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  She lifted her hair off her neck. A dull pounding headache reverberated through her skull. She was exhausted, and yet she felt jittery. It would be another long night without sleep. And tomorrow, she had two fittings and a consultation.

  A country-music award ceremony was coming up in August. Her most important challenge yet. She was designing outfits for two of the nominees and a performer. She had to get some sleep. She couldn't afford to screw up her biggest chance at exposure for her clothing designs.

  She turned onto Valley Street, headed toward her new apartment. As she straightened the wheel, she glanced in the rearview mirror. A dark sedan had turned behind her, about three car lengths back.

  She examined the shape of the headlights and the grille. It looked like the same car she'd spotted following her last week—last Tuesday to be precise.

  Just like last week, she had no idea where she'd picked him up. She hadn't noticed anyone behind her, then suddenly there he was. It had to be him. The Lock Rapist. Who else would follow her?

  Despite the warm May night, her palms grew clammy and cold. Fear skittered up her spine. She reached over and dug the Glock out of her purse, a futile gesture. Even if she were able to load it, she'd never get off a shot in time to save her life. Her only hope was that maybe if he saw the gun, it would scare him.

  The idea that the same man who'd brutally attacked her sister and five other innocent women was following her sent terror arrowing through her chest. But why would he follow her? And how had he found her? She'd moved and changed her phone number and her e-mail address.

  Her face might be familiar. After all, she'd been interviewed several times about her sister's attack. But she'd told all the reporters that she hadn't gotten a good look at the face of the man she'd seen running from her apartment building.

  She looked in the rearview mirror again without angling her head.

  If it was he, what was he waiting for? Why hadn't he made a move? He could grab her at any time. He could break into her apartment while she slept. That was what he'd done with the other women.

  Celia had been asleep in Resa's second bedroom. She hadn't heard anything. Hadn't known anything was wrong until a musty cloth covered her face. At that point, Celia's account of the attack became sketchy and disjointed. Resa figured it was just as well if she didn't remember the specifics.

  The back of her neck prickled. She felt his eyes on her as the car inched closer—closer. She fought the urge to hunch her shoulders. She was gripping the steering wheel so tightly her hands cramped.

  "Come on, you monster," she whispered through clenched teeth. "Do something. Just give me one good look at you." She glanced in her driver's-side mirror. "Come a little bit closer."

  She squinted, trying to make out the letters and numbers on the front license plate. But the suburban street was too dark.

  After she'd seen the car last Tuesday, she'd called the police and spoken to the detective who'd handled Celia's case.

  Detective Clint Banes had been polite and concerned about her fear that she was being followed, but he'd been careful not to give her false hope. He didn't have enough manpower to put a twenty-four-hour watch on her, he'd said. Not even enough for a night watch.

  You've got to be careful, he told her. Don't go out alone. Get his license plates. Or at least the make of the car. If it is the Lock Rapist, and we can ID him through his vehicle, we can find the evidence to put him away.

  He offered her the chance to come in and view photos of cars to try and pick out which one was following her. She'd thanked him and hung up.

  She turned at the entrance to the gated community where she now lived, apprehension squeezing her chest. She had to stop a few feet ahead to swipe her entry card. She reached up and made sure her car doors were locked.

  What would he do? Last week he'd turned just as she approached the well-lit apartment complex. Was he bolder this week? What would she do if he pulled in behind her?

  If he did follow her up to the gate, she'd be able to see the color of his car, maybe even get his license plate.

  But she'd also be vulnerable. The few seconds before the gates opened were plenty of time for him to jump out of his car and grab her.

  She pulled up to the card reader, her card ready, and glanced in the mirror.

  The dark sedan slowed down then continued on without turning. He drove under a streetlight, but the light's glow wasn't bright enough to give her a clue about whether the vehicle was black or dark blue or some other color.

  At least he'd given up for the moment—or gotten tired—or received a cell phone call. Whatever the reason, he was gone for now.

  Hardly daring to breathe, she swiped her entry card through the slot, keeping an eye out behind her. As soon as the gates began to swing open, she pulled forward.

