by Mallory Kane
"Are you all right?" she asked.
He nodded shortly. "Ready?"
"Sure." She set down her mug. "Where's the station?"
He told her.
"Good. I'll take my car. I need to run some errands—"
Archer gave her a look that closed her throat.
They would not go in two cars today.
Earl flopped down on the crisply made bed and stretched out, the heels of his shoes scraping across the bedspread. He chuckled. His wife and kids would be gone for at least a week, maybe longer.
He'd told his boss that he needed a week off for some minor surgery, so now he was totally free. He had plenty of time to plan and execute a perfect attack.
He'd already picked out his victim. He'd had his eye on the waifish blonde for weeks, ever since he'd installed a home security system for her. It hadn't taken him five minutes to figure out that she was a single mother. No husband. No boyfriend. Just her and her little boy.
She was practically perfect. He wasn't happy that there was a child involved, but he'd already become obsessed with her blond hair and delicate bone structure. So much like his mother's.
He'd already checked out the neighborhood, too. Now, all he needed to do was choose a night and a time. Then he could be done. The urge would go away. For a while.
He settled back for a daydream of how he'd sneak in quietly so as not to wake her little boy. How he'd cover her face and overpower her. Then when he was done, how he'd gently and reverently cut a lock of her pale hair.
But suddenly the hair was dark, and her face morphed into Theresa Wade's.
The excitement he'd felt as he'd planted the notes for her and Archer washed over him. He closed his eyes and gave in to the rush of adrenaline that surged like blood through his whole body, engorging him.
He imagined overpowering Theresa. Her type didn't appeal to him. She wasn't blond, wasn't fragile and vulnerable like her sister, like his carefully chosen victims. Like his mother had been.
Yet for some reason he felt compelled to take her— and not just because she thought she could stop him. He had another more satisfying reason. Through her he could torment Archer.
His attack on Archer's wife had done more than he'd hoped. It had destroyed Archer's career and given Earl the satisfaction of a double revenge. It was pure luck and a bonus for him that Natalie Archer had been just his type.
But although Archer had quit the force after his wife's death, the new lead detective kept the media blackout in place.
And that really ticked off Earl. He needed the news coverage. The speculation, the endless interviews with victims and families and neighbors, with psychologists, police, all talking about him.
"See, Mom?" he whispered. "You always said I could be famous. Always said you'd be so proud of me. You're proud of me now, aren't you?"
His mom had watched TV constantly. She'd sung along with the commercials and gotten him to sing, too.
"You work hard, Earl baby," she said, "and you can be on TV someday. Wouldn't that be wonderful? Then Mommy can watch you all day long."
He knew she was watching. He could feel her approval. Why, they'd even given him a name—the Lock Rapist, because of the lock of hair he took. It was funny as hell that the name they'd given him had a double meaning. He was an expert at installing security systems. There wasn't a lock out there that he couldn't get past.
He pulled the slip of paper with the young mother's address on it out of his shirt pocket and closed his eyes. But he couldn't remember what she looked like. All he could think of was Theresa.
He wadded up the paper in his fist. The little blonde would have to wait. He couldn't concentrate on anything else until he'd taken care of Theresa Wade and Detective Archer.
Chapter Five
"Are you always this pleasant?" Resa asked Archer when he showed up in the kitchen a couple of mornings after their silent trip to and from the police station. She finished filling a mug with coffee and held it out. "Or are you making a special effort because you have company?"
He frowned at her as he grabbed the mug. She filled another one for herself and set the carafe back on the coffeemaker.
When she turned, he was seated at the scarred kitchen table, staring into his coffee. If possible, he looked worse than he had the first morning. She sat down across from him and sipped her coffee while she tried to contain her growing irritation. Being sad or guilt-ridden or in pain was one thing. But this protracted foul mood was more than she could take.
She wanted to yell at him. Throw her coffee on him. Anything to force him to act like a normal human being. She'd liked him better when he was gruffly showing her how to hold the gun.
She took a deep breath. "I think I'm going to pack up my stuff today and head back to my apartment."
That roused him. His dark gaze slammed into hers. "The hell you are."
She lifted her shoulders in a tiny shrug.
He doubled his fist and banged it on the table. It would have been more effective if it hadn't so obviously hurt him.
She resisted the urge to cover his hand with hers to try to ease the pain.
"Where'd you get such a harebrained idea? Doesn't it mean anything to you that he knows where you live?"
"Of course it worries me that he knows where I live. But, you've made it painfully obvious that you don't want me here."
He wrapped the fingers of his left hand around his mug and took a long swig of coffee. Then he went back to staring into it. "I want you to be safe."
"But you wish I wasn't here."
He didn't deny it. After a beat he said, "You're— distracting."
Resa's pulse jumped. Distracting. Had he really said that? She'd already decided that he was distracting. That was one reason she wanted to get out of his house. As big as it was, it wasn't big enough.
Her fascination with him floated like a ghost through the walls and floors of the sprawling Victorian, tormenting her. She'd discovered that she could tell where he was at any time, through some combination of attraction and intuition and sixth sense. She didn't like that.
