Protective Confinement. Cassie Miles

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      His eyes blazed. “You’re mine now, Cara.”

      When he pulled his hand from his jacket pocket, she saw a flash of silver. A knife?

      In a frantic effort, she threw all her weight toward the door, wrenching free of his hold and stumbling to her hands and knees. She scrambled to her feet and ran.

      At the door, he caught up to her and pushed hard against her shoulder. She crashed into the shelves of Native American artwork. Pottery, vases and kachinas shattered as they hit the hardwood floor.

      She darted away from him. He cut off her escape, backing her into a corner. She stared in shock as he came closer. Russell Graff, an A student. A young man from a good family. He brandished the silver object in his hand.

      “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

      She felt the metal prongs in her side, then the shock. A stun gun. Her body convulsed. She felt as if her heart would explode. Her muscles twitched, tied into knots. Her legs weakened and she fell to the floor.

      Fighting her way through excruciating pain, she forced her hand to clutch the arm of a chair. Every muscle in her body screamed as she clawed her way upright. Trembling in horrible spasms, she faced her attacker.

      When he reached toward her, she made a feeble slap at his hand. He gave her a sad smile. “I didn’t want to hurt you.”

      “B-bastard.”

      He plunged a hypodermic needle into her arm. Unable to fight him, unable to escape, she felt herself sinking into a dark, bottomless canyon.

      CLUTCHING A FOAM CUP of caffeinated sludge, FBI Special Agent Dash Adams entered the home of Dr. Cara Messinger, archaeology professor. At a glance, he took in the obvious signs of a struggle. Furniture askew. Broken pottery on the floor. A Navajo rug crumpled against the sofa.

      A plainclothes detective waved from the other side of the dining-room table. “Agent Adams, over here.”

      Dash couldn’t remember if he’d met this detective before. During the past three days, he’d spoken to dozens of local investigators and issued a written memorandum outlining the profile of a serial killer who had been active in San Francisco three years ago. He’d been damned active, with seven documented kills in six months. Then the terror had ended. The killer had never been apprehended, never heard from again.

      The FBI agents in the Violent Crime Apprehension Program had presumed he was dead or jailed for another crime. Now, Dash had reason to believe the ViCAP conclusion had been wrong. Five days ago, a New Mexico deputy had discovered the charred remains of a woman buried in a shallow grave, her wrists and ankles bound in a distinctive manner.

      Dash had been sent to Santa Fe from the San Francisco bureau to head up this investigation. He wanted to believe that the arrangement of this corpse was nothing more than coincidence, but his gut told him differently. The Judge was active again.

      Dash intended to succeed where ViCAP had failed. He wanted to close this case. Forever.

      He shook hands with the Santa Fe detective. Though they were both wearing suits, the attitude in New Mexico was more relaxed. Knowing that, Dash hadn’t bothered with a necktie.

      The detective introduced himself. “Josef Meier.”

      “What have you got, Meier?”

      “I think this is the guy you’re looking for.”

      Though the detective’s mouth pinched in a scowl, his eyes flickered with suppressed excitement that made him look too young for the grisly job of investigating a notorious serial murderer who restrained his victims for four days before finally killing them and burning their bodies beyond all recognition.

      Meier’s enthusiasm made Dash feel older than his thirty-four years. He was jaded, impatient. He dragged a hand through his close-cropped light brown hair and waited for Meier to continue.

      “For one thing,” Meier said, “the woman who went missing—Dr. Cara Messinger—fits the typical victim profile.”

      He held up a photograph of a young woman with long, straight black hair. In the picture, she wore baggy shorts and hiking boots. Her tanned legs were long and firm but not too muscular. Her shapeless khaki shirt didn’t conceal her high, full breasts. A striking, attractive woman.

      “Cara,” Dash said. “Pretty name.”

      “Yes, sir.”

      Dash hoped he wasn’t looking at a photograph that would be displayed at her memorial service. “How tall is she?”

      “Five feet, seven inches. She’s half-Navajo but wasn’t raised on the reservation. Her eyes aren’t brown.”

      “What color are they?”

      “Hard to say. One witness said blue.” He cocked his head and squinted into Dash’s face. “Not a bright blue like yours.”

      Dash lifted a sardonic eyebrow. “Are you coming on to me, Detective?”

      “No, sir.” Meier straightened up. “Her driver’s license says her eyes are gray.”

      Dash sipped his cold, murky coffee. Cara Messinger fit the profile, but that wasn’t enough of a connection. There were a lot of dark-haired women who disappeared, and Dr. Messinger was more intelligent than the other victims of this killer. “She’s a Ph.D., right?”

      “An archaeology professor at the university. And she’s only thirty-two.”

      A high achiever. Competitive. Dash understood that personality type. He’d graduated from Harvard Law with honors at twenty-three. After two years in private practice at a prestigious firm, he’d realized that he wanted to take a more aggressive approach to justice and had joined the FBI—a career path that his family despised. “What else have you got, Detective?”

      Meier led the way through the small house to the rear bedroom. In spite of the guest bed, this room was clearly used as an office. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves were crammed full. The oak desk was piled high with papers. The beautiful Dr. Messinger wasn’t the tidiest woman on the planet. The lapse in perfection was endearing.

      Meier pointed to the broken glass in a casement window. “I figure he got inside through here. He was waiting for her. That’s part of your serial killer’s modus operandi.”

      “Do you have proof that he was waiting for her?”

      Meier shrugged. “I guess not.”

      Making assumptions was the downfall of too many investigations. Dash went to the casement window that opened with a crank—an open invitation to robbery. All an intruder had to do was break the glass, reach inside and unfasten the latch. He noticed the dust used by the CSI team to lift fingerprints.

      “Prints?”

      “Several,” Meier said. “We’re running them through the system. No identifications yet.”

      If this was the same guy, there wouldn’t be traceable prints. He never left forensic evidence. Not a print. Not a hair. Not a fiber. “Tell me about your witnesses.”

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