2 - The Hunt

by Allison Brennan

  Miranda didn’t know what awaited her. Would she see the mother she barely remembered? Was it a paradise like her father had told her?

  Or was there nothing?

  Nothing would be better than what she’d endured these last five days. Five? Six days? She’d tried to keep track, but she didn’t know. It may have been longer.

  It was a small room. One step. Two steps. Sharon screamed.

  “Don’t touch me! Don’t touch me!”

  At the rattle of chains, Miranda swallowed her own terror. Hearing Sharon being hurt heightened her fear. Because what happened to Sharon happened to her next.

  “What?” Sharon sounded confused.

  Then Miranda felt her arms being lifted. The clank of metal on metal and suddenly she was untied.

  A faint sliver of hope swelled in her chest.

  He’d had them blindfolded, right? They couldn’t identify him. Would he let them go?

  Were they free?

  Her legs were next.

  “Stand.”

  A one-word command. She tried to stand, but stumbled and collapsed. “I—can’t.” She’d tried to keep her muscles strong through exercises, but she’d been flat on her back for so long her limbs no longer felt connected to her body. Sores ran up and down her back. Cuts had bled and dried.

  “One hour. Use it well.”

  One step, and the door shut. Locked. Five words, the most he’d ever said to them at one time. But the voice remained unfamiliar, a dry monotone. Hollow and empty.

  “He’s going to let us go!” Sharon cried.

  Miranda smelled something over the foul stench of her own body odor. She crawled over to the door, felt around.

  Bread. Water.

  “Sharon,” she said. “Food.”

  Sharon bumped against her and they ate on the ground, huddled over their solitary slice of bread, drinking a small cup of water.

  Miranda reached up and touched her blindfold. She’d almost forgotten it was there, it had become such a part of her.

  The knot was tight and she was weak, but she took it off. Sharon did the same thing.

  She was blind.

  No, it was dark.

  It took several minutes for Miranda to make out faint streams of light coming through knots in the wood of the windowless shack they’d been tied in for days. Sharon grabbed a shirt in the corner. It wasn’t hers; it wasn’t Miranda’s.

  Dear God, had there been someone before them?

  Sharon put it on. “I’m sorry, Randy, I’m sorry. I’m so cold.”

  “It’s okay,” she said.

  Miranda stretched her limbs as best she could, and like a baby learning to walk, pulled herself up using the wall in front of her.

  Slowly, the feeling in her body returned. First tingles, then sharp pain.

  “Work your muscles out, Sharon.”

  “But he’s going to let us go.”

  “We don’t know that. We need to be prepared.”

  “But I can’t.”

  Sharon huddled in the corner, her arms around her legs, rocking.

  “Do it!” Miranda commanded. She didn’t want to yell at her friend, but she realized quickly that she had to be the strong one and take control of the situation. This was their chance to escape. She didn’t know why their captor had untied them, but she would fight to the death before being chained to the floor again.

  Sharon looked mad, but slowly she, too, pulled herself up and walked around the room, which wasn’t more than ten feet by ten feet. Miranda tried the door, shook it with what little strength she had.

  Locked. From the outside.

  They used the hour well, stretching. Walking. And slowly, surprisingly, gathering back some strength.

  Clink clink.

  The door opened and light poured in.

  “Come here.”

  They obeyed, scrambled outside, and Miranda stumbled to the ground.

  Freedom.

  She heard the distinct sound of a round being chambered into a rifle.

  “Run.”

  Miranda looked over her shoulder. The man stood in the shadows, a mask over his face, late-afternoon light reflecting off the barrel of his gun.

  The realization sucker-punched Miranda. He wanted to hunt them.

  “Run. You have two minutes.” He paused. “Run!”

  She ran.

  Miranda awoke with a start.

  Run.

  She’d heard his voice.

  Sweat poured from her body. She sat up and blinked, swallowing a scream, surprised to find her gun in her hand. When had she grabbed it? In her sleep?

  His voice.

