The Hunt (30 page)

“Is that your experience talking?” She gave him a half-smile.

“No, it’s my gut instinct. Listen to yours.”

“Okay.” She reached for her door handle.

“Let me walk you to your cabin,” Quinn said.

She nodded and kissed him lightly on the cheek. “Thank you.”

Dear God, when would it end?

Long after the sun took the minimal warmth it had offered in the dank, dark cabin and retreated for the night; long after the first howl of a coyote pierced the quiet stillness; long after Ashley had cried herself to sleep, Nick lay awake waiting.

The Butcher would return. And Nick could do nothing to protect Ashley.

He couldn’t have imagined how unbearable the night would be.

Each struggle against his ropes pulled them tighter, binding his hands to his feet behind his back. While he was pushed against the wall, Ashley was restrained in the middle of the small room. Finally asleep, finally with some peace after a day of mounting fear.

When his head had cleared somewhat, he’d encouraged Ashley to try to scoot over to him, see if she could untie his binds. But she was chained to the floor, unable to move. And every time he tried to roll over, his bonds tightened.

Nick tried to assure her they’d find a way out. Tried to convince her that his people, and the FBI, were close to learning the identity of the killer.

But how would they know where to look? Nick didn’t know who the Butcher was, only that he’d been hanging around the Parker place. He could have been a friend, an employee, a tenant of Richard Parker’s. Or he might be a squatter. Or Richard Parker himself.

Would Quinn follow his trail? Would he see what Nick had seen? Probably not. On his way up to Parker’s Nick had thought the whole trip was a wild-goose chase. Being born and bred in southwest
Montana
had shed light on the parcel and property records through the lens of history and experience more than by following hard evidence.

Having the right instincts didn’t make him feel any better. He was going to die. And Ashley would be hurt, hunted, and slaughtered.

Nick had to find a way out.

The night creatures suddenly quieted, as if a larger, more dangerous predator was on the move. Nick’s ears pricked. Someone approached the cabin.

A moment later, the chain on the door shifted, then rattled. Nick felt Ashley startle awake.

“No,” she whimpered. “No, not again.”

“It’s okay,” he said, his voice rough.

“No, it’s not! It’s never going to be okay!”

The cabin was already chillingly cold, but when the door opened the night wind touched his body with an icy finger and he shivered. For the first time, he realized how frigid Ashley must be.

The door closed. The Butcher said nothing.

Nick heard the clinking of something metal, then Ashley screamed in pain.

“Stop! Don’t hurt her!”

Nick pleaded with the rapist as he struggled against the ropes. Ashley’s cries were continuous, falling off to sobbing, then a sudden scream pierced the cabin walls.

The rapist spoke little, just as Miranda had said. An occasional word—
mine, forever
—with grunts and sounds of exertion.

Tears sprang to Nick’s eyes. Of pure hatred. Of anger. Of helplessness. He heard the sick slapping of flesh on flesh as the Butcher raped Ashley and used something metallic to mar her flesh. Her breasts.

He’d seen Miranda’s scars. Now he knew how they got there.

How had she survived such brutal torture? How had she grown into the incredible, strong, fearless woman she was? His blinders were gone; he saw that Miranda was more than a victim, more than a survivor.

She was the victor.

Ashley screamed again and sobbed. The Butcher’s virtual silence was more disconcerting than had he shouted obscenities. As if being silent was to prove something to himself.

Nick didn’t know how long the Butcher stayed to torture Ashley. It was as if he didn’t know Nick was there—he ignored every plea, every curse, every accusation. But he finally left, chaining the door behind him. Ashley was silent.

Had he killed her?

No, he wouldn’t do that. He needed the hunt. She’d probably passed out. He listened with bated breath until he was confident she was still breathing.

Nick wanted to comfort the girl but didn’t know how. What could he say to take away the pain and humiliation of what she’d just endured?

Instead, he mentally prepared for escape. Maybe the Butcher would find it a challenge to hunt the sheriff. Nick devised psychological manipulations to encourage the Butcher to let him go.

You shoot weak women in the back. Aren’t you good enough to hunt down a man?

Women are easy. They cry and stumble and beg for mercy. What’s the sport in that? You let me out, you won’t be able to catch me. See what you’re really made of.

If Nick could taunt the Butcher into pursuing him, it might give Ashley a real chance to escape. He had to convince her to run in the opposite direction.

And not look back.

The Bitch had told him not to use the cabin anymore in case the cop had told someone where he was headed. She thought she was still running the show.

He didn’t mind sleeping outdoors, though. He had a forty-below sleeping bag, a space blanket, and hot coffee he’d picked up at a gas station after leaving his girl.

It had been difficult to concentrate on her when the damn cop wouldn’t shut up. He’d considered just killing him and getting it over with—he’d kill him eventually, anyway—but the thought of hunting a
cop
excited him. He’d be a tough opponent. He might even try to attack.

But the cop would lose, of course.

I’m at the top of my game.

He’d been thinking for a while about tying up loose ends. The Bitch had told him he couldn’t have Miranda Moore. That would change. The Bitch was no longer in charge.

