Читать книгу: «Silent Guardian»

 “Until the police can free up someone to guard you, you’re coming with me.”

His authoritative tone that just five minutes ago she’d thought was reassuring now raised her hackles. “And I don’t have any say-so in this?”

“Nope.”

A splinter of fear stabbed her. “Why? What’s happened?” Resa knew how much Archer valued his privacy. How desperately he wanted to bury himself in that basement firing range of his and never come out.

There was only one reason he’d give all that up. Only one reason he’d even consider taking on the responsibility of keeping her safe.

He thought he had the chance to catch the man who’d destroyed his life…

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Mallory Kane credits her love of books to her mother, a librarian, who taught her that books are a precious resource and should be treated with loving respect. Her father and grandfather were steeped in the Southern tradition of oral history, and they could hold an audience spellbound for hours with their storytelling skills. Mallory aspires to be as good a storyteller as her father.

She loves romantic suspense with dangerous heroes and dauntless heroines and often uses her medical background to add an extra dose of intrigue to her books. Another fascination that she enjoys exploring in her reading and writing is the infinite capacity of the brain to adapt and develop higher skills.

Mallory lives in Mississippi with her computer-genius husband, their two fascinating cats and, at current count, seven computers.

She loves to hear from readers. You can write to her at rickey_m@bellsouth. net.

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Geoffrey Archer – This former police detective’s life was destroyed when his wife shot him and committed suicide after having been attacked by a serial rapist. Archer will do anything to stop the Lock Rapist – anything except unfreeze his heart.

Resa Wade – Her sister was attacked and raped by the Lock Rapist. The police say they’ve done all they can, but Resa isn’t giving up. She wants the rapist behind bars – or dead. There’s only one person who wants him more than she does, and that’s Geoffrey Archer.

Earl Slattery – An installer of home security systems, Slattery has the perfect job. He can get past any lock, any alarm. When the one person who can identify him teams up with his nemesis, Geoffrey Archer, he must destroy them both or the burning inside him will never stop.

Clint Banes – Banes took over as lead detective on the Lock Rapist case after Archer was injured. But is Clint as dedicated to bringing the perp to justice as Archer?

Frank Berry – Archer’s day manager of his basement firing range is a loyal friend. But associating with Archer could put his wife and himself in danger.

Silent Guardian

MALLORY KANE

www.millsandboon.co.uk

This book is dedicated to Tina Colombo,

whose help and encouragement have meant

more to me than she can possibly know.

Prologue

The bright winter sun sent a pale rainbow of color through the sheer curtains.

The facets of a diamond solitaire sparkled with prisms of light, almost overpowering the hard blue glint that shone from the barrel of the 9mm Glock aimed at her head.

“No!” he cried. The breakfast tray in his hands tumbled slowly, silently to the floor as he dived toward the bed.

But no matter how fast he was, the bullet was faster. It happened as if in slow motion—her sad brown eyes meeting his, her hand turning—pointing the barrel of the gun at him, the tears glistening on her pale cheeks like the diamond on her left ring finger.

He reached out just as the gun’s report echoed in his ears. The bullet stopped him in his tracks. Yet he still struggled to get to her, to somehow stop her. His bare feet slipped in juice, in coffee, in blood.

As he hit the bed and grabbed at her arm the second shot rang out, and her blood spattered his face and hands, mingling with his own.

Geoffrey Archer opened his eyes to darkness and nauseating, aching loss. He kicked away the sweat-soaked sheets and vaulted up, crossing the room in two long strides. In the bathroom, he splashed cold water on his face, then leaned his forearms against the lavatory and hung his head, waiting for the nausea to pass.

Finally, he straightened, pushing his hair back with his hands. His right hand cramped, and burning pain shot through his fingers and up his wrist.

His legacy from his wife’s suicide.

He massaged his wrist and flexed his fingers as he stepped to the window and threw back the drapes. The red and purple stain on the eastern sky reminded him of that last morning and his dream.

He’d been too slow. He was always too slow.

Chapter One

The barrel of the gun glinted blue in the bright lights. Theresa Wade stared at it, her fingers still chilled from touching the cold steel. She reached into her purse for a box of ammunition and set it down beside the gun. Then she set her purse aside and picked up the noise-canceling ear protectors.

