The Hunt (2 page)

He glanced down at the outline of Rebecca Douglas. At least she would have a proper burial. Closure for her family. But not for him.

He thought of Miranda.

He started toward his truck. He’d already put in the call for all available law enforcement to head to this location. Then he heard the unique but familiar sound of a Jeep bouncing over the rough trail. He didn’t need to see the vehicle to know who approached.

“Damn.”

The red Jeep jerked to a stop behind Peterson’s rental. Almost before the truck halted, Miranda Moore jumped out, the mud no match for her heavy boots and confident stride. Deputy Booker approached her, and she glared at him without stopping as she pulled a red down-filled vest over her black flannel shirt. In any other situation, Nick would have grinned at the way Booker backed off.

Then she focused her sharp blue eyes on him.

His heart quickened and his stomach lurched. If only he’d had more time to prepare for her inevitable arrival. If he’d been warned she was on her way, he could have steeled himself for the confrontation.

“Miranda,” he said as she approached, “I—”

“Damn you, Nick!” She poked a finger at his chest. “Damn you!” Nothing intimidated Miranda. Though she was tall for a woman—at least five-foot-nine—he had six inches and a hundred pounds on her. You’d think he’d intimidate her, that any man would frighten her after what she’d gone through, but he guessed he shouldn’t be surprised. She was a survivor. She didn’t expose her fear.

“Miranda, I was going to call you. I didn’t know for certain it was Rebecca. I didn’t want you to have to go through it again.”

Her darkening eyes told him she didn’t believe him. “Screw that. Screw
you
! You
promised
you’d call.” She brushed past him and strode over to the tarp, staring at the covered body. Her fists clenched, her shoulders reverberated in tension.

Nick wanted to stop her, to protect her from seeing another dead girl. Most of all, he wanted to protect her from herself.

And she’d always been perfectly clear that she didn’t want Nick’s protection.

Miranda worked to control her temper. She shouldn’t have yelled at Nick, but dammit! He’d
promised.
For seven days she’d been searching for Rebecca, the nightmares destroying the few hours of sleep she allowed herself. He’d promised she’d be the first to know when they found her.

Neither she nor Nick had expected to find Rebecca alive.

She stared at the sunny tarp in the middle of the quiet earth tones of the land and inhaled sharply, her throat raw with hot anger and unwanted ice-cold fear. Her fists squeezed into tight balls, her nails digging into her palms. She knew it was Rebecca Douglas. But she had to see for herself, force herself to look at the Butcher’s latest victim. For strength, for courage.

For vengeance.

She pulled latex gloves over her long fingers, knelt beside the still woman, and fingered the edge of the tarp. “Rebecca,” she said, her voice a whisper, “you’re not alone. I promise you I’ll find him. He’ll pay for what he did to you.”

She swallowed, hesitated, then drew back the tarp to reveal the girl she’d been searching for, twenty hours a day for the last week.

At first, Miranda didn’t see the swollen face, the slit throat, or the many cuts washed clean by the rain. The image of the twenty-year-old in Miranda’s mind was beautiful, as she had been when she was alive.

Rebecca had a contagious laugh, according to her best friend, Candi. Rebecca cared about those less fortunate and volunteered one night a week reading to the infirm at Deaconess, according to her career counselor, Ron Owens. A straight-A student, Rebecca had wanted to be a veterinarian, according to her biology teacher, Greg Marsh.

Rebecca hadn’t been perfect. But no one had shared the less attractive stories while she’d been missing.

No one would ever repeat them now that she was dead.

As Miranda watched, the image of Rebecca she’d held so close to her heart during the hours and hours of searching morphed into the broken body before her.

“You’re free,” she told her. “Free at last.”

Sharon
. I’m so sorry.

“No one can hurt you anymore.”

She reached over and touched Rebecca’s hair, brushed a matted piece to the side, cupped her cheek.

Stay in control.

She repeated her mantra. How many times would she have to go through this? How many dead girls would they bury? She’d thought it would get easier. But if she didn’t keep her emotions tight and protected, she feared she’d collapse under the enormity of the Butcher’s continued success—and her own failure to stop him.

She eased the tarp over Rebecca’s face, hating to do it. The act of covering the body reminded Miranda of the other dead girls they’d found. Of Sharon.

The morning Miranda led them to Sharon’s body was so cold she shivered constantly under the half-dozen layers of clothing she wore. She’d wanted to return the day after she’d been rescued, but she hadn’t been allowed to leave the hospital. When she tried walking on her own, her damaged feet had failed her.

She’d been too numb to cry, too tired to argue. She mapped out the location as best she could remember, but the search team couldn’t find Sharon.

Miranda couldn’t bear the thought of her friend’s body exposed for yet another night. Leaving her to the grizzlies and cougars and vultures. So the following morning she withstood the pain in her legs and led the search team and law enforcement back to where Sharon lay. She had to see her one last time.

She might have been in shock; that’s what the doctors said. But she walked with help. She knew where Sharon had fallen, would never forget it. She brought them to the spot, and there Sharon lay. Exactly how she’d fallen when the killer shot her.

Silence filled the air, birds and animals mourning with the humans. Even the spring wind held its breath; not one leaf rustled as everyone finally grasped exactly what had happened to Miranda and Sharon.

The sudden cry of a hawk split the stillness, and the wind gently blew.

The medic covered Sharon’s body with a bright green plastic tarp while the sheriff’s team started searching for evidence. Miranda couldn’t stop staring at the tarp. Sharon was dead underneath it, reduced to a lump under a sheet of plastic. So wrong, so inhuman!

It was then that Miranda had first broken down and cried.

An FBI agent carried her the three miles back to the road. His name was Quincy Peterson.

