The Hunt (14 page)

The one-room cabin, eight by twelve feet, housed only a bare, filthy, stained mattress in the middle of the rough wood floor. Dried blood mixed with dirt. The ceiling was tin on wood, pitched to keep the snow from destroying the building. Rebecca’s clothes were in the corner. The jeans, yellow sweater, and blue windbreaker she’d last been seen wearing.

Her bra and panties were missing.

The smell hit Miranda. The scent of fear clung to the walls, as if Rebecca’s terror was imprinted forever in the dark, moldy wood.

Not fear. No, fear had no smell. It was the dried sweat, the faint, metallic hint of blood as she breathed in, coating her sinuses, drifting down to her tongue where she tasted the coppery terror, before filling her lungs and heart with heavy memories.

The sex. The brutal, painful sex.

I’m so cold, Randy.

Miranda glanced around the hovel, certain she had heard Sharon speaking to her.

Not Sharon. Sharon’s ghost.

The windowless room shrunk. The walls seemed to pulse, to breathe. As if they were creeping closer . . . and fear did have a scent. The cloying aroma of her own terror, her mortality, weighed her down, choking her.

Randy, I’m cold. We’re going to die.

We’re not going to die. Don’t give up. We’ll find a way out.

He’s going to kill us.

Stop it! Don’t talk that way.

Rebecca had been alone. No one to support her. No one to talk to, to cry with, to make promises to. All alone. Never knowing when he was going to return, when he was going to climb on top of her. When he was going to take the ice-cold clamp and squeeze her nipples until she cried out . . .

Aghhhh!

Sharon’s screams rang in her ears, pounded at her head.

She would be next.

The walls breathed and sagged. Coming closer, closer . . .

She shook uncontrollably as Sharon screamed and sobbed. He was silent. Sickly silent. But Miranda knew he was raping Sharon again, the sick pounding of his flesh on hers, the slap, slap, slap of skin on skin. The scream as he twisted her nipples in the clamp . . .

She would be next.

The walls reached for her, wanting to suck the life out of her. Hand to mouth, Miranda ran from the shack, stumbled over roots, until she reached out and found a tree. Holding on to the trunk, she tried to swallow the horror that threatened her sanity.

Quinn was right. You’re going to break.

No. No.
No!

Deep breaths. Cleansing breaths. The smell of sweat and violent rape and blood faded away, replaced by the cool pine scent of the forest. Musty dirt and rotting leaves. Sticky sap.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Her heart slowed, the pulse in her neck lost its frantic beat. She opened her eyes and stared at the rough tree trunk that she clung to.

Tree-hugger,
she thought, and found herself suppressing a smile.

She pushed off the tree, rubbed her hands on her jeans, and gathered her courage, carefully sewing the threads of her sanity back together.

Breathe, Miranda. Breathe.

She stood and turned back to the shack, ready to try it one more time. She’d fight the claustrophobia that had been her damn albatross ever since the week she lived in hell twelve years ago.

Quinn stared at her and she held her breath.

CHAPTER

11

Quinn watched Miranda from the doorway.

She was falling apart, her face ghostly and pained. If the press got wind that one of the sheriff’s own people was unstable, the entire investigation could be endangered.

Miranda held on to the tree as if it were a lifeline. He took a step forward, preparing what needed to be said.
Miranda, go home. Take care of yourself. You can’t help us if you have a nervous breakdown.

As he watched, she gathered herself together. She stopped shaking and stepped back from the tree. The quiet sobs that racked her body subsided. She bent over, took deep breaths, then stood.

And looked right at him.

Fear. Fear washed her face, but it wasn’t the terror she’d run from in the shack. It was fear of him.

Anger and empathy battled inside. That she would be afraid of
him
was upsetting, but he understood. After he’d told her flat out she was on the verge of a breakdown, it’s no wonder she feared he’d remove her from the investigation.

Almost as quickly as he identified her apprehension, she masked it behind a stone face.

He was surprised that she’d pulled herself together so completely, so fast. He’d seen seasoned veterans walk into particularly brutal crime scenes and take longer than five minutes to regroup. Some took days.

But, he reminded himself, Miranda had had twelve years to mask her fears.

“Claustrophobia?” he heard himself say.

She nodded, her entire body visibly relaxing. Cocking her head with a shrug, she said, “I still get it sometimes.” She paused, then added so quietly he almost missed it: “No windows.”

Though she stood at ease, her eyes were watchful. Waiting for more. Waiting for him to jump down her throat. Is that how little she thought of him? That he would do something so cruel when she was down?

“Miranda,” he said, approaching her. What could he say to reassure her? “I—”

The clamor of men descending the slope stopped his next words. He and Miranda watched Nick lead five deputies down to the shack. “We found three bullets in two trees,” Nick said, glancing from Quinn to Miranda and back again. If he noticed their tension, it didn’t show on his face.

“The ranger is working with my men to cut the segments out of the trunks and we’ll send them to the lab in Helena.” Nick turned to his men. “Fan out from the cabin downslope and see if you can figure out how he brought her here. Be mindful of where you step, stay on the lookout for anything foreign. Tire tracks, sled, garbage.”

“Yessir.” The men departed.

“We’ll need a team down here to collect evidence,” Quinn said.

“So this is it.” Nick frowned at the cabin, a cloud passing over his face.

“No doubt, though we’ll need to take blood and other samples.” In the other shacks they had found, they were able to collect some forensic evidence, but the DNA samples were corrupt from exposure. The killer left no semen traces on the victims, no hair or blood. He’d used a condom, but he hadn’t always used his penis to rape the victims.