  The gates closed silently behind her. She was safe.

  A shiver racked her body. Quickly, jerkily, she pulled into her parking place and ran up the stairs to her apartment.

  As she closed and locked the door behind her, the feeling of safety dissolved into fear as her brain replayed what had just happened.

  Her hands flew to her mouth as her throat closed up, threatening to cut off her breath.

  She wasn't safe. The Lock Rapist knew where she lived.

  Earl Slattery quietly unlocked the door of the modest clapboard house. He sneaked in, eased the door closed and put on the chain. So far, so good.

  He'd had a profitable evening. He'd found out where Theresa Wade lived. With a little judicious sneaking around he'd discovered a breach in the fence on the back side of her apartment complex. He had all the information he needed.

  Now if he could just make it upstairs to bed without his wife waking up—

  Bright lights blinded him. He jerked violently and whirled.

  "Earl, where have you been?"

  He cringed at his wife's strident tone. He'd have thought he'd be used to it after twenty years of marriage. But no. It still shredded his nerves like a cheese grater.

  "Hi, honey," he said, giving her an innocent smile. "I told you I'd be working late tonight."

  "You install security systems. It's after eleven. You expect me to believe you've been wiring somebody's windows and doors all this time—in the dark?"

  Earl went over to her and pressed a kiss to her damp forehead. "I do what my boss tells me to do, sweetheart—"

  "You do what I tell you to do. And don't feed me that sweetheart crap. I'm sick of your whining and I'm sick of your lies. Don't forget my promise. If I ever find out you're cheating on me I'll cut off your—"

  "Mom—I'm thirsty!"

  "Well, at least you're home. See if you can shut those kids up, will you?"

  "Sure thing, sweetheart. And maybe after I take a shower, we can—" he waggled his eyebrows at her.

  She cowed him with a disgusted look. "This time of night? Get home on time to help me with the kids tomorrow and we'll see. Meantime, you need to get up in the morning and get the kids off to school. I'll be too tired."

  Earl escaped upstairs, nearly tripping on a toy car on the floor in the hall. He fetched his youngest son a drink of water and told all three children to settle down and go to sleep. He stood at the door and watched the three of them bedded down in the same room.

  "Someday," he whispered. "Someday we'll have a great big house. Each one of you will have your own room, with your own TV." Things he'd never had living with his grandpa after his mom was murdered.

  He stepped into his bedroom and stopped cold. On the floor in front of the closet was his wife's old hard-sided suitcase. His heart jumped into his throat. That meant only one thing.

  It was time! She was leaving!

  Thank goodness! The flame inside him had been building. Day by day it grew until his insides sizzled with the heat. He shook his head and licked his lips. It seemed as if the burning started sooner and built faster these days. He was having trouble controlling it for six long months between Mary Nell's visits to her
mother.

  If he were lucky, maybe they'd leave before the weekend. As soon as she and the kids were out of the house, he could begin to prepare.

  He took out his wallet and extracted the tiny worn envelope from a secret pocket. For an instant he looked at the faded postmark and the almost unreadable address on the front of the envelope. Mrs. Hannah Slattery. His mom.

  He touched the name, then peeked inside. There was the lock of honey-blond hair. And beside it the few precious golden strands that remained of his mom's hair. He brought the envelope to his nose and inhaled.

  He loved the smell of freshly-washed hair—blond and soft like Mom's. He squirmed and tugged at his pants. Damn that woman of his. He needed some relief.

  Carefully, he tucked the envelope back in his wallet. Soon he'd be able to replace the lock of hair. Then he'd be okay for a few more months.

  He headed for the shower. It angered him that his wife turned her nose up at him. In the whole time they'd been married, she'd never done anything when he wanted to. It was always her timetable. Sometimes he wondered what she'd do if he used her to ease the inferno building inside him.

  He immediately wiped those thoughts out of his head. She was his wife. The mother of his children. He could never do that to her.

  He held his face up to the shower spray, reliving the fragrance 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 pr
otect 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.