was reported missing today by a friend who was supposed to meet her for lunch.”
“A boyfriend?” Often the individual who reported the crime was the perpetrator.
“Female. The friend got worried, came here, peeked through the window and called us.” He flipped a page in his notebook. “The last time Dr. Messinger was seen was on Thursday night. She got home late after an evening lecture at the university.”
Dash wasn’t convinced that he was dealing with a serial killer. Not with so many other plausible explanations. Dr. Cara Messinger might have argued with a lover. Drugs could be involved. For all he knew, she’d had a psychological breakdown and decided to disappear all on her own.
A massive orange-striped cat stalked into the room, sprang onto the bed and glared at them.
Dash scowled back. “Who’s this feline witness?”
“The neighbor said his name is Yazzie. The neighbor also reported that Dr. Messinger’s car has been parked out front since Friday morning.”
“Which backs up your theory that she was snatched on Thursday night.” He sipped his coffee. “By a serial killer.”
“It’s more than a theory,” Meier said heatedly.
The young detective wanted credit for making this connection, even though he was probably overreacting.
“Prove it to me,” Dash said.
“There’s one more piece of evidence.”
As Dash and Meier returned to the front room, the cat followed, muttering cantankerous growls with every step.
Meier pointed to the laptop computer. “I just got it charged and booted up. Take a look.”
Dash read the message line. The Judge.
A burst of adrenaline shot through his veins. If Meier was correct, Dr. Messinger had been abducted on Thursday night. The Judge always held his victims, toyed with them. He killed on the fourth day. Tomorrow. Sunday. “We need to move fast.”
He picked up the photograph again and stared at the attractive black-haired woman. She must be going through hell right now.
Chapter Two
Her tongue was dry. The inside of her mouth tasted as if she’d been eating sand. A plastic water bottle stood on a chair beside the narrow bed, but Cara didn’t dare drink from it.
Earlier, she’d figured out that the liquid in the water bottle was drugged, probably with a hallucinogen. Every time she’d taken a sip, her wits had gone numb. She’d become dizzy and docile, nearly unconscious. Then came the nightmares. Terrible apparitions of kachina demons. Snake dancers. And spiders, hundreds of spiders crawling over her flesh. Then came the drumming—a thunderous, intense, throbbing beat that had resonated in every cell of her body.
She shook her head to erase the horror of her dreams. Focus, Cara. Her imagination was nowhere near as bad as her reality. She was a captive with wrists and ankles bound. How long had it been? How many days and nights had she been locked inside this small, square room? She didn’t know. Her memory floated in a dank miasma. A blur.
After the stun gun, he hadn’t hurt her further. Russell had used a soft cotton rope that didn’t dig into her skin, but the restraint was still painful. Her muscles ached. She needed to move, wanted to run.
Through the single, uncurtained window, she saw pinpricks of stars. The glimmer was mesmerizing. As she watched, the stars seemed to streak toward her, closer and closer. They became spears, aimed at her head.
With a frightened gasp, she turned away. Even the stars were against her. No one could help her.
Frustrated, she struggled against the rope that tied her hands in front of her. This couldn’t be happening. But it was. She was here. A prisoner. And she had to escape.
Before she could think or reason, Cara needed to move. She sat up on the bed. Opened her eyes. Waited for the room to stop spinning.
She lifted the water bottle. God, she was thirsty. But she didn’t drink. Carefully, she dribbled out a portion of liquid behind the bed, out of sight. It was important for Russell to think she was still drugged.
Now came the hard part: standing up. Her feet touched the worn, filthy carpet on the floor. Concentrating on balance, she stood. Her cramped muscles screamed. Her backbone felt as if she’d been twisted in a knot. Ignore the pain. She could do this. In baby steps, she inched toward the wooden table where Russell had laid out several items, including a knife.
She clutched the leather-covered haft of the knife in her stiff fingers. Every movement was clumsy. Be strong. Concentrate. She manipulated the knife until she was able to saw at the cord binding her wrists. The edge of the blade was dull. This would be a slow process, but it was her only chance.
There were other things on the table—ceremonial objects. A bowl of corn maize. A ceremonial pipe. Eagle feathers. A bundle of sage tied with twine. These things were used in a number of kachina dances and rituals, and she was disgusted that Russell had perverted Native American culture—her culture—for his own twisted purposes. Three votive candles cast flickering light on the dirty, unadorned walls.
She continued to work with the dull blade. Why had he left the knife?
Every time Russell had entered the room, he told her that she was being tested. She had to prove herself worthy. He was judging her. If she failed, she would die.
The knife slipped. The pointed tip slashed through her dark crimson blouse and pierced the flesh of her forearm. She cried out.
Oh no, what if he heard her? Standing very still, she listened for the sound of his footsteps outside the locked door. She heard nothing. No reaction to her outcry.
Russell might be sleeping. He might have left.
But he’d be back. She knew he’d be back. A wave of dread washed over her. He’d been in and out several times, bringing food and the drugged water. He had carried her, still bound, into the bathroom and insisted that she wash herself. He wanted her to be clean.
Though she couldn’t remember, she thought she’d been bathed. Once, she’d awakened to find Russell brushing her hair and crooning. She had to get away from him.
Adjusting her grip on the haft, she dragged the dull blade across the rope. The cut on her arm dripped blood, hot as lava flowing down to her elbow. If she could slice through one strand of these complicated knots, she could work her way free.
Frustrated with her slow progress, she yanked. The bonds on her wrists tightened, cutting off circulation. But the rope was almost severed. With a final stroke, it tore apart.
Now she could work the knots loose. She replaced the knife on the table. Using her teeth, she tore at the knots.
Then she heard drumming from the outer room. The timbre and cadence reminded her of the Navajo powwows on the reservation. The drumming always came before Russell entered the room.
She couldn’t allow him to see that she’d cut the rope. Moving as quickly as she could, Cara returned to the narrow bed and closed her eyes,