  No, it was her nightmare. The damn nightmare. He was in her head, taunting her. She had escaped. She had lived. But Sharon was dead. Shot in the back. And Rebecca, hunted down and killed, her neck sliced open like game.

  Miranda blinked again, her hands shaking as she forced herself to put down the gun. Moonlight cascaded through the skylights, casting blue-gray shadows across her room.

  Her bed was in shambles, the sheets twisted and damp, blankets on the floor. Her flannel pajamas were drenched in her perspiration, the tangible scent of her memories on her skin.

  It wasn’t even two in the morning. Four hours of sleep—she was surprised she’d collapsed so quickly after coming home. But she doubted she’d sleep another minute tonight.

  She showered the sweat of fear off her skin, dressed in jeans, a turtleneck, and her heavy parka since the May nights were still cool, then left for the Lodge, Gray’s famous pecan pie beckoning her.

  She walked in through the side door, which was illuminated by a spotlight. The door was locked, but she had a master key. She crossed the dining hall and was about to enter the kitchen when she heard something.

  She paused, her heart beating almost as fast as it had after her nightmare.

  Scrape. Scrape. Creak. Then silence.

  Tap tap tap.

  Silence.

  Someone was in the kitchen. Though the moonlight illuminated the Lodge through picture windows, no lights were on. If it were a guest, her father, or an employee, they’d have switched on the lights.

  An intruder.

  She reached for the gun she’d stuffed in her fanny pack. She hadn’t left home without a gun for twelve years. Cautious but determined, she approached the main kitchen door.

  Tap tap scrape.

  Bracing herself just inside the door, she reached for the light switch with her left hand while holding her right arm—the one with the gun—steady in front of her.

  She mentally counted to three, then hit the switch and cocked her revolver.

  A tall, half-naked man spun around, a fork toppling off his plate onto the floor.

  “Shit, Miranda! Put the gun down.”

  She did, as her mouth fell open. No words came out.

  The last person she expected to see creeping around the kitchen was Quinn Peterson.

  CHAPTER

  14

  Miranda stuffed the gun back into the waistband of her jeans and stared at Quinn. “What are you doing here?”

  “I called your dad from the road and he had a room. I didn’t think we’d run into each other. I figured I’d maybe be here four, five hours sleeping.” He put his plate down on the table. Pecan pie. Her pecan pie.

  “That had better not be the last piece of pie,” Miranda mumbled. Why had she said that? She’d meant to tell him to get the hell off her property.

  He smiled, and Miranda blinked. She kept forgetting how good-looking Quinn really was. When she’d seen him the other day, she was so filled with rage and sadness and conflicting emotions she didn’t dwell on his appearance. But seeing him now, his lean, tanned chest bare, his muscles clearly defined even though he was at ease, the scar on his upper right shoulder from a gunshot wound early in his career—it brought back memories. Good memories. Of waking up with Quinn and kissing that hard chest. And his hands—he had the most incredible hands. Large hands, callused palms, with surpris
ingly elegant fingers. Very talented fingers . . .

  She glanced down to where a narrow trail of dark blond hair disappeared beneath the waistband of his gray sweats. She quickly averted her gaze, already feeling flushed from the adrenaline released when she’d thought he was an intruder.

  Having Quinn here, in her kitchen, without the security of work, jerked the rug out from under her. He’d invaded her town, her investigation, and now her home. She hadn’t thought about that day at Quantico—consciously—in years, and wham! The dam broke and she could think of nothing but.

  She had no idea what he’d done in the last ten years. He could be married for all she knew. That thought disturbed her and she frowned. Brushing past him, she went to the cupboard where Gray kept his pies.

  Sure enough, there was half a pecan pie sitting there, calling her name. She couldn’t help but smile.

  She took her time cutting a slice, feeling Quinn’s eyes burrowing into her back. She really didn’t want to sit down and talk to him. Outside of the Lodge, in the woods, with Nick and the others around—that was one thing. But here, alone? No. It reminded her of their former intimacy. Reminded her how she once loved him. Reminded her of what could have been.

