Authors: Allison Brennan
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Suspense, #Thrillers, #General
The Hunt (9 page)
They stared at each other. Miranda detested how he scrutinized her with his intelligent eyes, as if he could read her mind, see clear down to her damaged soul. She straightened her back and didn’t waver from his gaze.
“Since you have professional experience in search and rescue, you’re an asset,” he continued, “for now. But if I think for one minute that you are behaving in any way that is unprofessional or could jeopardize this investigation, I will have you pulled.”
Her jaw worked, itching to respond, but instead she turned away to control her unsettled feelings. It wasn’t his threat that bothered her—it hurt to realize he still believed that she would fall apart. For years, she’d harbored that same, almost crippling fear every waking moment. She pictured herself falling apart each night when she closed her eyes.
But she persevered. She’d made it ten years without collapsing under the weight of her fears; she couldn’t let his doubts weaken her resolve.
She wanted to share her struggles, but feared he would use her confidences against her as an excuse to take her off the investigation. Everything she’d told him before Quantico had been used against her, all her fears and insecurities and overwhelming need to right wrongs had forced him to expel her from the Academy. She had learned her lesson. She wouldn’t give him any ammunition now that might be used against her later.
She kept her mouth shut. She hadn’t broken twelve years ago, and she damn well wasn’t going to break today.
“Very well, Agent Peterson,” she said formally. She started down the path, focusing on the ground and the shrubs, concentrating on Rebecca. She heard Quinn fall into step with her, taking the right. He muttered something, but she couldn’t make out the words.
She hoped she’d pissed him off.
They proceeded carefully. Miranda kept the map. They spoke only to point out potential evidence, and Quinn photographed and tagged anything even remotely relevant.
About a mile from the ridge where Rebecca had been found, Quinn pointed to four deep impressions in the mud. “She fell here,” he said as he photographed the spot.
Miranda stared at the holes, seeing Rebecca’s naked body shaking with cold and panic. And hope. Because without hope, she wouldn’t have run.
Miranda closed her eyes. If she were alone, she would have gone back in time and remembered the many times she had fallen. Each time she questioned her ability to get up. Each time, she rose because she hoped she could make it.
“Miranda,” Quinn said quietly.
She quickly opened her eyes. Quinn of all people couldn’t witness her reliving the past. He knew too much about her, what she’d gone through; ultimately, she felt that had been the reason he’d kicked her out of the
She had to keep her fear to herself.
“It was raining,” she said, coughing to cover up any emotion that might creep into her voice. The overgrown path was even denser here, though it was obvious someone had run through. The moist branches didn’t break easily, but there were a few hanging at a forty-five-degree angle, and several small plants and saplings had been trampled.
“Because it was raining,” she continued before Quinn could interrupt her contemplation, “he had to follow her from behind. The noise of the storm would have made listening for her difficult, so he wouldn’t have strayed far from her path.” Unlike his pursuit of her and Sharon, she thought. He’d run parallel to them most of the time.
“You’re probably right,” Quinn said, looking at her with an odd expression.
She didn’t want to read anything into it, good or bad, so she turned to her map. She made a very small red mark where Rebecca had fallen. “Look at this terrain,” she said, her voice becoming excited in spite of the company.
Quinn looked over her shoulder and she tried not to breathe in his still-familiar, all-too-masculine scent. “This spot? This is a mountain.”
“Yes, but here,” she pointed, “is a clearing. This area was logged years ago, but they planted new growth. Maybe eight, ten years. These trees will still be relatively small. Because this trail goes to this clearing, I think she came from there. But she twisted around and around, not running straight. Too scared. Not thinking rationally.” She shook her head, tried to rid her mind of Rebecca’s fear. “But we can cut through here and get to the clearing in less than thirty minutes.”
“No,” Quinn said, shaking his head. “We stay on the path Rebecca took. We’re looking for evidence.”
She clenched her hands in frustration and turned to face him. “We can return along the path she took, but I just
know
she ran through the clearing. That’s how he kept her in sight. With the rain and poor visibility, he couldn’t risk giving her too much lead time. And the ground would have hampered Rebecca more than him because she was weak, barefoot.”
Miranda’s excitement grew as everything suddenly became clear to her. “She didn’t run long. She couldn’t have. He wouldn’t have risked it, not when it was getting dark and the rain was heavy. Which means the cabin is nearby. It has to be!”
Quinn stared at her for a long moment. Would he disagree with her? She couldn’t believe it. She knew this land like the back of her hand, understood how the Butcher thought. How he lived for the hunt more than the rape. Yet he’d never given any of them a lot of lead time. Two minutes. He’d told her and Sharon
two minutes
and then they were fair game.
She was about to demand that Quinn come up with a better plan, relying on her experience and training to argue her point, when he said, “All right.”
Before he could change his mind, she smiled and said, “Follow me.” She stepped off the narrow trail and cut through thicker trees and growth.
Quinn’s training told him Miranda was probably right. It was a good call and confirmed that—as least as far as the search was concerned—Miranda would be more help than hindrance.
The air was cooler, more humid, and darker in the middle of the forest. The dank smell from the recent storm made Quinn think of life and death, as if the forest had been reborn in the wash of the rain.
