would increase business. His boss had gone for it, so Earl had volunteered for late shift on Tuesdays.
It was perfect. Especially now that he'd picked up the scent of the woman he'd seen that night. If he busted his butt to finish by nine o'clock on Tuesday nights, he had plenty of time to follow Theresa home.
After her initial suspicion, Mary Nell had gotten used to his late hours on Tuesdays. That sure made it easier on him. As long as he was careful and got his installations done in plenty of time, he could do anything he wanted.
It bothered him that Theresa Wade was going to Detective Archer's gun range. He'd considered going in there himself, to see if she was shooting or if she and Archer had a thing going.
But that was high risk, and Earl avoided as many high-risk behaviors as he could.
Last Tuesday night, he'd discovered a way to slip inside the fence that surrounded Theresa's gated community, so earlier tonight he'd sneaked in, bypassed the security system in a matter of seconds, and entered her apartment. He'd slipped a note under the edge of her windowsill, as if it had been slid under from outside. Then he'd driven out to Detective Archer's house, waited until he and Theresa left, and stuck the second note in Archer's mailbox.
That had been exciting. Much more exciting than following Theresa's car. More danger. More adrenaline. But not really more risk.
He liked that. All this sneaking around gave him a nearly fail-safe way to experience the excitement without risking so much.
Slinging the towel around his neck, Earl closed his eyes. Tonight's excitement had almost dulled the burning for a little while.
And tomorrow... He couldn't wait for tomorrow to get here. The kids had been out of school for a week, but Mary Nell had delayed her trip because the car needed a tune-up. Tomorrow morning she and the kids were heading up to Knoxville, to her mother's.
It was time. Earl shuddered in anticipation. Soon he could feed the hungry monster that lurked inside him and the burning would ease—for a while. He smacked his lips, then picked up his comb.
"Earl!"
Grimacing, he quickly ran the comb through his thinning hair.
"Earl! Are you listening to me? What are you doing in there? If you want any of this, you'd better come on. I'm about ready to go to sleep."
"Go ahead, you old bag," Earl muttered under his breath. "You dole it out like it was gold anyhow. And I can testify that it ain't gold." He chuckled quietly.
Then for a few seconds, he closed his eyes and gave in to the need that never really left him. It was almost to fever pitch, but that was okay.
Tomorrow he could begin his quest to quench it.
Archer saw the scrap of paper as soon as he turned into his driveway after following Resa to her apartment gates. It was fluttering precariously at the edge of his mailbox.
He slowed to a stop, eyeing the road and the surrounding area. Nothing.
He'd followed Resa home every night for a week. Tonight, Tuesday night, he'd anticipated seeing the dark sedan she'd noticed the two previous Tuesdays, but it hadn't showed.
If Resa was right, and he only followed her on Tuesdays, he must have seen Archer and aborted.
"So you left a note instead," Archer muttered. "Coward."
He pulled a small, high-powered flashlight out of his glove compartment and shone it on the scrap of paper. It was caught at the edge of the mailbox door, and he could see writing on it.
He wrinkled his brow. He didn't have an exam glove—not even a handkerchief. He'd have to grab the paper with his bare fingers and take a chance of contaminating it.
He glanced around the interior of his car for anything that would preserve the fingerprints and possible trace evidence on the note. On the floor on the passenger side, he spotted an empty envelope. He'd tossed it there the other day while glancing through his mail before he got out of his car.
Carefully, he used the tips of his thumb and index finger to grasp the edge of the note while he loosened the closure of the mailbox enough to slide it out. The breeze picked up just as the note came free and he almost lost it, but his damaged fingers managed to hold on.
With the note and his arms back inside his car window, he dropped the note into the envelope, and stuck the envelope in his inside coat pocket. He could barely resist pulling it out and reading it, but his detective's caution told him to wait until he was safely inside his house, with good lighting and a place to set the note so he wouldn't have to handle it.
It burned a hole in his jacket as he drove the fifty yards up the driveway to his Victorian house. He parked in the circular drive.
Just as he was getting out of his car, his cell phone rang. He looked at the caller ID and his heart slammed into his chest wall. It was Resa.
"Resa? What is it?"
"Archer?" Her voic
e was small and trembly. "You told me to call you first."
"What's the matter? Are you okay?"
"I don't know. There's—a note."
