Silent Guardian

by Mallory Kane

  He cursed and stood. He reached for the sheets, intending to rip them off the bed and throw them in the hamper with the rest of his dirty laundry.

  But he wasn't quite ready to do that.

  He turned on his heel and headed out the door, slapping the door facing with his palm. He took the stairs two at a time down to the first floor, then around and down the basement stairs.

  He wasn't going to get a lick of sleep anyhow. He might as well do something constructive. Or at least pretend to.

  He grabbed his Sig Sauer and a box of cartridges from the locked drawer of his desk and flipped all the lights on as he passed them.

  In his lane he ejected the magazine from his gun, ignoring the pain in his hand, and checked it. It was full. He slapped it back into place, then dropped the gun onto the counter.

  He rubbed his palm for a few seconds, his fingers feeling the faint ridges marring the back of his hand. He turned his hand over and flexed his fingers. His eyes traced the fine scars that ran like a spider's web from his knuckles to his wrist.

  The night before, Resa had traced the scars with her finger, then kissed each one while he confessed to her things he'd never told anyone else—ever. The horror of helplessly watching his wife shoot herself in front of him. The paralyzing fear that he would never regain use of his hand. The crushing disappointment when he realized he had to give up the career he loved.

  But he hadn't confessed his worst sin. The thing that kept him from forgiving himself. The thing that kept him obsessed with catching the Lock Rapist.

  He rubbed his burning eyes, then picked up the gun. Holding it in his right hand, he pointed it at the target and wrapped his fingers around the barrel. The shortened tendons protested as he fitted his index finger through the trigger guard.

  Pain gathered around his wrist, shot up past his knuckles and out through his trigger finger, causing it to tighten reflexively. He winced, waiting for the report.

  It didn't happen.

  Slightly encouraged, he lifted his arm a little higher, braced his right hand with his left, and squeezed the trigger.

  The recoil nearly knocked the gun out of his hand.

  "Ow, damn it!" He set the gun down and flexed his fingers, working out the cramps. He slapped the recall button.

  The target was clean, except for one tiny nick on the lower left edge. A gut-wrenching anguish twisted his insides into knots.

  A police officer had to be steady and accurate. A wild shot, a hesitation, could cost a fellow officer or an innocent bystander his life.

  He'd been working night and day for months to get his gun hand back. Physical therapy, strengthening exercises, target practice. But nothing was working. There was no way in hell he'd ever be able to handle a gun again.

  The last lingering hope that he could one day go back on the job faded. It drained out of him like blood, leaving him empty, defeated. He hadn't realized he'd still harbored so much hope.

  He sent the target back downrange, then he braced his hand again. Taking a deep breath and steeling himself against the anticipated pain, he got off four rounds before his hand could no longer hold the gun. It clattered to the counter. He rubbed his hand, grimacing, while sweat dripped down his face like tears.

  Then he doubled his left fist and slammed it into the cubicle wall once, twice, again and again and again.

  Archer woke up to the sound of his cell phone. He sat up, disoriented for a half a second. He was on the couch in his office and his cell phone was on the desk.

  He'd finally fallen asleep around four o'clock, after reading over all the statements of the Lock Rapist's victims. He'd made a list of every single place each one of them had frequented, any repair work they'd had done, any strange events in the weeks prior to their attack.

  There were so few things that connected the five women. He'd eliminated his wife's attack. That was motivated by revenge. It didn't fit the pattern.

  The police—and he—were missing something. There had to be a vital tidbit of information that the women hadn't thought to mention, or that the detectives had neglected to ask.

  The phone rang again. He reached for it, wincing when his overworked hand protested.

  "Yeah?"

  "Geoff, I think we've got something."

  Suddenly he was wide-awake. Something had broken in the case. He could hear the excitement in Clint's voice. His heart leaped. Maybe this was the break they'd been waiting for. "What? What is it?"