If they found the cabin Rebecca was kept in, they might find evidence to lead them to the Butcher. He’d been too elusive for years, no pattern to the abductions, except that he hit during spring. April. May. June.
Twelve years ago they hadn’t recognized a pattern. When Miranda and Sharon were abducted, the time of year didn’t seem to hold any significance. But when Quinn’s partner Colleen Thorne investigated the Denver sisters’ abduction three years ago, the spring pattern seemed obvious. Every known Butcher victim had disappeared in the spring.
They’d consulted with Hans Vigo, the FBI’s key profiler, who said either the season held special significance to the killer or something in his job or personal life prevented him from killing the rest of the year.
Or, it could simply be convenience.
But the key to the psychology of this particular serial killer, Vigo said, was that he needed total control. When Quinn questioned why he gave up the control to give the women lead time to escape, Vigo reminded him that the women had no control. They were naked, injured, weak from minimal food and water, and the two-minute lead time was a ruse. He could easily catch up to them, staying back just far enough so they thought they could get away, and when he tired of the hunt, he’d move in for the kill.
“This is the only aspect of his life that he has control of,” Vigo said. “Remember that. When you find him, you’ll learn he has no control over his life or his job.”
For example, Vigo said, as a child the killer would have been subject to a domineering, abusive parent. The abuse was likely both physical and mental, and if he fought back, the punishment for his disobedience would have been severe. He likely was restrained in some manner as a child, either locked in a small room or tied up.
He’d have a job that didn’t necessitate a lot of contact with the public. On the surface he would be able to function normally and there wouldn’t be any indication of the evil that lurks in his soul, but he wouldn’t do well in situations where he had constant communication with people.
The Butcher wouldn’t have a lot of control over his career, but that was largely of his own making. He would be relegated to low-level employment because of his inability to associate with people on a day-to-day basis. He might have a rote position, such as in a factory where he repeats the same tasks, leading to frustration because he has above-average intelligence. He could very well work outdoors—in construction for example, moving from job site to job site and not developing any close relationships with fellow workers.
They’d never had a suspect. Every time an MSU woman disappeared, her boyfriends, ex-boyfriends, and college professors were interviewed and dismissed as viable suspects. The killer was someone of above-average physical strength, great patience, and superior knowledge of the wilderness between Bozeman and the northern boundary of
No one they’d interviewed fit that profile.
Quinn admired Miranda’s thought process. But of course, he’d never doubted her intelligence. She used a combination of common sense, knowledge, and instinct that guided her in the right direction most of the time.
He bit his tongue, loath to admit he still had feelings for Miranda. Hell, he thought about her all the time. In his weakest hours, the time between midnight and dawn, when his resolve to put her aside wavered and he remembered how she looked, how she tasted, how she smiled at him when he held her.
He didn’t know when he’d fallen in love with her. When he’d visited that first Saturday after the Butcher investigation fell apart for lack of evidence, he knew he’d be coming back to
Even now, ten years later, he realized he’d never severed what united them. He was still drawn to Miranda. Why had he recommended her to the Academy in the first place? If he’d only encouraged her to wait, to give her career choices more time to develop, to think about what she truly wanted, everything that came after would have been avoided. He wouldn’t have had to hurt her.
And maybe they would still be together.
He’d believed for the longest time that she would come back to him. Their love, he thought, was unbreakable.
He was wrong. She’d never sought him out, never tried to listen to his reasons, and instead she’d turned to Nick.
Quinn shook off his frustrations. No sense thinking about the if-onlys and what-might-have-beens. He made the most difficult decision in his life ten years ago; he now had to live with the consequences.
He allowed Miranda to lead, not admitting he felt a little out of sorts unable to see the sky. Shadows surrounded them, making it difficult to know in which direction they were headed. He was almost certain they were still moving northeast. But “almost” could get them lost.
He had to trust that Miranda knew how to get them out of here.
Forty minutes passed and Quinn was ready to turn back when suddenly they stepped into a clearing, the sun a welcome sight.
Ponderosa pines, thirty to forty feet tall, grew evenly spaced as far as he could see. Miranda’s excitement was palpable.
“Follow me,” she said, gesturing impatiently. “We’ll find the entrance to the path and backtrack.”
They skirted the edge of the clearing, and about two hundred feet away they found it.
Quinn bent to examine the deep impression in the soil. The long gouge in the earth testified that Rebecca had fallen to her knees. A small sapling was bent. Had she pulled herself up?
Now he knew the killer had come this way. The growth was too thick to effectively track his victim unless he had used the same path she did. He photographed the evidence, then glanced up.
Miranda was gone.
7
The hair rose on the back of Quinn’s neck. Where was Miranda?
He called out her name. He stood, looking for her, pulling his Sig Sauer from his holster, braced for anything that might happen.
Had the killer returned? To watch the investigation? His heart beat double time. If that bastard touched her— He clamped down on his emotions, focused his energy on finding Miranda. He prepared to call in reinforcements.
“Miranda!” he called again, louder. A command to respond.
“Over here.” Her voice was faint. He spotted her nearly a football-field length away, down the slope, in the middle of the clearing.
He sighed, frustrated and relieved. Keeping her reined in seemed an impossible task. He hoped Nick knew what he was doing.