After she’d donned the headgear and the safety goggles, she looked down the narrow corridor stretched out in front of her. At the far end, twenty-five yards away, was a piece of newsprint on which was printed the silhouette of a man’s head and torso in deep blue.

There was no face on the silhouette, nor was there one in her mind. Still, she knew who the target represented. It was the shadowed face of the Lock Rapist. The man who’d raped her sister and five other women, the man she’d seen sneaking out of her apartment building that night. The man who had seen her.

With renewed determination, she looked down at the gun. It didn’t look like much lying there. A few inches of blue-black metal. A hollow tube with a handle.

She reached for the box of bullets, but her jaw clenched and her temples pounded. Her fingers closed in a fist.

“Come on, Resa,” she whispered. Pick it up. She’d brought her gun in here. She’d set it on the counter. And if tonight went the way every other night had gone for the past two weeks, at the end of the evening she’d pick it up, slide it back into her purse alongside the box of bullets and leave the firing range.

But tonight wasn’t like every other night.

Tonight she stopped waiting for Geoffrey Archer to come to her.

Frank Berry, the day manager of Archer’s firing range outside of Nashville, had warned her, “You want to learn to handle that gun, come during the day. I’ll be happy to teach you. But I leave at seven. After that, you’re on your own.”

She’d asked him about Archer.

“Yep. He’s down here every evening till ten. But he’s not gonna help you. Don’t expect him to.”

But she did. Archer was the reason she was here. She could feel him, sitting in his office near the stairs that led up from the basement firing range into the foyer of his Victorian home.

Detective Geoffrey Archer. Former detective with the Nashville Police Department.

She glanced at her watch. Ten minutes to ten. Every evening, right around this time, he came out of his office. He walked down the row of lanes—checking, she supposed, to see if everyone had left. Usually the only people who stayed this late were cops—both uniformed and detective, and her.

Tonight there was no one else here.

She flattened her palms against the counter and kept her eyes on the target as she took a careful breath and waited for him to walk by.

How did she know when he was behind her? Was it a scent? A change in the conditioned air that swirled around her? The ear protectors kept her from hearing his approach. Still, she knew that even if she could hear, she’d have to depend on her other senses. Because he moved as silently as a cat through his shadowy lair.

Something changed and a warm finger of awareness slid down her spine. He was there, behind her. Her shoulders tightened and she suppressed a shiver.

It had been six months since her sister’s attack, but she still started at unexpected sounds and shied away from men. It had taken her weeks to step into an elevator if there was a man in it.

She took a deep breath and turned, but he was gone.

Damn him. He’d done what he did every night. He’d paced the length of his massive basement, then slunk back to wherever he went—his office, his lair, his underground dungeon. She mentally shook her head at her silly thoughts.

Archer was no mysterious phantom, stealing through underground caverns, hiding from the light. He was just a man. A wounded, heartbroken man.

He and she had a lot in common, although he didn’t know it. Not yet.

But he would find out tonight.

She removed the ear protectors and goggles and set them on the shelf, then stuffed the empty gun and ammunition into her purse.

She walked past the firing lanes toward the stairs. To her left was the table with the sign-in sheet for the range. To the right was his office. He was always in there sitting behind the desk when she came in. He’d never looked up.

Tonight she ignored the sign-in sheet. She turned and looked through the door into his office.

He was standing with his back to her, slowly and carefully writing something on a wall calendar. His white T-shirt stretched across his broad, spare shoulders and hung loosely over faded jeans that hugged his hips and butt in that way that only comes with years of wear and washing.

His body was long and lean, yet even with his back to her, he gave off a powerful presence that at once comforted and disturbed her.

He needed a haircut, but his just-too-long hair suited him. The wavy strands at the nape of his neck drew her eye. If she were interested in him—which she wasn’t—she might be tempted to slide her fingers around his nape.

Just as she reminded herself that she only had one interest—learning to shoot her gun—his head angled like that of a predator sensing prey.

He turned and tossed the pen onto his desk, then raised his gaze to hers. His dark eyes were hooded, his brow furrowed. A few days’ growth of beard shadowed his lean cheeks.

She fought not to lower her eyes. She’d felt his sharp gaze on her as he prowled the range, but nothing had prepared her for the impact of his eyes. Even though everything about him conveyed competence and protection, his piercing stare was grim and disapproving.

Resa lifted her chin and stared back. She would not be the first one to look away. She needed him, and she wasn’t about to give him a reason to think she was a wimpy female.