  "I got the statement from the latest victim. You know we talked about the security system being bypassed?" Geoff paused.

  "Yeah?" Archer snapped.

  "The company that installed the system is Home Sentry Security."

  "Home Sentry? Isn't that—"

  "The same company that installed the security system in Resa's old apartment." Clint's excitement crackled through the phone.

  "A security company. Damn." Archer's pulse hammered in his temple. "Is it really that simple? I spent last night going over all the victims' statements. None of the other victims mentioned a security system."

  "I know." Clint sighed. "I realize it's a long shot, but it's the first real connection—even if it is only between two of the victims. I'm having all the victims reinterviewed. I hate to do it to them, but we need to find out if any of the others have any connection to Home Sentry Security."

  "You're planning to interview Resa's sister again? I'm not sure she's up to it."

  "Yeah, I know. Since we already know that connection, I won't bother her unless the security angle doesn't work out."

  "I want to be there at the interviews."

  "I'm not sure that's a good idea, Geoff. The victims are going to be upset enough to have to live through all that again. I'd rather have as few strangers as possible there."

  "Where are you going to interview them?"

  "I'll probably go to their homes. It'll be less traumatic than bringing them in to the station."

  "I agree. Can we at least talk about the questions first? Since we've established that the rapist might have a job that takes him to people's houses to work, we need to cover all the bases. Ask the vies about any home repairs, yard work, anything that might connect them."

  "Sure. My first interview is at ten out in Belle Meade. How soon can you get here?"

  "I'll be there in less than an hour."

  "Good."

  "What about Home Sentry Security? Is anyone talking to them?"

  "I'm sending Thornton over there this morning to talk to the owner and set up interviews with the employees."

  "Great. I want to see what he finds out." He paused. "Clint? Is Resa settled in at the hotel?"

  "Childers called me last night. She's fine."

  "Tell him to watch her. She doesn't like to be told what to do."

  Clint chuckled. "Geoff, if I didn't know better, I'd think you and she—"

  "Don't even go there. She's a victim, as much as her sister or any of the others. That's all."

  "Sure thing."

  "Good."

  "Fine."

  Archer hung up. So Clint had picked up on the thing between Resa and him. He shook his head and brushed a hand through his hair.

  Maybe it had been a thing, but it no longer was. It was over.

  He needed to concentrate on catching the Lock Rapist. He couldn't waste his time and strength on fantasies that would never come to be.

  He glanced at the clock. He needed to get dressed and get going. His brain was already cataloguing the questions he wanted to give Clint for the victims to answer.

  He gathered up the notes he'd taken the night before and took the stairs two at a time. He had a strong feeling the security company could be the answer. It was the best lead they'd had so far.

  "I don't care what Detective Banes said. I have to do this final fitting. If you won't take me I'll call a cab." Resa stood in the middle of her hotel room surrounded by piles of fabric, her dress form, sewing machine and boxes of beads.

  She was just abo
ut at the end of her rope. Another officer had brought her sewing supplies to her late yesterday and she'd worked most of the night to finish the fringe on the hem of Chastity's skirt.

  Resa had finished and delivered her other designs the week before, thank goodness. Today was her last chance to make any adjustments to Chastity's outfit. It had to fit perfectly, which, with Chastity, was always a problem. If she gained or lost any weight, it could be disastrous for the low-riding skirt or the form-fitting top.

  Chastity was leaving the next day on a twenty-city tour. She wouldn't be back in Nashville until the day before the awards. Once Resa did the final fitting, all that was left would be to make any last-minute adjustments to the seams.

  The young officer who was babysitting her this morning was clearly at the end of his rope, too. "Ms. Wade, why don't you get your client to come over here? I'm sure she'd understand why you can't leave."

  Resa glared at him. "You're suggesting that I just call up Chastity Sloan and tell her to run over and try on her outfit?"

  "Chastity Sloan?" His voice cracked. "Your client is Chastity Sloan?"

