The Seventh Victim (Texas Rangers 1)
She opened her door and Lincoln bounded out of the car and ran up to Beck. He sniffed his hand, then dashed off toward the brush to pee.
Lara glared after the shepherd, shaking her head. “So much for a bodyguard.”
The dog’s excited barks drifted from the woods as Beck leveled his gaze on Lara. “When he feels a threat he’ll step up. It’s clear he adores you.”
From the bottom step she had to crane her neck to meet his gaze. “What brings you out here, Sergeant Beck?”
“Came to make sure you were doing okay. You don’t answer your phone much. And your message machine is full.”
“The article.”
“Do you have a cell phone?”
“Yes.”
He pulled out his own phone. “What’s the number?”
She rattled off the number as she climbed up the stairs past him to the front door and unlocked it. “Did you come out here just to get my number?”
“Dr. Granger called the house several times. When she didn’t get you she called me.”
Of course, he’d come about business. That made sense. So why care? “Hence your visit.”
“She’d like to see you tomorrow at one.”
“That works. I canceled class tomorrow so the kids could have extra time to work in the photo lab.” She twisted the key in the lock.
He stood close behind her. “She said she’d make any time work. Just show up.”
“Okay.” Memories of last night’s dream drifted to the forefront of her mind. “I had a weird dream last night. I’ve never had it before.”
The dimming sun cast shadows across his face, deepening the lines and hard planes. “About Seattle?”
“I think so.” She opened the door and flipped on the light. “Come in if you like.”
He followed her inside as she turned on lights and dropped her bag on top of the kitchen table. Scanning the room for signs of trouble, he said, “What was in the dream?”
Mindful of breakfast plates on the coffee table and the stack of coffee cups on the end table, she resisted the urge to start straightening. “It was more like a nightmare.” She set her keys on the kitchen counter and leaned into it. Speaking about the dream gave it credence and made it uncomfortably real. “You’ve read my file from Seattle. You know the Strangler ... raped me.”
His jaw tightened. “Yes.”
When her gaze lifted to his, the intensity made her hesitate. “I should probably just talk to Dr. Granger about this.”
“You can.” He spoke carefully as if coaxing a wild horse toward the corral. “Or you can tell me.”
“It just feels odd.”
He nodded toward a stool by the kitchen counter. “I could use a cup of coffee.”
“I’ll make some.”
“I got it.”
She thought about him fumbling around in her kitchen, getting a better look at the dishes in the sink and the counter that she should have wiped last night. “Let me make the coffee.”
He set his hat down on the kitchen table and rolled up his sleeves. “I’m perfectly capable.”
“It will give me something to do.”
“Have a seat.” An order, not a request. “My mother hates anyone in her kitchen, especially if it’s not perfectly clean. I’ve seen dirty dishes in sinks before, Lara.” Her given name sounded rougher, wilder when he spoke it.
“I’d planned to do a big clean as soon as I submitted my grades next week.”
When he moved into the kitchen it suddenly looked tiny. “Sit.”
She sat at the tall kitchen counter. “The coffee is in the tin next to the machine.”
“The one marked ‘Coffee’?” he teased.
“Yeah. And the filters are in the tin next to it.”
“I see it.”
It felt odd to be sitting at the table having someone wait on her. She lined up the saltshaker with the pepper shaker as Beck moved with ease. “You look like you’ve made coffee before.”
He hit BREW and faced her, leaning against the counter and folding his arms over his chest. “Can’t be in law enforcement and not know how to make a strong cup of coffee.”
He’d invaded her life a little over a week ago—a virtual stranger—and she was about to share a personal and disturbing dream. “How long have you been with the Rangers?”
If he picked up on the delay tactic, he gave it no notice. “I’ve been a Ranger for five years, but before that I was with DPS for eight years.”
“Long time.”
“I like to think I’m just getting warmed up.” Behind him the machine gurgled and spit out coffee. “Cups?”
“Cabinet right behind your head.”
He selected two handmade mugs. One was a bright blue and the other yellow. Filling each, he set hers by her hands and cupped the other as he took the seat across from her.
She sipped the coffee and was amazed it tasted good. “I thought cops made bad coffee.”
“I can only cook a handful of dishes. Number one and two on that list are steak and coffee. You much of a cook?”
“Fair. My grandmother taught me a good bit when I lived with her. I just rarely take the time these days to cook. Seems a waste to pull out all the pots and pans for just me.”
“What keeps you so busy?”
She smiled. “I know what you’re doing.”
“What’s that?”
“Trying to get me to relax so that I’ll feel better about talking to you.”
“I thought I was making conversation.”
She traced circles on the counter with her fingertip. “Cops don’t just make conversation. There is usually an agenda.”
He set his cup down on the counter. “Not always true.”
She shoved aside her nervous energy. “I need to tell you about the dream.”
“There’s no rush.”
He was trying to ease her pain, and for that she was grateful. “When I was seven and afraid to jump off the diving board my grandmother told me to just jump. Get it over with, she’d say.”
He straightened as if bracing. “Okay.”
“In the dream, I couldn’t see the man, but he kept telling me how lovely I would look in the white dress.” Recounting it made her feel dirty. “He was touching me and I knew I was going to be raped.”
“What exactly did he say?”
“How beautiful I was. How he’d been waiting for me for a long time.”
Beck flexed his fingers. “Did you see anything? Smell anything?”
“No.” She shook her head. “Maybe my subconscious is just working through what I’ve heard.”
His gaze turned ice cold. “Or maybe you are starting to remember.”
“Yeah, but it’s been seven years. Why now?”
“I don’t know. Maybe you’ve seen something or someone that’s jogged something loose.”
Her shoulders sagged forward. “But what?”
He raised his mug to his lips. “That’s the million-dollar question.”
She sipped her coffee. “When I was in Seattle, Raines tried to tell me what had happened to me. He wanted me to read the medical reports, but I refused. I didn’t want to remember.”
His gaze held hers. “You suffered one hell of a trauma.”
“I talked a lot about wanting to remember, but I think deep down I thought not remembering would somehow protect me. That was pretty much how I got through my childhood. Easier to live with Mom if I didn’t remember the last fight or the latest disappointment. But now I feel trapped in amber. I didn’t feel pain, and I didn’t feel anything else. I want to know what happened to me. I think I need to know. You’ve read the report.”
“Yes.”
“Can you tell me?”
He drew in a slow breath and repeated the facts as clinically as possible. “You were raped. There was no semen present, but there was a lot of vaginal bruising. There were also bruises on your thighs and wrists. There was also skin under your fingernails. DNA was tested, but there was never a
match in the CODIS system.”
“CODIS?”
“A DNA criminal database.” He turned his cup slowly from side to side, but she sensed restrained anger. “Based on the bruising the doctors assumed he’d been on top of you when he grabbed your neck.”
“He didn’t rape the other women in Seattle.”
“No. His pattern changed with you, and it is holding consistent in Austin.”
A cold chill shuddered through her body. “Why didn’t I die?”
“The theory is that he was interrupted. For the first time he chose a spot that wasn’t remote. No one knows why.”
“Do you have any leads in this case?”
He shook his head, his frustration clear. “We know he likes the I-35 corridor. All the bodies have been dumped on the southbound side. He dresses the women in homemade white dresses and each has a penny in their hand. We also found footprints at the last two crime scenes that we believe belong to him.”
“He’s getting closer to me.”
“Yes.”
She glanced around the house. “This house was always my safe place to go. It was the eye of the storm for me. Now it feels like ground zero.”
He frowned. “How’d you get into photography?”
“You’re doing it again.”