A muscle in his jaw ticked. His mouth flattened into a frown and he crossed his arms.

“Can I help you?” he growled.

Resa’s whole body went cold. She nearly turned and ran. But two things kept her rooted in place. Running was exactly what he wanted her to do. He wanted her to leave him alone. And she knew that if she didn’t talk to him now she’d never get up the courage again.

Her jaw tightened. She sucked in courage with a deep breath. “I want you to help me.”

She hadn’t thought his eyes could get any darker, but they went as black and as opaque as coal.

“See Frank.” He sat down in his desk chair and picked up a sheet of paper.

“I’ve seen Frank. He can’t help me.”

Archer put down the paper and stared at it for a few seconds. Then he leaned back in his chair and sent her a quelling glance. “If Frank can’t help you, I sure can’t.”

“I’m paying a fee to rent a lane here.” A couple of stray hairs tickled her eyelashes, but her hands were trembling too much and she didn’t dare swipe them away.

Something flickered in his eyes. “Thank you,” he said wryly as his dark gaze slid over her pale ecru blouse and sleek black trousers, not stopping until it settled on her überfashionable round-toed black pumps. Then he raised his brows and retraced each inch of her until he was looking into her eyes again.

His stare took her breath away. She swallowed. “I want you to teach me to shoot.”

“No.”

“No? What—why—” She was speechless. She’d expected him to give her a hard time, but he’d shot that single word at her like a bullet.

She closed her eyes for an instant, struggling to stay calm. She couldn’t get rid of the urge to turn and run, and he knew it.

He was trying to intimidate her. Trying, ha. He’d succeeded, and he knew that too. But her sanity, maybe even her life, depended on persuading him to help her. She’d be damned if he would succeed in scaring her away.

When she opened her eyes he was watching her.

“Why not?” she asked. “This is a public range, isn’t it?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Well, Detective Archer, I’m paid through the end of the month.”

He winced. “Geoffrey Archer. Not Detective.”

His hostile growl rumbled through her. She’d thrown out his former title to try to gain a semblance of an advantage over him—and truthfully, to hit him where it hurt.

She’d definitely done that. Too well. She’d seen pain behind his narrowed eyes.

Involuntarily, she glanced down at his hands. They were big and elegant, with long blunt fingers. The only visible indication of the injury that had forced him to retire early was the network of scars across the back of his right hand, and the slight curve of his index finger.

She knew from newspaper reports that more than a year ago his wife had shot him in the hand before turning the gun on herself and committing suicide.

Feeling embarrassed that she’d deliberately baited him and unaccountably sorry for what had happened to him, Resa spun on her heel and walked back toward the lane she’d rented.

She stepped up to the counter and pulled the gun out of her purse. She ejected the empty magazine and laid it on the counter. Then she wrapped her fingers around the gun’s handle.

She wasn’t going to give up. She’d learn how to handle a gun. Eventually, she’d learn to shoot it, with or without Archer’s help.

“What the hell are you doing?”

She jumped. He’d sneaked up on her, something she’d have thought he could never do. She answered him without turning around. “Learning to hold my weapon.”

“It’s nearly ten.” His words were tight, squeezed out from his clenched jaw.

She felt a mean triumph. She’d forced him out from behind the barricade of his desk. She whirled and glared up at him. “I need a few more minutes.”

Without meeting her gaze, he stalked away.

Gritting her teeth and ignoring the frustrated stinging behind her eyes, Resa awkwardly aimed her empty gun at the silhouette of the man who’d raped her sister.

ARCHER HEARD her high heels echoing across the concrete floor of the firing range. He tilted the desk chair back and glanced at his watch. 10:15 p.m. on the nose. Same time every night for the past two weeks. It was almost as if she stayed those extra minutes after closing time to taunt him.

Well, she taunted him all right. But not the way she intended to, he was sure.

She was persistent. And stubborn as hell. It seemed to him that she’d been here every night for at least a month.

He’d have to ask Frank when she’d originally signed up. Frank usually handled the billing and he’d warned Archer that she’d been coming during the day, but was planning to switch to evenings.

There were so many contradictions about her. She was obviously terrified of guns, yet she was determined to teach herself to use one. She did her best to project an image of calm assurance, but her dark-green eyes held a fear that she couldn’t mask.