  Resa smiled to herself. As she'd predicted, the young officer wasn't about to pass up the chance to see Chastity Sloan—and in her own home.

  "So do I call a cab?"

  "No, ma'am." His face turned bright red. "I'll drive you. I mean, it sounds like it's important."

  Resa grabbed up the nearly finished outfit and nodded toward her fittings case. "Get that case and let's go. The appointment's in one hour."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  That was much too easy. As desperately as she needed to get this last fitting done, Resa wasn't happy about the officer Banes had sent to guard her. Mark Childers was eager, but he was young, inexperienced and impressionable. She didn't feel at all safe, not the way she'd felt with Archer.

  She climbed into the police car, wincing in anticipation of Chastity's reaction when Resa drove up with a police escort.

  She was so tired of this. The Lock Rapist probably wasn't even seriously after her. Especially now that she was out of Archer's house. As Clint had said, he'd most likely targeted her because of her relationship to Archer.

  Maybe he'd leave her alone now that she wasn't anywhere near Archer.

  A hollow sense of loss settled deep in her chest. How silly, to miss someone she barely knew.

  Barely—ha! That was a lie. She knew him intimately. She'd seen the side of him that no one saw— the vulnerable, heartbroken side. She'd held him as he told her things she knew he'd never told anyone.

  And now, she might never see him again.

  She stared out the car window, her eyes blurred with tears. How would she live without him, now that she'd known him?

  Earl hated hotels. He never targeted anybody who was staying or working in a hotel. They were too noisy, too busy, and many of them these days had security cameras. They represented risk—too much risk.

  But as the old joke went—why do bank robbers rob banks? Because that's where the money is.

  Theresa Wade was in the hotel, at least for now, so he had no choice.

  Still, he was no dummy. All he wanted to do was scare the cops enough that they'd put her back in Archer's house. He already knew what he was going to do to get to her at Archer's. He'd gotten close enough to see Archer's security system. It was a decent one. But for Earl, getting past it would be almost as easy as merely turning a doorknob.

  He parked his car a couple of rows over from the police vehicle, in a position where he could watch it, and close to the service entrance at the side of the building.

  Just about the time he'd decided he had to take a bathroom break or explode, Theresa and the kid they'd sent to guard her walked out the front entrance and headed for the car. Theresa had a case with her and the cop carried a dress covered by a plastic bag.

  Perfect timing.

  As the police car drove out of sight, Earl got ready to go in. Just as he opened the car door, his cell phone rang.

  A glance at the display told him it was his wife. Muttering a litany of colorful, rude curses, he punched the answer button.

  "Hi, honey. Y'all having a good time at your mother's?"

  "What do you think? Do you hear the kids in the background? I've had it with them and with Mom. She spoils these kids rotten. We're coming home tomorrow."

  Earl's heart jumped straight into his throat, cutting off his air. He gulped and wiped his face. She couldn't come home. Not yet! He racked his brain for a way to keep her at her mother's a few more days.

  "Sweetie, I was going to call you tonight. You probably need to stay with your mother a few more days."

  "Why? What's going on down there?"

  "Nothing. I mean—we, uh, sprung a gas leak early this morning. I called the heating and cooling man. He said there was gas all over the house and he couldn't get to it for a couple of days. You shouldn't bring the kids home until it's all cleaned up and fixed. I'd hate for them to get sick. Or you."

  "How in hell did that happen?"

  "How should I know? Rusted pipe, I guess."

  He heard her sigh. "That's what you get when you buy a cheap house." Her dig rolled off him, just as most of them did these days.

  "I guess I can stay up here another day. But you get that thing fixed. I plan to be home by the middle of the week."

  "Okay, sweetie. I'll give you a call. I want to be sure the house is aired out before y'all come home. Can't wait to see you and the kids."

  "Yeah, right." She hung up.

  Earl pressed the off button on his phone and tossed it into the passenger seat. "Oh man—oh man—oh man—oh man—oh man." What was he going to do now?