  But she couldn’t keep her back to him forever. She put her pie on the table, then crossed over to the large, walk-in refrigerator and retrieved a gallon of milk. She set it on the table, along with two glasses. She poured one for herself and one for Quinn, then sat across from him.

  “Thanks,” he said. His dark eyes were unreadable. What was he thinking? About her? About them?

  She drank her milk, then dug into her pie. If her mouth was full she wouldn’t talk, wouldn’t say something stupid.

  He continued to watch her.

  She resisted the urge to squirm. During the past several years she’d regained control over her life, built a sense of relative peace. She had a job she loved, a job that did some good, even if she hadn’t been able to find Rebecca before she was killed.

  She had a few good friends. Nick. She still kept in touch with Rowan and Olivia, though she hadn’t actually seen them in years. They e-mailed and talked on the phone, but for Miranda it was hard to get away. Impossible. She couldn’t just up and leave Montana when he was still out there.

  She loved Rowan and Liv like sisters, but how could she abandon those who needed her? Particularly the dead. Rowan and Liv understood that—they might be the only people who did.

  “I should have told you I was staying here,” Quinn said, breaking the silence.

  She looked up from her pie. She noted he’d taken the bandage off his forehead. A thin, dark red scab remained, a reminder of his last assignment. She wanted to ask him about it, but didn’t. She didn’t want to care.

  His firm, set jaw reminded her of his strength. He had been steadfast when she first met him. Resolved to find Sharon’s killer. She’d helped him because she needed to do something to find the bastard who hurt her and killed Sharon. And then she’d fallen in love.

  It didn’t happen overnight. Time to heal, time to get beyond the pain—Quinn gave her everything she needed and more.

  Then he ripped it all away.

  “The techs preserved everything they could at the shack, and it’s headed out to Helena tomorrow. I decided to call Olivia and ask her to oversee the laboratory tests.”

  “Liv? She’s coming here?”

  “To Helena, if she can get away.” He grinned. “Sometimes, threatening to take over an investigation will light some fires. They’d much rather take care of the tests themselves, even with a Fed looking over their shoulder, than have everything shipped to Virginia.”

  “Whatever it takes,” Miranda said, with little hope. Even Olivia, who loved her job and excelled at it, couldn’t find a clue where none existed. The climate and conditions destroyed any usable evidence.

  “He’ll make a mistake,” Quinn said with confidence.

  “Right.” She didn’t believe it.

  “He might have already.”

  Her heart beat faster. “Why do you think that?”

  “Penny Thompson.”

  “Why bring her up? Her murder was three years old when we found her body.” What remained of it.

  “I’m pulling all the University files again. Remember Vigo, the FBI profiler? He insists the killer knew his first victim personally. We spent so much time twelve years ago investigating the associations of you and Sharon that by the time we learned Penny was the first victim, going back to her associations—then three years old—yielded us nothing. Her boyfriend, the guy the sheriff thought responsible for Penny’s disappearance, had an airtight alibi during Sharon’s murder.”

  Quinn added, “We’re going to focus on the parts of Vigo’s profile that would help narrow the list even more after so many years have passed—that the killer would remain single, would now be over thirty-five, that he has a flexible job, is physically fit, and has family in the area, or still lives here. It’s worth a shot.”

  “It’s a long shot,” she said, she became a little excited. There would be hundreds of records to pore through and investigate, hundreds of men who on the surface fit the profile. But time would have weeded out many potential suspects, those who’d married, who’d moved out of the country, whose jobs were high-profile and inflexible. If they could narrow the list they would be able to dig deeper into those potential suspects and, with any luck, come up with a handful to interview. Maybe even get a warrant to search a car or house, especially if one of the suspects didn’t have an alibi for the time of Rebecca’s murder.

  Maybe there was hope that justice would win. Just a little. But she would hold tight to it.

  “Right now, it’s all we have.” Quinn paused, then said in a low voice, “Miranda?”