"Distracting how? And what are you trying to do that you can't, because of my beguiling presence?"
A tiny movement of his mouth made her think he was struggling not to smile. "I'm studying all the case files on the Lock Rapist. I keep thinking there's something I've missed. There's no such thing as a perfect crime. He has to have slipped up somewhere."
She sat down and wrapped her hands around her mug. "Let me see them. I want to understand him the way you and Detective Banes do. I want to know what you see in his profile, what his patterns are, how—" She paused for an instant. "How he picks his victims."
"No."
"Why not? I could help."
"Why would you want to know all that? He attacked your sister. Why does the reason matter to you?" '
"What if it was me he was after? It was my apartment."
"You're not his type."
"His type? He has a type? See, this is what I'm talking about. What is his type? How does he pick his victims?"
Archer sent her an exasperated look. "The media gave him the name the Lock Rapist because he cuts a lock of hair from each victim and leaves another lock at the scene."
"The hair he left beside Celia was from his previous victim. That's gruesome." She paused. "Celia didn't say anything about him cutting her hair."
"She apparently doesn't remember him doing it. And the fact that he takes a piece of his victim's hair wasn't released to the press."
Resa took a sip of her coffee. "What else wasn't released to the press—or to me?"
"A couple of things. Nothing you need to know."
"You don't want to tell me."
Once again, he didn't speak.
"Nice to know you trust me," she said wryly. "What do you think the lock of hair means?"
"Nobody but him knows that. The most likely guess is that it has to do with whatever trauma in his past led him to rape."
; "Do you have a theory?"
Archer shook his head. "Nope. It's not a good idea to start fantasizing about the perp's trigger event. There are things you can generalize, but it's almost impossible to predict what exactly happened to cause this guy to turn to rape while another with an similar background ends up as—say, a social worker or victims' advocate."
"What are the usual reasons?"
"I'm sure you've watched the true crime stories. Everything from sexual or physical abuse at a young age to witnessing a traumatic event. And some people are just evil."
"Really? You believe that?"
"Don't you? Look what this monster did to your sister. Would you rather think he couldn't help it because his mother beat him?"
"Well, whatever happened to him, how can he brutally attack six women and not leave any evidence?"
"That's the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question." Archer ran a hand over his face, then rubbed his eyes. They were red, and blue smudges underlined them.
"You're exhausted." She glanced at her watch. "I have two appointments for fittings out in West Meade. Ten o'clock and eleven-thirty. Why don't you take a nap while I'm gone? I can wake you when I get back, or you can just sleep as long as you want to."
He shook his head.
"I promise I'll go straight there and come straight back here. It's about a forty-five-minute drive. Unless my clients have decided to ruin my life by rejecting my designs, I should be done by two o'clock."
"I have class. Two classes, actually. Forensics and crime scene investigation. I'm giving the students a prep day before the final exam. I'll be on my cell phone." Archer stood and picked up his mug. He set it in the sink, then put his hand on the back of her chair.
"Don't stop anywhere else," he said, his breath tickling her cheek and sending a shiver through her. "Not even for gas. If you see anything odd—even if you just get a feeling—call me. I'll have a uniform on your tail within seconds."
She pushed herself out of the chair and away from him. "No problem, boss. I'll be a good girl."
His eyes snapped. "This isn't a joke."
"I know." She swallowed. At a distance, Archer was disconcerting. Up close he could steal her breath and muddle her thoughts with one word, one subtle movement.
"I'd better get going." She escaped upstairs, lecturing herself each step of the way. What was the matter with her?
Archer was the worst possible man for her to be attracted to. He was grieving, he was in pain and he obviously didn't want to be around anybody, certainly not her.
You're distracting. As she gathered up her supplies and put them in her carrying case, she pondered what he meant by that. Was he just complaining about having someone around to interrupt his reclusive lifestyle? Or was she distracting because she was a woman? A tiny thrill swirled through her chest.
"And that would be a good thing how?" she berated herself. She was barely holding it together herself. The last thing she needed was an emotional entanglement with a surly grouch like him.
Besides, as far as she could tell, he hadn't even noticed that she was a woman.
Four hours later, Resa finally finished with her last scheduled fitting. The first two had taken about fifteen minutes each. But this client, Chastity Sloan, one of the new, brash young country stars, was a whole different story. Chastity loved Resa's design of a low-slung suede skirt with a silver-buckled belt and silver-accented cowboy boots. She also loved the midriff-baring turquoise top with silver and turquoise beads sewn into the low neckline.
But she wanted the skirt lower and the midriff of the top higher. Resa tried to tell her she wouldn't be able to walk, much less gyrate around the stage, if the skirt were cut any lower, but Chastity, twenty and already a diva, insisted.
As Resa walked out to her car, she played over in her mind the things she should have said.
"I am such a wimp," she whispered. She should have refused on creative grounds. It was her design, after all. But she'd never been paid so much for a single outfit, and she needed the money in case Celia had to be hospitalized. In the end, money won out over creativity and personal integrity.