  He had maybe thirty-six hours. He had to make his move tonight or it would be six months before his wife went to her mother's again.

  He entered the hotel through the laundry exit and took the service stairs up to the third floor. He found a house phone in the elevator lobby and dialed the front desk.

  "Detective Banes here. N.P.D. Connect me with our room please."

  The desk clerk hesitated. "Could you repeat that, sir?"

  Earl blew out an exaggerated huff. "This is Detective Clint Banes of the Nashville P.D. I need to speak to my officer. He should be registered under Nashville P.D."

  "Just a moment, please."

  Earl waited nervously. Could the clerk tell that the call had originated from inside the hotel? Was he calling his supervisor?

  "Here it is. For your future information sir, the room is registered under a Mr. Mark Childers."

  "That's Detective Mark Childers."

  "Yes, sir. I'll correct that. Connecting you now."

  Earl quickly left his message and hung up, then went out the way he'd come in, through the laundry entrance.

  He figured it would be a couple of hours before Resa and the detective returned. He headed home to shower and change clothes. He was going to have a busy night.

  Chapter Eleven

  Resa stepped into the hotel suite she shared with Detective Childers. She was exhausted. It always drained every last bit of her energy dealing with Chastity, and today was no exception. The young star was high with excitement, getting ready to head out on her twenty-city tour.

  For the hundredth time Resa swore she wasn't going to do another outfit for the young diva, but when it came down to it, Chastity paid her top dollar to put up with her temper tantrums and whining. Plus her petite yet voluptuous body was the perfect showcase for Resa's designs. She'd gotten more than one client who wanted to "look like Chastity."

  At least now the outfit was done, Chastity was happy with it, and Resa had done everything she could to ensure that the skirt didn't slip down over her hips when she took a breath to sing.

  As she set her case down on the floor, she noticed the red light blinking on the phone by the bed.

  "There's a message," she said to Detective Childers, who was still glowing from meeting Chastity.

  "I'll get it," Childers said, but Resa h
ad already picked up the receiver. She pressed the button and held her breath.

  Was it Archer? She knew the chances of his calling her were slim to none, but that didn't stop her heart from pounding and her insides from tingling in anticipation of hearing his low, dark voice.

  "Theresa, I'm so glad you feel safe."

  Shock coursed through her like electricity and she gasped. She almost dropped the phone.

  Childers crossed the room and gestured for her to hand him the receiver, but she couldn't move. The voice held her mesmerized. Her fingers squeezed the plastic receiver until they ached.

  The voice droned on. "Enjoy it, because what I did to your sister will be nothing compared to what I'm going to do to you. Get ready. One of us will have a great time. The other one—well, ask your sister and multiply what she tells you by ten, or a hundred. Then wait and wonder. Because one night you'll wake up and I'll be there."

  Her legs gave out and she sat down on the bed. She didn't notice when Childers pried the receiver out of her hand. It was several seconds before she realized she was no longer holding it.

  He replayed the message, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed. He glanced at her as he listened, his eyes wide with alarm, then ducked his head, hung up and took out his cell phone.

  "Archer," she whispered. "Call Archer."

  "I have to report it to Detective Banes, ma'am."

  Resa put her hand over her mouth. She felt sick to her stomach. The awful words, uttered in that droning, emotionless voice, sent terror sliding down her spine like icy fingers.

  She wanted Archer. But Archer didn't want to be bothered with her. He'd seemed relieved that she was being put into protective custody. As if he couldn't wait to get her out of his house.

  She'd have liked to think he was doing it for her. That he'd thought she'd be safer this way. But she knew he was confident he could protect her better than anyone.

  So why had he let her go?

  Detective Childers was talking to Banes, describing the message in detail.

  Listening to the words again, and seeing the horror and fear on the young detective's face, Resa felt her stomach rebel. She ran for the bathroom.