Quinn glanced at Miranda and wanted to strangle the bastard who’d hurt her. This urge was different from his usual angry reaction to violent criminals. Stronger. More powerful.

Personal.

She caught his eye and held it. Her pale face was blank, but her eyes were full of questions.

“I think we’re ready to go in. Miranda?” Quinn asked, wanting to give her the option of refusing, though doubting she would.

To his surprise, she said, “Go ahead. I’m going to head back.”

Nick seemed as surprised as he was. “Let me call one of my men to escort you,” he said.

“Dammit, Nick, I’m not going to get lost.”

“Miranda,” Nick said, “no one on my team is out of sight while on a search. You should know that better than anyone, since it’s your rule too.”

She sighed. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I—I’m just tired.”

Nick touched her shoulder and nodded. “Get some rest, Randy. We have plenty to do tomorrow, and we’ll have to call it quits here in less than two hours.”

“I’ll do that.” She waited while Nick called over for Deputy Booker to take her back. She glanced at Quinn.

“Thanks.” She touched him lightly on the arm. A feather of a touch that conveyed more real emotion—other than anger—than anything they’d shared since his return to
Montana
. Their eyes locked, just for a moment, a mutual truce. And something more. Something deeper. Forgiveness?

He wasn’t that lucky. Was he?

He watched her leave with the deputy. Wondered.

The sun settled well after the dinner hour to close the day as Miranda drove southwest to the Gallatin Lodge.

She couldn’t stop thinking about Quinn’s reaction.

She’d been so certain he was going to make a big deal about it, an “I told you so” kind of thing. Damn, she hoped he didn’t feel sorry for her. That would almost be worse. She didn’t need or want a pity party. All she wanted was a little room to breathe, just some understanding without sympathy.

And he’d given it to her. That put everything in a whole new perspective.

She didn’t want to think about Quinn Peterson or his motives. Not now. Throwing her out of the Academy had shown her exactly what she was to him. A burden, a problem, expendable. Doing something unexpected and kind now didn’t change the fact that he thought she couldn’t handle the pressure of the Butcher investigation.

Despite her resolve to forget the past, it flooded her memories.

It had been the day before graduation and Quinn came by her dorm room. She’d just received the scores of her final exam and couldn’t contain her enthusiasm. Throwing her arms around Quinn, she kissed him.

God, how she loved this man!

He entwined his hands in her hair and held her face close to his. His lips warm, firm, confident.

Hers.

They hadn’t talked marriage, not in so many words. The one conversation that danced around the issue, Quinn had initiated. It was before she left
Montana
, right after she’d been accepted to the Academy, right after their affair of the heart turned physical. They agreed to postpone the discussion until after she graduated from Quantico.

She’d never had any doubt she’d pass. Her test scores proved her right.

She had a career she knew she would thrive in. A man she loved with her whole heart. Someone who understood her, cared for her, loved her without condition. Without seeing her as damaged goods. Someone who held her close when the nightmares came, who soothed away her anxiety with warm hands and gentle kisses. Who made love to her without holding back.

Now she was graduating. Her life was her own again. A new life. Whole. Complete. She felt reborn.

He held her tight, kissed her hair. His scent was so Quinn—plain soap under a hint of expensive aftershave. Slightly spicy, but it didn’t overwhelm her senses. He was handsome, sexy, smart, understanding.

And all hers.

“Look!” she said, grinning madly, holding up the near-perfect score from her written final.

His dark chocolate eyes deepened. “Wow. That’s a point higher than my final.”

She kissed him again and almost giggled.
Almost.
She still hadn’t learned to laugh the way she used to, and giggling seemed so—immature. But she hadn’t been happier in years—since before the attack.

Nothing could stop her now.

Quinn took her hand and they walked through the courtyard outside the dorm rooms. Other soon-to-be agents walked in various states of pride, chattering amongst themselves. It was a beautiful autumn afternoon in
Virginia
. Tomorrow promised to be clear and in the seventies. Perfect for graduation.

But even if rain poured from the heavens, Miranda would be in bliss when she received her diploma from Quantico—and her first assignment.

She had beaten the Butcher and it felt amazing.

“I talked to Agent Clark,” Quinn said once they were beyond the courtyard and walking leisurely through the paths that wound around the buildings.

“I told you—no special treatment on assignments. If they give me my first choice, great. If not, I’ll work up to it.” She had asked for serial killers and for admittance into the profiling program. Her master’s in criminology and minor in psychology was a plus, but nothing was certain.

And she wanted to earn her assignment. She didn’t want her relationship with Quinn to impact the decision.

“I know.” He paused a long time and Miranda felt a prickle under her scalp. Something wasn’t right. Quinn wasn’t a talker, but neither was he reticent. He said what he meant and meant what he said—it had made all the difference in their relationship since Miranda had difficulty talking about how she felt, finding the right words.

“What’s wrong? Don’t tell me Rowan or Liv didn’t pass.” Not possible. Both of them were as focused and dedicated as she was. They were her first real friends since Sharon. And after the first week, they’d become more like sisters than roommates.

Quinn shook his head. “We talked about you.”

“Oh, you and Agent Clark talked about me?” She tried to make her voice sound light and carefree, casual, but tension crept up her spine and butterflies fought in her belly. Something was very wrong.

“Doctor Garrett met with Clark yesterday morning. He was—um—a little concerned about your second psych test.”

“Garrett’s an arrogant ass,” Miranda said, tucking her hair behind her ears. Her hand was shaking and she willed it to stop.