She lifted her hair off her hot neck and muttered a fairly explicit curse as she walked down the long brick walkway.
'That's right," she scolded herself. "Go slinking off to hide in Archer's house. I hope the money was worth it." She glanced around to make sure nobody was close enough to hear her. She almost never talked to herself.
The street, which boasted houses that sold in the millions of dollars, was quiet. The only sounds were a lawn edger two houses down, and the fading rumble of a car engine at the far end of the street. Glancing that way, she saw the rear fender of a dark car as it turned onto a cross street.
Just as she pressed the remote to unlock her car, her cell phone rang. She groped around in her purse and finally found it. It was Archer.
"Where are you?" he growled.
"I'm just fine. How are you?"
He was silent.
Irritation streaked through her, tightening her scalp. There was a limit to how much self-pitying garbage she could deal with from him. She was packing up and getting out of there today. "I'm just now leaving my second appointment. We had a couple of creative disagreements. She won."
"Come straight home."
She bit back a retort and rolled her eyes. "Yes, sir."
He disconnected.
"Damn, Archer. Are you trying to be the biggest ass on the block?"
She reached out to open the driver's side rear door just as his words registered.
Come straight home. Her pulse jumped. Had he really said home? Even if he had, it didn't mean anything. It was an expression, that was all. She shrugged off the feeling of warmth and safety that enveloped her because he was concerned about her.
She threw her bags onto the backseat, slammed the door, and opened the driver's-side door.
She froze, her hand on the hot door handle.
There was a piece of paper in the middle of the driver's seat. She frowned at it. It couldn't be hers. It was yellow lined paper, and she never used that.
Unease crawled like a spider up her spine as she glanced up and down the street. Nothing. Even the edger she'd noticed a couple of minutes before had stopped.
The car. She looked back toward the far end of the street where the car had turned, and any sense of safety dissolved like an ice cube in hot water. The car had been dark—black or dark blue.
Was it him? Her eyes went back to the note. The paper was from a generic note pad that could have been bought anywhere. She wondered if he'd written the note with a generic number-2 pencil that could have been bought anywhere.
Her chest ached and, belatedly, she realized she wasn't breathing. She gasped, her lungs craving air. Her right hand was fisted against her midsection, and her left hand was hot—she was still holding on to the door handle. She shivered, despite the summer sun.
Everything seemed magnified—louder, brighter. Her scalp tingled. Her pulse pounded in her ears and fluttered in her throat. She felt faint.
She surveyed the houses and cars on the street. Maybe it was someone handing out coupons for a pizza place, or some kid looking for a donation for his senior trip.
As soon as the thoughts surfaced, she knew how ridiculous they were. She gave her head a little shake, trying to think rationally. Trying to push past the paralyzing fear.
She licked her lips and worked on controlling her breathing. There was no innocuous explanation. The note was on a torn piece of paper. And he'd put it inside her car.
She glanced frantically up and down the street, then with shaking fingers she unlocked the car. She brushed the note off the floorboard, climbed in, started the engine and sped away.
She gripped the steering wheel with a death grip and vowed that nothing would stop her from getting home to Archer as soon as possible.
Then she had a horrible thought. What if he had tampered with her tires, or her steering? What if her car broke down and he
was lying in wait to "rescue" her? She had no idea what he looked like. He could be anybody.
Stop it—stop it—stop it.
She turned on the radio. It was on a country station and the high-pitched twang of bluegrass filled her car, drowning out the sound of her thoughts.
She could do it. She could make it home—to Archer.
Archer leaned over and sniffed at the skillet. Almost perfect. He crushed another clove of garlic and added it to the simmering mixture of butter, olive oil, fresh spinach, pine nuts and jumbo shrimp. He'd already cooked the pasta and opened a bottle of wine.
He wasn't sure why he was going to so much trouble to make nice with Resa. Although that wasn't the only reason he was cooking. He was hungry. He ignored the little voice that reminded him there was sliced ham and Swiss cheese in the refrigerator, and fresh rye bread in the bread box.
Okay, maybe he did feel a little bad about how mean he'd been ever since she got here. He knew he'd overreacted the other morning down in the firing range when he'd realized she was standing behind him. But she'd surprised him and he'd felt furious and humiliated.
Nobody had seen how bad his hand was. Not even his fellow cops. The only one who knew was Banes. But now she knew. He'd seen the pity in her eyes when he'd come up to the kitchen later.
Pity. It had felt just the way he'd known it would. It cut like a razor, stung like sweat in the eyes, sickened like a punch to the gut.
But that wasn't the only reason he'd been in such a foul mood. She'd noticed this morning that he looked exhausted. He was.
When he'd told her she was distracting, he'd been telling the truth. He hadn't realized when he'd told Clint he'd take her home with him just how distracting she'd turn out to be. The idea that she was in bed across the hall from him had tormented him for three nights. He hadn't slept a wink, and not even cold showers helped.
He couldn't deny that she was a lovely, sexy woman. Nor could he convince himself that her sassy talk and determined bravery didn't pull at his rusty heartstrings.