  She looked into his eyes, eyes that could melt her or anger her, eyes that reflected love or frustration.

  It had been so long, she no longer knew how to read Quinn. He had changed. So had she.

  His eyes were warm. The lids lowered almost imperceptibly. His face softened and he leaned forward just an inch. “You’ve lost weight,” he said, his voice low.

  “I know.” She simply didn’t think about eating when she was out on a search.

  “You’re still beautiful.”

  Her breath caught. Was that her heart fluttering? How could he still affect her so profoundly? After all these years, he remained part of her. An important part. He’d helped make her who she was today, both the good and the bad. Without him, she didn’t know if she’d have been able to survive the darkest days, weeks, months after the attack. He’d been her rock, her salvation. Steady and sure, she’d fallen in love with him as much as for who he was as for what he did for her.

  That he had such little faith in her after knowing her so intimately tore her up inside.

  As if he’d read her mind, he asked softly, “Why didn’t you come back to Quantico?”

  What could she say to that? She didn’t completely understand it herself. Except that his lack of faith and trust in her hurt more than the psychology test that said she had a problem with obsession.

  “If I’m obsessive, a year wouldn’t change it,” she finally said.

  “A year can make all the difference in the world.”

  “It had been two years, Quinn.” Two years since her life was irrevocably linked with a killer.

  He nodded, leaned back in his chair and fiddled with his fork. “I know.”

  They stared at each other. Quinn looked as lost and confused as she felt.

  “I’m sorry I hurt you,” he said suddenly.

  She swallowed back tears. How could such a simple apology hit her so hard?

  Because she knew it wasn’t just Quinn. She was obsessive. There was her intense focus on the search—she’d put everything in her life on hold while looking for Rebecca. Her friends and family took second place to her job, whether it was finding a missing woman abducted by the Butcher or a lost child who’d wandered away from his campgr
ound. Nothing mattered to her except the search.

  She wanted to rescue someone. While she’d had success finding lost campers, any woman the Butcher got was as good as dead. She desperately longed for a happy ending, but everywhere she looked there was sorrow and pain. Maybe that was simply a reflection of her own guilt.

  If her reaction at the cabin was any indication, she’d never fully recovered from the attack twelve years ago. She would always be claustrophobic in small rooms. Windowless rooms. That’s why she had skylights throughout her house and directly above her bed. She had to see the sky no matter which direction she looked.

  But even the big sky couldn’t stop Sharon’s cries and the low, cruel monotone of the faceless killer every time Miranda closed her eyes.

  “I should have returned to Quantico.” She had never said that out loud before. It surprised her. She licked her lips. “I was just so damn hu—” She was going to say hurt. No. She wasn’t ready to tell Quinn that. She couldn’t tell him. “Angry,” she corrected. “Blinded by anger, I suppose. And by the time the year was up, I was on Search and Rescue and I really liked it. I fit in. It’s—I suppose it’s what I’m cut out to do.”

  “You would have made a damn good agent,” he said, his voice gravelly.

  Her heart skipped a beat. She wondered what he would do if she kissed him.

  The stray thought startled her and she leaned back, her hands clammy. A good agent? Yeah, she knew it. A damn good agent.

  One year. A year! She’d waited more than two years after the Butcher killed Sharon, restless, taking extra classes, working at the Lodge, learning self-defense. Anything and everything so she’d never feel vulnerable again.

  When she walked out of Quantico ten years ago, she’d never felt more lost. She knew then she would never go back.

  “Thanks.” Her voice cracked. She wanted to yell at him, rage at the injustice of what he’d done—regardless of the reasons. Maybe there was a hint of truth in what he’d said, something she had done that indicated she might not be able to handle the job.

  She focused on her pie and milk. Quinn did the same. The silence was both comfortable and awkward—she wanted to know what he was really thinking, but didn’t have the guts to ask. She wanted to tell him she’d never forgive him, yet she wanted to extend an olive branch at the same time. The conflicting emotions weighed heavily on her heart and mind.