"Where? In your apartment?" Archer's heart rate tripled.
"Get out of there, Resa. Now!"
"It's not in my apartment—not exactly—" Her voice caught. He heard her take a shaky breath. "It's inside my windowsill. I think it was slipped underneath from the outside."
"Resa, listen to me. Have you checked your apartment?"
"Yes. Nothing's out of place. I don't think anybody's been inside."
"Good. Leave the note where it is. Call 911, and stay there with all the doors locked. Don't open the door to anyone until the police get there. I'm on my way."
"Archer? Hurry."
"Stay put, Resa."
He pocketed his phone, patted his jacket pocket to assure himself that the envelope was still there, and climbed back into his car.
On the way he called Clint and told him what Resa had told him. Clint said he'd meet the 911 team there.
Twenty-one long minutes later, Archer pulled up to the entrance to Resa's apartment complex. A uniformed officer he didn't know was stationed at the gate. Archer flashed his ID and explained that he was working on the Lock Rapist case as an independent investigator with Detective Banes.
The officer nodded. Clint had cleared him. He waved him through.
Ahead of him, Archer saw several parked police vehicles. He pulled up behind one and scanned the breezeways of the nearest apartment building. On the second floor, the front apartment's lights blazed, spotlighting an officer standing at the door.
He sprinted up the stairs. When he entered the apartment, he saw Resa sitting in a dining-room chair, her arms wrapped around herself, her eyes wide, her face pale. She saw him and her shoulders relaxed visibly.
Across the room, Clint glanced up from examining the inside of the windowsill. He gave Archer a slight nod, glanced at Resa, then went back to his job.
A kid who looked like a college student except for the badge pinned to his belt was balanced precariously on a tiny, non-functional fake balcony under the window and dusting the outside sill.
Archer reined in the urge to yell at the kid to watch where he parked his butt. This wasn't his case, he reminded himself. It was his ex-partner's.
Instead, he went over and knelt down beside Resa's chair. She reached out to him, her green eyes searching his face. After an instant's hesitation, he took her hand.
"I'm not sure they can decide if he was inside or not. Detective Banes said he could have slipped the note under the windowsill from the inside." Her voice quavered. "He thinks the Lock Rapist has been inside."
She squeezed his fingers and it took a lot of willpower not to wince.
"You did the right thing—almost. You got the phone calls backward." He gave her a little smile. "You should have called 911 first, then called me."
She nodded miserably. "You were the first person I thought of."
That surprised him. He frowned. The idea that she'd thought of him first scared him. Being someone's first choice in a crisis was the last thing he wanted. All he wanted was to be left alone.
The envelope in his jacket pocket burned his skin through the layers of fabric—a painful reminder that being left alone was no longer a choice. He was involved.
"Hey, you did good."
She pulled her hand free of his. Her fingers intertwined in her lap. Their knuckles turned white. He had an unwanted urge to touch her again. To untangle her fingers and rub them until warmth spread through them and up to put color back into her face.
He glanced at Clint, who was still involved in the evidence gathering.
"Resa," he said quietly. "Did you touch the note?"
"No," she said. "You told me not to."
"Could you read it?"
She nodded, pressing her lips together tightly.
"Tell me what it said."
She shut her eyes. Tears squeezed out between her closed lids. "It said, 'You can't shut me out. I'll get you.'"
He stood and patted her shoulder. "I'll be right back."
He stepped through the front door onto the concrete balustrade that connected the apartments.
"Hey, bud," he said to the young officer at the door. "Got a glove on you?"
"Sure, Detective." The officer dug in his pocket and pulled out a latex-free exam glove.
Archer took it and stretched it over his hand, then he retrieved the envelope from his pocket and slid the scrap of paper out of it.
Detective Archer. You're not as smart as you think you are. I'm looking forward to Theresa Wade. Think she'll be as good as her sister was? Or your wife? I'm pleased to be working with you again. If you release these two notes to the media, I might give you a break.
"Son of a—"
"Geoff." Clint appeared at his side. "What's that?"
He put the note inside the envelope and handed it to his ex-partner. "Resa's not the only one who got a note tonight."
Clint pulled the envelope open and peeked inside. "I'll be damned," he muttered. "It is the Lock Rapist."
"That's right. Now do you think you can put a guard on her?"