The bank of monitors on his office wall showed every accessible area of the range. He glanced up at the one connected to the camera at the top of the basement stairs. As she trudged up them, Archer saw the weariness etched in her face.

Quickly, he signed the last check and set down the pen. His hand ached. He rubbed his palm and then stretched his fingers, wincing as the tight muscles and newly reattached tendons resisted.

When he heard the door at the top of the stairs close, he stood and followed. At the top of the stairs, he flipped the light switch off. When he was fully cloaked in darkness, he opened the door and crossed the small foyer. He eased the front door open.

She was backing a white, late-model Sedan out of a parking space. He glanced at the dimly lit license plate—out of habit. He already knew her tag number. He’d watched her leave every night, just to make sure she got safely to her car.

She drove down the hill to the end of his driveway and turned right onto the farm road.

He stood there for a few seconds, then started to close the door. Just then he caught a flash through the brush, coming from where the driveway dead-ended into the road. He froze, stopping the door with his hand.

Within a few seconds, he saw another flash—the unmistakable reflection of the moon on metal. It was a car, running without lights. Following her.

“Damn,” he whispered. “Who are you?”

For an instant he considered jumping into his own car and taking off after them. He considered calling her to warn her.

But it was none of his business. The flash could have been anything. A soup can on the side of the road. A puddle of water.

Hell, even if it were a car, for all he knew it was her boyfriend, making sure she got home safely.

“None of my business,” he muttered as he locked the front door. He glanced to his right at the door that led to the main part of the house, but instead of locking up the firing range and heading to the kitchen to find something to eat, he pushed open the door labeled Firing Range and took the stairs back down to the basement.

The daily sign-in book was beside the entrance at the bottom of the stairs. The last line read, Resa Wade: in 8:03 p.m., out 10:15 p.m.

He flipped the pages backward.

Resa Wade: in 8:02 p.m., out 10:12 p.m.

Resa Wade: in 8:00 p.m., out 10:14 p.m.

His detective’s brain catalogued the information and categorized her. She was honest. Careful. Detail-oriented.

And familiar. At least her name was. He knew he’d never met her before she’d come to his range. He’d have remembered that creamy skin, those dark-green eyes, that sun-shot brown hair.

And that attitude. His mouth almost curved into a smile before he stopped it. Frowning, he headed for his office. There were only two reasons for him to be so certain he knew her. The first could be eliminated out of hand. He hadn’t been with a woman since his wife had died more than a year ago. In fact, he’d hardly seen a woman in all that time, until Resa Wade showed up.

So the reason he found her name familiar had to be reason number two. He went into his office and sat down at the desk. Locked in the bottom drawer was a thick file folder containing all the information he’d gathered over the past three years on the Lock Rapist—the monster who’d caused his wife’s death—who’d taken away the only two things that had ever mattered to him. His wife and his career.

With a gun hand that didn’t work, he’d had no choice but to take a disability pension. They’d offered him a desk job, but there was no way he could be chained to a desk for the next fifteen years. The forced retirement was marginally less humiliating than answering phones and doing computer searches while enduring his fellow officers’ pity.

He pulled his key ring from his pocket and unlocked the drawer. Using his left hand, he lifted the heavy folder out.

An icy chill of dread snaked down his spine as he opened the file. This had to be how he knew Resa Wade.

She was somehow connected to the Lock Rapist.

RESA WAS almost home. She glanced at the dashboard clock. Ten forty-five. A huge sigh escaped her lips. She was so tired. It was a bone-deep weariness that came from too much stress and too little sleep.

She’d been to Archer’s firing range every single night for the past two weeks, ever since she’d come back from Louisville, Kentucky.

That last trip to her mother’s home was her seventh in the six months since Celia had been attacked. Her mother wanted her to move to Louisville and help with her sister. Celia wasn’t doing well. She couldn’t sleep despite tranquilizers and sleeping pills. She sat in the living room looking out the picture window and chain-smoking. She wouldn’t wash her hair or eat unless someone was there to coax her.

Resa’s mother was at the end of her rope, and so was Resa. She’d offered to pay for Celia to go to a psychiatric facility, but her mom wouldn’t hear of that.

So Resa had told her there was nothing else she could do. She’d been away from her work too long, and her work was in Nashville. Her stress level wasn’t helped by her guilt over leaving her mother to deal with Celia.

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.