2 - The Hunt

by Allison Brennan

  But Miranda caught all of this from the periphery. She focused on the University photographs of the four men. In her mind, she imagined each of them shooting Sharon in the back. She couldn’t rid her mind of the image of each of them tying her down, raping her. Then feeding her bread and water like she was a wounded bird.

  She didn’t want to go back, but she was already there. She tried to steel herself for the pain, but it came crashing through, her barriers shattered.

  Deep down, she wanted to go home and let Quinn do his job. What did she think she could do here? She worked for the Sheriff’s Department, but she wasn’t a cop. She searched for people. Sometimes, she found them. But she’d never forget all the women she’d never found, or the ones she’d discovered too late.

  But if she hid under her warm comforter, the Butcher would still be out there. Ashley van Auden would still be strapped to the ground, cold and in pain, certain she was going to die and that no one cared, no one would save her. Nick would still be missing. Was he dead? Please, no.

  But how could he be alive? Why would the Butcher keep him alive? He wouldn’t. He’d kill him and dump his body. They might not find him until after they caught the Butcher.

  She’d always wondered whether she’d be able to face the man who attacked her. After all these years, the nightmares, and the sacrifices, perhaps at last she was on the verge of finding out.

  “Let’s go,” Quinn said to Miranda.

  She looked up. She hadn’t noticed the room had cleared out, or that Quinn was standing in front of her.

  “Where?”

  “The University. To talk to Mitch Groggins.” He glanced at his watch. “I just talked to the cafeteria supervisor. He’s there until nine in the evening. We should be able to catch him.”

  “Me?” She blinked. He didn’t actually mean for her to go with him? To be only feet from the man who might be the Butcher?

  Quinn stared at her. His face was blank, but his eyes questioned. “Weren’t you paying attention for the last ten minutes?”

  “I guess—my mind wandered. I don’t know how good I’d be to you.”

  She wanted to go, desperately wanted to face each of the four men and have them speak. Close her eyes and listen to the cadence of his voice. She would know which man was the Butcher because she’d heard his voice in her nightmares.

  This could be it—if Mitch Groggins was the Butcher, they’d have him behind bars today. Why was she hesitating?

  Quinn sat beside her, took her hands. They were alone; everyone else had gone off on their assignments. Miranda didn’t want to feel so inadequate, so scared, but couldn’t help it.

  “You’re shaking,” Quinn said quietly.

  “What if Groggins is him? I—” She paused. “Maybe you were right all along.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “About me. I’m not cut out to be an FBI agent. I don’t know if I can face him and not either scream or scratch his eyes out. I always thought once I knew who the Butcher was, once he was behind bars, I could stand there and spit in his face and tell him he was going to be injected with poison, that he would die and go to hell. And somehow, that would make me feel whole again.”

  “Miranda, I—”

  “But,” she interrupted, not wanting to hear excuses or little white lies to make her feel better, “now that we are actually getting close, that I believe for the first time in twelve years that we are going to stop him, I don’t know if I can look him in the eye knowing what he did to me.” Her voice cracked, and she turned away from Quinn. “You were right to have me booted from the Academy.”

  Quinn touched her chin, forced her to look at him. She blinked back tears, expecting to see I told you so written all over his face. Instead, his jaw clenched and his eyes flashed in anger.

  “You can handle anything, Miranda. I never doubted your strength, I never doubted your ability. You would have made a great FBI agent—I just felt at the time that you wanted it for the wrong reasons. That you never would have been content to head down to Florida and work bank robberies, or political corruption in D.C. I thought that you would only have been satisfied as the permanent agent here, in Montana, working this investigation.

  “I wanted you to take a year to really think about what you needed in your career. You were so positive you could find the Butcher once you had a badge. Your choices were all about him, not about you. I was so proud of what you’d accomplished at the Academy. You should be proud. Not only were you an exceptional student there, you’ve been an outstanding asset to the Sheriff’s Department here.”

  “Everything I’ve done, everything I’ve become, is because of him. I don’t know who I am.” Miranda tried to turn away, but Quinn didn’t let her.

  I never stopped loving you.

  She didn’t deserve Quinn. For ten years she’d blamed him for what happened at the Academy when all she had to do was look into a mirror to stare at the guilty party.

  Quinn’s eyes swam with emotion. “I know who you are, Miranda. And I’ve never admired anyone more than you.”