CHAPTER

2

When he saw Miranda, Quinn stopped in his tracks. His breath hitched in his chest and he sidestepped behind a thicker shelter of trees so she wouldn’t spot him.

Ten years had passed since he’d last seen her, but the impact was the same. First, a mixture of awe and respect—he had yet to meet a person with greater resolve than Miranda. Next came love and pride, followed quickly by anger and frustration. So entwined. He couldn’t turn off his emotions like a faucet; how could she have shut him out so easily? How could she have walked away from their relationship without giving him a chance to explain?

He still had hope she would be able to put aside her blinding obsession with the Butcher and come back. But that hope had diminished with the passage of time. Now, he feared she would kill herself through neglect of her own needs.

Her back was to Nick; only Quinn could see the agony etched on her face.

As he watched, Miranda closed her eyes and shook her head, as if to rid herself of a nightmare. Or a memory. She pushed herself up from the ground, wiped her eyes with her forearm, and walked around to the dead woman’s feet. She stared at Rebecca’s covered body for a good minute before bending down and lifting the corner of the tarp.

Quinn didn’t have to be standing at her side to know what Miranda was staring at. Rebecca’s feet and legs, caked in mud from running. The broken leg. The evidence of her flight.

“How long?”

Even from his vantage point fifty feet away, Quinn heard the anger and pain in her voice. She whirled around and glared at Nick. Her jaw tightened as she struggled to control the pain.

Always, the control. It was a miracle she hadn’t had a nervous breakdown with the weight of the world carried on her shoulders.

“Eight, ten hours?”

Quinn didn’t hear Nick’s response, but Miranda’s guess was probably accurate.

“Dammit, Nick! He had her for eight days. She almost got free. We’re only a few miles from the damn road. Four miles and she broke her leg. And, and he, he—” She stopped and turned away from Nick.

Watching Miranda wrestle with her control, Quinn felt uncomfortably like a voyeur. He yearned to go to her, take her in his arms as he’d done before, to just hold her. He hadn’t told her everything would be all right. He’d never told her the pain would be bearable. Quinn was just
there.
And for two years, just being by her side helped her regain her life and her strength. He knew it had.

But it hadn’t been enough.

“Doc Abrams is on his way,” Nick said. “He’ll be able to tell us more.”

“You promised, Nick.” She peeled off her latex gloves and shoved them into a pocket. Pinching the bridge of her nose, she approached the sheriff.

Quinn couldn’t avoid Miranda any longer, but he dreaded the meeting.

“Don’t try to protect me, Nick,” she said as Quinn came up behind her.

“Don’t blame Nick, Miranda. I told him not to call you.”

Miranda heard the familiar voice: low, warm, as smooth as melting butter.

Miranda’s heart doubled, tripled its beat. For a moment, for much too long a moment, she couldn’t say a word. She had dreamt of that voice and the man who possessed it. She spun around.

Quinn Peterson.

For a second, a brief moment, she forgot everything that had happened between them ten years ago and felt the ghost of his arms wrapped around her, the soothing murmurings he’d whispered in her ear.

The only time she’d felt truly safe since the attack had been in Quinn’s embrace.

He had changed—and yet he’d stayed the same. A few random strands of silver shot through his sandy hair. It fell just a little too long across the top, partly covering a bandage above his eye. His dark eyes still saw everything, but now faint lines fanned their edges. He was still physically fit, dressed too well for the
Montana
woods, and she could still taste his lips on hers, though they hadn’t seen each other for a decade.

She hated the memories that rained down on her, hated even more that seeing Quinn Peterson reminded her of her worst failings at a time when she needed all her strength and courage.

“How dare you!” She berated herself for the quiver in her voice.

“I know you enjoy torturing yourself, Miranda, but I didn’t want to witness it.” Quinn came closer, standing a mere foot from her. She resisted the urge to step back. She would
not
back down. Not this time.

A tic pulsed in Quinn’s jaw. She remembered it well from when he was angry. Or worried.

“What are you doing here?” Her voice was stronger, but she didn’t trust herself to say more.

“I called him,” Nick said.

She turned to face her best friend. “You?”

Nick straightened enough to show he was uncomfortable. “I’ve been keeping Quinn informed since I became sheriff,” Nick said. “I need him and his resources.”

“You’ve been working with
him
for—” She thought back to when Nick had first been elected sheriff and threw her hands up in the air. “
Three years!
And didn’t let me know? How could you? I thought you of all people understood.”

“Miranda, I want this bastard almost as much as you do.”

Quinn interrupted. “I’m here to catch a killer. I shouldn’t have to tell you the FBI’s resources are greater than Nick’s department’s. If you have a problem with that, you can leave.”

Quinn’s intense dark eyes cut through her defenses with the precision of a laser. She grew uneasy from the scrutiny. Cataloging her fear, her insecurities. Waiting for her to crack, to break. She would
not
let him see her weak. Could not let him see her fall apart. Too many times in the past she’d gone to him for strength, support. She’d cried in his arms, told him everything she thought and felt and believed.

He’d used it all against her when he kicked her out of the Academy.

She had plenty of time to break down later. Tonight. When she was alone.

“I know this area better than every deputy in the department,” Miranda said, her voice cracking as she fought to keep her temper and emotions in check. With one deep, probing look, Quinn had reduced her to raw nerves.

She turned her attention back to Nick, gathered her strength. “You’re going to be searching for evidence and bringing in volunteers. You need me, and I need to be here. I need to look. I’ll see things no one else will see. I’ll—”

“Stop.” Quinn closed the short distance between them, putting a hand on her shoulder. She stared at it, wanting both to slap it away and fall into his arms.