LITMIR.BIZ

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of his mom’s hair, and the girl’s. The smell renewed him and cooled the burning, at least for a while.

      Mary Nell and the kids would leave in a few days. Then he’d be on his own for at least a week, maybe more. He could hold out that long.

      Chapter Two

      By the time Resa Wade showed up at the firing range the next night, Archer knew a lot more about her than he wanted to. He’d spent most of the previous night poring over the thick file in his desk drawer. It contained copies of the police reports for each of the Lock Rapist’s attacks.

      Then, after a couple of hours’ restless sleep, he’d called his former partner, who’d taken over the case after Archer was injured.

      Clint had verified what he’d already figured out. Theresa Wade was sister to the Lock Rapist’s sixth victim, Celia Ramsey. Celia had been separated from her husband and staying with Resa when the attack occurred.

      He asked Clint what he thought about Resa.

      “I don’t know,” Clint had answered. “She’s pretty, like her sister. Why?”

      “She’s been here every night for the past two weeks.”

      “Here? Where? You mean at your house?” Clint’s voice rose in disbelief.

      “At the range.”

      “Oh.” Clint took a deep breath. “She called me about a week ago. Said she was being followed. Said she was sure it was the Lock Rapist.”

      “What?” It was Archer’s turn to be surprised—and furious. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

      Clint hesitated for a beat. “You’re not on the case, Geoff.”

      “I’ve got a stake in it!”

      “I know you do.”

      “You think it’s him? How would he know about her?”

      “I don’t know if he’s following her or if she’s just nervous after her sister’s attack. But she’s kind of an eyewitness.”

      Archer slammed his fist down on the desk. “What the hell is kind of an eyewitness?”

      “She saw the Lock Rapist running from the scene that night.”

      “Damn it, Clint. You promised you’d keep me in the loop.”

      “Geoff, you need to get past this. You chose to leave the force.”

      He flexed his fingers, flinching when they ached. “Some choice. Sit behind a desk or retire.”

      Clint was silent.

      “So are you censoring what you think I can handle and what I can’t? You don’t get to do that.”

      “Actually I do. I’m already skating pretty close to busting regulations by copying reports and depositions for you.”

      Clint was right. He wasn’t obligated to tell Archer anything about the case. Archer was no longer a cop.

      “Have you at least got a car tailing her?”

      “Can’t afford it. Crime is up twenty percent in our precinct and the governor wants to keep up with surrounding states that are enacting no-tolerance policies for conviction. I told her to get his license-plate number and let me know.”

      “Get his license—Clint, you know as well as I do that it’s him. If you don’t give her some protection, she’s a sitting duck.” He winced at the harsh words, knowing they were true.

      “I wish I could. The budget’s worse than it was last year.”

      “This 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

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