He’d kill the one who got away. She’d been difficult. Haunted him, even now. When he looked at her picture, it brought bad dreams. He couldn’t fully remember the nightmare, only that he’d awake soaking in sweat, with an image of her slicing open his heart and eating it while he watched.

She would then morph into his mother.

He found his hands pummeling his sleeping bag. He forced himself to calm down. Don’t think about
her.
She was dead. Gone. Good riddance. Why even think of his mother?

It was Miranda.
She
brought back the damn memories. The one who got away.

The Bitch wouldn’t let him kill her, but he didn’t care anymore. If she said anything about it, he’d slice her throat, too.

Maybe he’d do it anyway.

CHAPTER

27

They rocked on her porch swing drinking a glass of wine, watching the shadows and listening to the sounds of night. It almost—
almost
—felt like before. Before she’d left for Quantico and lost her dream.

But had it really been her dream? Or had she been running away from something?

Miranda had been positive that being proactive, working in law enforcement—becoming an FBI agent specifically—would give her the strength she needed to conquer her demons. That if she had the badge, the courage would follow. And her nightmares would fade.

Weeks after her attack, Miranda feared the Butcher would come after her. Kill her in her sleep. Take her back to the middle of nowhere and hunt her again. She’d wake up, a scream caught in her throat, her feet kicking as if running.

That nightmare faded, but others replaced it. Calling out for the women who’d disappeared. Yelling until her voice was hoarse and her feet were weary. Then falling into a bottomless grave. Tumbling down, down . . . until she woke up in a cold sweat.

It wasn’t her physical safety she worried about. It was her state of mind. As long as the Butcher preyed on women, he would control her dreams.

“What if the Butcher isn’t Palmer or Larsen?” she asked Quinn.

“Then we broaden the search. Truck drivers, salesmen—maybe we missed someone in the stack of files from the University. We review every interview, every note, reinterview people. Olivia is working the evidence hard; they’re prioritizing every test. If there’s DNA in a rock, she’ll find it.”

“But we need a suspect’s DNA to compare.”

“I know how hard this is on you.”

“I feel like I should be out there right now. Looking for Ashley. And Nick.”

Her eyes burned and her head ached from staring at the maps and property records, trying to figure out what Nick had seen and where he had gone.

“Honey, I don’t want you getting your hopes up about Nick.” Quinn’s voice cracked; he was as torn up about Nick’s disappearance as she was.

“I can’t help but think he’s alive. Why else would the Butcher plant just his car? If Nick’s dead, why not leave his body, too?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he feared there was evidence that could be gathered from the body. If there was a struggle, some of the assailant’s skin or blood might be found on Nick. Best to dump the body where it can never be found.”

“Then why leave the truck by the side of the road?”

“To distract us. Split our resources. If we’re focusing on finding Nick, we’re not focusing on finding Ashley—and finding Ashley will lead us to the Butcher.” He ran a hand through his hair. “But I’m only guessing. Though the Butcher has never before taunted the police, maybe this is his way of saying he’s smarter than all of us. ‘Look at me, I can kill the sheriff and you can’t catch me.’ ”

Quinn’s phone rang and Miranda tensed. News this late was never good.

He squeezed her hand and didn’t let go. She squeezed back.

“Peterson.”

Miranda was sitting close enough to hear a woman’s voice on the other end.

“It’s Colleen. Toby and I just left Palmer’s place. I’d say there’s a next-to-zero probability that he’s our guy. He drinks his meals. He gets winded walking from the La-Z-Boy to the refrigerator.”

“Shit.”

“I have his employer’s contact info; Palmer says he hasn’t missed a day in weeks. He’s pretty bitter about what happened with his girlfriend, doesn’t like cops, but I think he’s harmless.”

“I trust your instincts. Where are you now?”

“We’re driving to Denver. About two hours to go. In the morning we’re all set to talk to Larsen’s department head. She called me directly, says Larsen is in the field but she can send someone to fetch him.”

“In the field? Doing what?”

“The guy is an expert in—” she paused—“um, falcons, I think. He tracks them, monitors breeding, that sort of thing. The research facility is based in Craig, but Larsen works near the
Dinosaur
National Monument
.”

“Where’s that?”

“I know,” Miranda interrupted.

“Hold on, Colleen.” Quinn turned to her.

“It’s in the northwest corner of
Colorado
. Less than an eight-hour drive to Bozeman. And fully within the boundaries of Professor Austin’s map.”

Miranda couldn’t sleep. She tossed and turned for an hour.

“This is ridiculous,” she muttered to no one as she tossed off her comforter and pulled on her boots.

Quinn had left at midnight after getting a call from Olivia that the preliminary tests confirmed that the soil found in Nick’s truck matched the soil found in the shack where Rebecca had been held. In addition, they extracted a good shoe print—size eleven—from the truck’s floor mats. Nick wore a size twelve.

Quinn had told her to get some sleep. She needed it, and she wanted it, but her mind was spinning. Every time she closed her eyes, she remembered David Larsen’s small photograph from his University file.

It seemed unreal: putting a face to the Butcher. Could it be Larsen? She didn’t know. She’d now seen his face, but she couldn’t definitively say it was
him.