Protective Confinement. Cassie Miles
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that would ensure the sick bastard got what he deserved.
Dash watched as the paramedics draped a blanket over her shoulders and treated her wounds. A knife slash on her arm. Bruising at her wrists and ankles. Her knees and the bottoms of her feet showed several small lacerations.
One of the paramedics informed him that her injuries appeared to be mostly superficial, but she’d been drugged. They needed to take her to the hospital for tests. He arranged to ride along with them.
When he approached Cara, he could see that she was more alert, more in control of herself. The glaring lights from the ambulance reflected on her high cheekbones. Her gray eyes, surrounded by thick black lashes, snapped with fierce intelligence.
She didn’t precisely fit the profile for the Judge’s victims. Though Cara had the long, dark hair and slender build that the Judge preferred, she was taller than the others at five feet, seven inches. The other women had been small, almost doll-like. Also, Cara was older, in her thirties. And she was a professor, obviously intelligent. Harder to control.
In a firm voice, she announced, “I’m not going to the hospital.”
“They need to run tests,” Dash said. “You were drugged.”
“I want to go home.” She lifted her chin and confronted him directly. “If I can take a shower and change clothes, I’ll be fine.”
She was deep in denial. Not surprising, considering what she’d been through. Though her clothing was tattered and long black hair hung in tangles, she managed to project an attitude of control. She was one hell of a strong woman.
“You need to be checked out in the hospital,” Dash said firmly. “Then I’ll take you home.”
Reluctantly, she conceded. “All right. But you promise I can go home?”
“Absolutely.” It was better to humor her right now. He was damn sure that she wouldn’t like his plans for her immediate future.
Chapter Three
In the hospital emergency care unit, Cara was poked and prodded and examined from head to toe. She’d been glad to shed her filthy clothing, but the thin cotton hospital gown offered little protection from the bone-deep chill inside her. With a blanket across her lap and another around her shoulders, she sat on a hard bed inside a curtained space. Dash stood beside her.
She looked up at him. “What day is it?”
“Sunday morning.”
Russell had taken her captive on Thursday night. He’d held her all day Friday and Saturday. She counted on her fingers. “Four days.”
“I need to ask you a few questions, Cara.”
Her mind struggled toward coherency, and she remembered that he was with the FBI. In his black leather jacket and blue jeans, he didn’t look like a Fed. “Are these official questions? Like a police report?”
“Later we’ll do a recorded interview. And I’ll want you to write a narrative while the details are still fresh in your mind.”
She wasn’t looking forward to putting her memories down on paper, but she’d do anything to help. Russell had to be stopped. “Why is the FBI involved?”
“The Judge is our investigation.”
The Judge? She recognized the name from Russell’s e-mails. But Dash made him sound like a known entity. “Why?”
When he glanced toward her, Dash seemed to be taking inventory, assessing her emotional state.
Defiantly, she stared back at him. She’d been through hell, but she’d survived. Her plan was to put these four days behind her and as quickly as possible, move on with her life. “Tell me the truth. Why does the FBI care about Russell Graff?”
“You’re not his first victim.”
There were others. Other women who had been abducted. “Are they…”
“Dead.”
She swallowed hard. Inside her head, she heard the echo of shamanic drumming. A shiver went through her. She could still feel his hands sliding over her body, could see his face contorted with rage. He’s not here. You’re safe. You have to control yourself.
Her mind was strong. She wouldn’t allow herself to be ruled by trauma. “Are you telling me that Russell Graff is a serial killer?”
“If I say too much, I might prejudice your thinking. Right now, I want you to remember anything that might give me a clue to Russell’s whereabouts. Did he mention other locations?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Take your time,” he urged. “What did he talk about?”
She pulled the blanket more tightly around her shoulders. “If he’s a serial killer, why haven’t I read about him in the newspaper?”
“Did he talk about the dig where he’s been working?”
“No.”
“Did he mention any names?”
“No.” Her memory cracked open. A torrent of confusion and fear flooded through her. She’d heard another voice. “Someone else was in the house with him.”
His blue-eyed gaze sharpened. “Tell me more.”
“I heard them arguing. It was another man.”
“Did you see him?”
“No.”
“Would you recognize his voice if you heard it again?”
“I doubt it. They were outside the door, and I was drugged. Everything is foggy.”
“But you’re certain you heard another voice?”
“Positively certain. Is that important?”
“Yes.”
Her ordeal was not yet over. In a way, it had just begun. Cara knew now that she’d be forced to relive the events of her abduction again and again. To her, that sounded like hell. She’d always been a private person, staying below the radar and concentrating on her research and her classes. Her personal life was nobody else’s business.
And she wasn’t sure how helpful her memories would be to an investigation. She’d been drugged. How could she sort reality from hallucination? “What happens next?” she asked.
“Assuming the doctors say you’re all right, you’ll be released to my custody.”
“Custody?” The word put her on edge. “I’m not a suspect, am I?”
“A witness. You’re a very important witness.”
“Why so important?”
“Because you’re alive,” he said. “And I intend to keep it that way.”
“That sounds like a fine idea to me.”
When he grinned, Dash looked like a different person. A guy who might enjoy having a good laugh now and then. His vocabulary and his attitude suggested that he was fairly well-educated. Not that it mattered. She needed to be careful to avoid thinking of him as a friend. Dash Adams was an FBI agent. Her only value to him was as a live witness.
“When can I go home?” she asked.
He cleared his throat. “I should prepare you for what we’re going to find at your house. When you were reported missing, your home became a crime scene.”
“What does that mean?”
“It’s a mess,” he said. “Forensic technicians have been going through your belongings, dusting for fingerprints, looking for trace evidence.”
“Yazzie,” she remembered. “My cat. A big orange tom. Is he all right?”