Protective Confinement

Cara Messinger hated coming home to an empty house. Especially after dark. At 11:22 on a Thursday night, she parked at the curb in her quiet neighborhood on the outskirts of Santa Fe and glanced toward her house. Two front windows stared back as if mocking her hesitation. Shadows from the windswept shrubs and piÑon pines skittered across the white stucco walls like a thousand spiders gone wild. She wasn't usually so nervous. Cara thought of herself as being responsible, strong and resource-ful. A bit of an overachiever. At age thirty-two, she'd been an archaeology professor for three years. She'd supervised digs and published academic papers. Other people respected her. Young women wanted to be her. Why was she crouched behind the wheel of her car, afraid to go into her own house? It had to be the e-mails. For the past two months, she'd been receiving weird e-mails from someone who called himself the Judge. He was watching her, stalking her. "Well, watch this," she muttered as she shoved open her car door. The night brought a chill to the thin air of the high desert even though it was springtime. She shivered as she gathered her briefcase and books from the back seat. When she slammed the car door, the sound echoed. From somewhere down the block, a dog howled. Her keys jingled in her hand as she hurried up the sidewalk, and her sense of apprehension grew stronger. She was not alone in the night. Someone else was here. Something else. She felt a heavy jolt against her ankle and staggered backward. Her books fell on the concrete porch. Two unblinking yellow eyes stared up at her. "Yazzie." The big orange-striped tomcat yawned. "Yazzie, you scared me to death." The twenty-pound tom threaded his bulk between her arms and batted at a strand of her long black hair as she bent down to retrieve her books. His purr rumbled as loud as a motorboat. "You really are a pest." She'd never intended to have a pet, but Yazzie had adopted her. When he'd been only a kitten and the name Yazzie--Navajo for "little one"--had still applied, he'd shown up on her doorstep and had claimed this territory as his own. She really shouldn't complain; the big orange tom was the closest to a relationship she'd had in months. Inside the house, she flicked the switch by the door. A soft overhead light shone on her earth-tone sofa, chairs and coffee table. Being home usually soothed her; this place was her sanctuary. Instead, her tension deepened--a possible result of the two cups of espresso she'd had with her students to celebrate her last evening lecture of the semester. This academic year was almost over. She should have been relieved. Her gaze scanned the shelves by the door that held an array of native pottery, artifacts and woven baskets she'd acquired while working at various ar-chaeological sites throughout the Southwest. Color from the woven Navajo rug on the hardwood floor brightened the room. Nothing seemed out of place. Yazzie had picked up on her mood. Instead of dashing to his food dish in the kitchen and yowling until she fed him, he leaped onto the center of the coffee table. His back arched, he bared his sharp teeth and hissed. A shudder went through her. Cats were good at sensing danger. "What is it, Yaz?" He hissed again. Then he bolted toward her and out the door into the night. For a moment, she considered following the cat. Racing back to her car. And then what? Sleep in the car? Rent a motel room? Ridiculous. There was nothing to be afraid of. Firmly, she closed the door and crossed behind the sofa to the dining area where her laptop sat on the table. She dropped her books on the table, peeled off her wool jacket and logged on. Might as well get this over with. Immediately, the threat appeared on her computer screen. She had an e-mail from "Judge." The message line saiMiles, Cassie is the author of 'Protective Confinement ', published 2007 under ISBN 9780373692453 and ISBN 0373692455.