The Seventh Victim (Texas Rangers 1)

And almost immediately, Lincoln had fallen in love with his morning walks, digging in the yard, and chasing rabbits. Despite their recent gypsy life, the idea of putting him in the truck and hitting the open road made her feel selfish.

Without constant travel, she’d had so much more time to pull out the glass negatives she’d created over the last six years with her antique bellows camera and carefully go through them. No longer developing on the back tailgate of a truck but in a real space, her art had taken on a sharpness she’d never experienced before.

Seeing her work in print and on the walls of her studio and in her home had fostered a satisfaction that ran deep.

So much motivated her to make Austin her home. So much.

And yet offsetting the many was the one important reason why remaining so endangered her life.

Her neck muscles tensed as she raised a tentative hand to her throat’s tender skin. She could still remember the moment seven years ago when her eyes had sprung open, and she’d gasped for air. Terrified, a hoarse scream had strained her bruised vocal cords as she’d stared widely around a hospital room at the dangling IVs pulling at her arms. As the heat in her throat burned hotter, her panic heightened. She’d screamed. Nurses and orderlies had come rushing. There’d been swift assurances that she was safe.

“Shh, shh, Lara. No one will hurt you again.”

No one would hurt her again.

What made matters worse was that she could not remember what had happened or what her attacker looked like. The horrific attack that had left her battered inside and out had been wiped from her memory. Doctors had said she’d suffered a concussion. Her memory of the two days leading up to the attack may or may not return. The nurses again assured her she was safe. But as the days passed and her memory didn’t return, her anxiety swelled.

Just relax. Heal. It will come back to you.

But the memories had not returned. There’d not even been nightmares to offer glimpses of her attacker.

The police had been careful to keep her name from the press, which had been clamoring for an interview with the Seattle Strangler’s lone survivor. Reporters had guessed at what might have happened to Lara. They’d done piece after piece on amnesia. Experts had said how lucky she was that she could not remember such an appalling attack.

But she didn’t feel the least bit lucky. She wanted to remember. She wanted to know who had raped, beaten, and strangled her so that she could look him in the eye when police slapped on cuffs. She wanted to see him locked away behind bars, his whole future taken away.

Police had theorized her attacker would strike again. And when he did attack, they’d catch him, they had said. But the Seattle Strangler had never struck again. He had vanished, leaving Lara to wonder if he was dead, in prison, or simply passing by her on the street.

Realizing he could be so close and she’d never know it had started to play on her mind. And as the days and weeks passed, she’d freaked out at the oddest sounds at night, the lingering look of a stranger, wrong numbers on her cell or the odd e-mail.

No one could reason with her. Not her grandmother, not her cousin, not even her friend from Texas who’d come to take care of her. None had the magic words to ease her fears. Two months after the attack she’d dyed her blond hair brown, packed her bags, and left Seattle forever. The last seven years had been a collection of odd jobs, endless new towns, and a sea of faces that all left her rattled and questioning.

Through that entire time the one constant had been her photography. It had been her home, her sanctuary, and it had kept her sane.

Her grandmother’s neighbor to the east had heard she might be staying and had offered her a job at the university teaching photography. He’d explained she’d be an adjunct and wouldn’t make a fortune, but it was a start. Her gut had told her to keep her ties to a minimum. A real job meant roots, even responsibility. But she’d gone against grain and agreed to teach a class this semester.

So these days, her time was split between her photography and the university classroom where she taught an intro class. The move to teaching had been happenstance, but so far it worked.

This week marked yet another milestone. She was introducing her photography to the world in an Austin gallery. The show opened in five days, this Friday, and she was ... excited, not only for the show but the future.

Lincoln’s barking pulled her back to the moment and she glanced over her juice glass toward her one-year-old German Shepherd. She’d found the large black and tan dog in an animal shelter when he was eight weeks old. According to the shelter owner, the dog had been left behind because of a bent ear and a crooked tail. Such imperfections had rendered him poor breeding stock and therefore worthless. In her mind the imperfections made him perfect. She’d taken him immediately, and they’d been inseparable ever since.

Lincoln ran up to her and dropped a large stick at her feet. Wagging his tail, he barked. She picked up the stick and heaved it across the back lawn. Lincoln ran, pounced, and immediately brought the stick back to her. He could play this game for hours. She tossed the stick a second time.

“Catch it quick, boy. We’ve got to get to our morning hike, so I can get into town and check on the displays.”

Restlessness stirred in her bones as she finished off her juice. There were papers to be graded and prints to be made, but those were jobs for the heat of the day. Now she’d enjoy the precious cool morning. She grabbed her grandmother’s well-oiled rifle and locked up the house. “Ready to go for a walk?”

Lincoln barked and wagged his tail, dashing toward the trails that led into the foothills.

As she followed behind him, she dared to smile. She had a home. A car. A job. A show opening. Had her life finally turned normal?

Beck could get by on a couple of hours of sleep a night for weeks on end. The trait, which had confounded his mother when he was a kid, served him well now.

Last night, still jazzed from returning to work, Beck read the Lou Ellen Fisk file. The San Antonio woman had also been a student, working two jobs on top of fifteen credit hours. Liked by friends and other students, no one, according to the statements, could believe anyone would want to hurt Lou Ellen. There’d been mention of her boyfriend, but local police had cleared him. She’d been scheduled to leave Texas at the end of the semester.

So far the two victims had more in common than he’d have liked. Young. Blond. Leaving Texas. White dress. He still didn’t know enough about Fisk to draw a firm link between the two cases, but the connecting threads were weaving together faster than he’d have imagined.

Now as he crossed the lot toward his office, balancing a cup of coffee and the Fisk ca

se file, his cell phone rang. “Beck.”

“I hear you’re looking for me.”

He squinted against the sun, already bright and hot. “And who might you be?”

“I’m Mike Raines. I was the investigating officer into the Seattle Strangler cases.”

Beck had never placed a second call to Seattle. But no surprise that Detective Cannon had called his former partner and given him the heads-up. He’d have done the same. “Who said I was looking for you?”

Raines chuckled, accepting Beck’s test with grace. “Steve Cannon. He was the officer you spoke with yesterday.”

He paused outside the front door of the Rangers’ offices, preferring privacy to the cooler inside temperatures. “What else did he say?”

“Steve and I went to the academy together. He was there when my kid was baptized, and I was there for all his six kids’ christenings. We were partners for eight years. When you called he thought I’d like to know. He told me you’ve got a case reminiscent of the Seattle Strangler.”

“Right now I can’t say for certain what I have.”

“There are a couple of red flags you need to watch out for.”

“Such as?”

“Cannon said there was a penny.”

Beck turned from the building’s front entrance, but didn’t acknowledge the statement, not knowing if he actually had Mike Raines on the phone.

“Was the year 1943?” Raines prompted.

He could have been speaking to the Almighty himself and Beck wouldn’t have given case details away.

“I can appreciate you not wanting to talk. Shoe on the other foot, and I wouldn’t be talking to you. The first six victims in Seattle had pennies dated 1943. All the victims died except the last.”

“I’m listening.”

“Her name is Lara Church.”

And according to Cannon only a handful of cops knew the name of the survivor.