  “I don’t—”

  “We have to go. You can do this. I’ll be there with you. I will never let him hurt you again.”

  She found herself nodding. She didn’t know if she believed him, but he had faith in her.

  She vowed not to disappoint him. Or herself.

  Mitch Groggins wasn’t the Butcher.

  While he was the general height of her attacker—which Miranda had loosely guessed at between five eleven and six two, along with half the male population over eighteen—he was skinny. He didn’t have the same build.

  Yet, it had been twelve years since she’d seen his silhouette.

  As soon as she heard his voice, the whiny, nasal tone, she knew beyond a doubt he wasn’t the Butcher. She didn’t know whether to be relieved or scared.

  But she’d done it. She’d faced a suspect and hadn’t screamed or shot him. She’d been terrified, but she’d faced him and felt stronger for it even though Groggins was innocent.

  Quinn grew worried about Miranda as he drove her Jeep back to the Lodge. She didn’t have to tell him she was worn out, physically and emotionally. Preparing herself to face Groggins as the Butcher, then realizing it wasn’t him, had drained her. He wished he could gather her up and hold her, help her find her strength.

  Her courage was there, he knew. He hoped she realized it. Facing Groggins was the first step.

  The police in St. George, Utah, called his cell phone when they were halfway to the Lodge. They’d spoken to the construction company owner, Younger, and he was belligerent. But the fact he was in southern Utah at present put him at the bottom of the list, if not completely off it. He claimed he was at his office all day, and the local police were following up on his alibi.

  The only way Younger could have made it back to Utah from Montana in the seven hours since Nick’s truck had been discovered would be to fly. Quinn called the Bureau and had someone work on flights in and out of Las Vegas, the closest major airport to St. George, as well as the private airports in the area.

  He checked in with Colleen Thorne, his on-again, off-again partner, who was already in Grand Junction on her way to see Palmer, Penny Thompson’s boyfriend at the time of her disappearance.

  “Palmer’s now at the top of the list,” he said when she picked up her phone. He filled her in on Groggins and Younger. “Proceed with caution.”

  “Will do, but don’t you think if he’s the Butcher he won’t be home?”

  “It’s not that far from Grand Junction to Bozeman. Ten hours, maybe. He could return to throw suspicion off. But if he’s not there, we’ll put an APB out on him for questioning.”

  “I’ll let you know. We’re almost to his house. I also spoke to the president at the university in Denver,” she said.

  “And?”

  “He’s more than happy to help. He’s contacting the head of the wildlife biology department to find out what projects Larsen is assigned to, and we shou
ld be able to talk to both the director and Larsen tomorrow morning. It was after hours, so it took a little time to track them down. But I have Larsen’s address—he has a small apartment near the university—and an updated photo from his employee ID. Do you want me to send it to you?”

  “Now?”

  “I have it on my Blackberry.”

  Quinn smiled and shook his head. “Modern technology. Sure, shoot it through to my e-mail. I’ll download it when I get to the Lodge.”

  He hung up and turned down the Lodge driveway. He glanced at Miranda. She appeared to be sleeping, but he knew she wasn’t.

  He’d meant every word he said back at the Sheriff’s Department, but he knew she didn’t believe him. Frankly, he couldn’t blame her. She’d had ten years to create worst-case scenarios in her head about why he did what he did. He’d tried to explain then, but he should have continued. He loved her and shouldn’t have given up on her, thinking she’d come to her senses on her own.

  She’d been scared and worried and angry. Even if she had seen the truth then, she was too stubborn to admit it.

  But part of her strength was her tenacity. Her stubborn determination helped her survive; it formed her character and gave her the motivation to continue moving forward against almost insurmountable odds.

  He loved that about her.

  But she was also insecure. About her own strengths and fears. That the fear would win. How could he convince her that she would persevere? How could he explain that being an FBI agent wouldn’t have made her fearless?

  Quinn pulled up behind the Lodge and shut off the ignition. “Miranda.”

  “Yeah?” Her voice was low, quiet.

  “You heard my conversation with Colleen.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You want to talk about it? Do you have any questions?”

  “No questions.” She paused, opened her eyes. “I hope it’s one of them, Quinn. If it’s not, we’re right back where we started.”

  “It’s one of them.”

  “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 difficul
t. 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.