might be your big chance to break the case. He follows her here. I saw a reflection from a car last night. He was waiting for her at the end of my driveway.”
“You were watching her drive away?”
“It was kind of late. I just wanted to make sure everything was okay. After I saw that I thought about following her.”
“Why didn’t you?”
Archer’s shoulders lifted involuntarily in a shrug. “For all I knew it could have been her boyfriend. It could have been a car passing on the road, although that doesn’t happen very often out here. Besides, it’s none of my business.”
The words hung between them for a few seconds.
“None of your business. I see. So why’d you call me? Just to hassle me?”
Archer clamped his jaw shut. What could he say? He couldn’t tell Clint how Resa’s determination and naive bravery tugged at his sore heart. “You’re going to have another rape. You know that.”
Clint didn’t respond.
“And maybe even a murder, if the Lock Rapist thinks Resa can ID him.”
“Off the record—if I were you, I’d make sure she knows how to shoot to kill.”
Archer planned to do just that. He’d tamped down his anger and frustration and asked Clint to fax him Resa’s statement and any other pertinent information he was missing.
Now he looked down at the statement Resa had given police on the night of her sister’s rape. She’d reported seeing a slight, medium-height figure in a dark hoodie running from her apartment building as she entered that night. She’d wondered about him, but figured he could be anybody from a spooked would-be burglar to a college student out for a late jog. So she’d gone on up to her apartment, where she discovered the door unlocked and her sister collapsed on the floor.
Archer shuffled the papers Clint had faxed to him, but nothing else stood out, except that the follow-up of her statement had been perfunctory.
After making sure the files were locked in his bottom desk drawer, Archer stepped out of his office and looked down the long corridor of firing lanes set up for shooting practice.
A pair of street cops from the 10th were just wrapping up. He made small talk with them for a couple of minutes before they took off. Once they were gone he walked down to lane fourteen and stopped at the edge of the free-standing cubicle.
Resa stood behind the counter with goggles and noise-canceling ear protectors on. She held the gun in one shaky hand.
She wore a frilly blouse and a dark-green straight skirt that strained over her bottom and hugged her hips as she stood balanced with her legs apart.
For a minute, he just watched her. In heels, she was about three inches shorter than he. Her legs were long and curvy, her bottom was shapely and her blouse outlined the delicately toned muscles in her back and shoulders. Her hair was a sort of medium brown—nothing special, except that under the harsh fluorescent lights it shimmered with dozens of unnamable colors.
As he watched, she dropped her gun hand to the counter and uttered a sigh.
Anger, swift and hot, rushed through him. The pressure had been building all day, ever since he’d talked to Clint. He was angry at her for coming here, angry at Clint for dismissing the danger to her, and angry at himself for not nailing the bastard who’d followed her.
But mostly he was furious with her. He knew what she was doing. He’d seen it in victims and their loved ones. She wanted to learn how to shoot so she could take out the man who’d attacked her sister.
Despite what Clint had said, and his initial agreement, he’d decided that arming her against the unknown predator was a stupid plan. It was more likely to get her killed than to protect her.
But he knew how she felt. For months after his wife’s death, he’d dreamed one dream. In it he tracked down the monster who had killed Natalie as surely as if he’d fired the gun himself.
And every time Archer found him, he held his police-issue SIG 220 in his right hand and pulled the trigger—once, twice, three times, until blood coated everything and he was sure the bastard was dead.
But that was just a dream. He no longer had the luxury of shooting with his right hand. The bullet Natalie had shot at him had severed three tendons and made mincemeat out of the nerves running to his trigger finger.
He couldn’t shoot worth a damn with his left hand, and Resa knew nothing at all about guns or shooting. Neither one of them would ever make good on their dream of stopping the Lock Rapist.
She left the gun on the counter and flexed her fingers. Just as he was about to tap her shoulder, she went still.
She realized he was there. She turned, removing the ear protectors and sent him a narrow glance.
“What do you think you’re doing with that gun?” he growled.
Her dark-green eyes flashed. “Learning how to shoot it, Detective.”
He blew out an exasperated breath. “You’ll never learn like that,” he growled through clenched teeth. “And I told you I’m not a detective. Call me Geoff, or Archer.”
Something dark and soft flickered in her green eyes for an instant. “Sorry. I’ll be more careful, Mr. Archer.”
Mr. Archer. Was she deliberately trying to rile him? If so, she was doing a damn good job of it.
“I thought you were going to come back during the day and see Frank.”
“That was your idea. I told you Frank can’t help me with what I want.”
“All right, I’ll bite. What do you want?”
Her gaze faltered. She looked down at her fingers. “I want you to teach me how to protect myself.”
His jaw ached from clenching. He ought to turn on his heel right now. He sure as hell shouldn’t keep talking to her. “Protect yourself from whom? And why me?”
She opened her mouth, then closed it. Closed her eyes briefly, then opened them. Suddenly she looked tired and small and vulnerable.
He steeled himself against the feeling that he should be nicer to her. Nice wasn’t going to keep her from doing something stupid. Nice wouldn’t keep her safe.
He’d had enough. Time to stop dancing around the truth. “I know who you are.”
Her back stiffened. “Do you?”
“Yes, I do. And I know that there’s a firing range about four miles from your brand-new apartment complex. So why did you come all the way out here to Cheatham County—three times that distance, to stand in a firing lane and stare at your empty gun?”
She shrugged, but her effort to appear nonchalant failed. “I heard about your range—”
He cut her off. “No, you didn’t.