Clint sent Archer a frustrated look. "Don't you think I wish I could? I don't want any more attacks. But we're past stretched to the max. The president is on his way down here tomorrow to present some award to the Tennessee Valley Authority, so almost all my men are working double duty."
"She's in danger, Clint."
His ex-partner's green eyes darkened. "I understand that. I'm hoping I can free up an officer within a couple of days."
"A couple of days? What's she supposed to do in the meantime?"
"Come on, Geoff. What do you want me to do? I can't pull a babysitter out of thin air."
Archer felt frustration rise up in him like bile. "Damn it, Clint."
"You're so worried, why don't you keep her?"
"Me?" He laughed harshly.
"Sure. Let her stay with you until I can free somebody up."
"No. No way."
"Okay, then yeah, I guess she will be on her own."
He glared at Clint. "That's unacceptable. Okay. Hell, why not? I'll take her home with me. She's already there till all hours of the night anyhow."
"Are you kidding me? You're not really considering it. You can barely take care of yourself."
"What does that mean? I'm doing just fine." He flexed his hand, stretching the shortened tendons and setting his jaw to keep from wincing. "If you're worried about my ability to protect her—if I have to shoot anybody, I'll just use a blowgun and poisoned darts."
Clint stared narrowly at him for a few seconds, his brows wrinkled with doubt. "I'll free up an officer as soon as I can." He looked down at his shoes, then back up. "Geoff, take care that she doesn't become a pawn in your self-destructive game. She's had a hard time."
Archer stared at him, anger burning through his nerve endings. "My self-destructive game? What the hell, Clint? Is that what you think I'm doing?"
Clint shrugged without speaking.
He clenched his fists. "Trust me, Detective," he growled, "I have no intention of committing Suicide by Perp. If it comes down to him or me—it's going to be him on that cold slab in the morgue."
"So now you're a vigilante."
"Get off my case. You're the one who wanted me to protect her. You work on freeing up an officer to guard her. Meanwhile, she's going back with me."
"Well she's got to come downtown first, and give us a statement."
"Fine."
"Good."
Archer's scalp burned with the fury he was struggling to hold in check. Clint had no right acting so high and mighty. The Lock Rapist case had been his before it was Clint's. He was the one who'd failed to stop him, whose arrogance and certainty that he was doing the right thing had caused the rapist to escalate, and that had caused the death of his wife.
Keeping Resa Wade safe was his responsibility, because
it was his fault that she was in danger.
Resa watched the two men go head to head. She knew that Archer and Detective Banes had been partners before Archer was injured.
The two of them were alarmingly alike, and noticeably different. Both had dark hair and eyes. Both were tall—Archer was six feet, and Banes was a couple of inches taller than him. And both of them were obviously serious about their work.
Banes's face was more rounded. His stance was more relaxed, his demeanor friendlier.
Archer, on the other hand, was broodingly intense, his glances probing, his body spring-loaded, ready for anything. If he and Banes played good cop, bad cop, then Archer would definitely be the bad cop.
Oddly though, she'd much rather be under Archer's protection. Even though he was gruff and decidedly unfriendly, not to mention handicapped by his injured hand, he was the one she'd trust with her life.
The two men turned as one to look at her. Banes looked as if he'd lost a battle. Archer looked angry.
She felt like a bug under a microscope for the few seconds they stared at her. Then Archer stalked over to her side. "Pack a bag. You're going home with me."
"What?" She raised her eyebrows and uttered a short laugh. "No, I'm not."
He put a hand on the back of her chair and leaned over. "Don't make a scene. You're going to end up going with me anyway."
"I don't understand."
"Nashville P.D. doesn't have enough manpower to place you into protective custody."
"Protective custody?"
He nodded. "Until the police can free up someone to guard you in a safe house you're coming with me."
His authoritative tone that she'd just five minutes ago thought was reassuring now raised her hackles. "And I don't have any say-so in this?"
He met her gaze and his dark eyes glimmered with something she might think was amusement, if it were anyone but Archer. "Nope."
He straightened, but she caught his arm. "Does Detective Banes know you're doing this?"
When he nodded, a splinter of fear stabbed her. "Why? What's happened? I know you don't want me around."
"Come on. It's after midnight, and you've still got to sign your statement." He took a step back, enough to remove her hand from his arm.
