2 - The Hunt

by Allison Brennan

  His phone chirped again. Duty called.

  “Peterson,” he answered.

  “It’s Colleen. I’m getting a bad feeling about Larsen.”

  “What happened?”

  “The wildlife biology department director, a—um, Sarah Tyne—called the university’s off-site research lab in Craig. That’s up in northwest Colorado. Wanted to pull Larsen’s log sheets. He last checked in on Monday.”

  “The day after we found Rebecca’s body.”

  “Right. He said he was going back to monitor some peregrine falcons. That’s his specialty. So one of the research guys went out there early this morning.”

  Quinn’s stomach flipped. “He wasn’t there.”

  “Nope. In addition to his Denver apartment—which is empty—he lives in a trailer way out in the middle of nowhere, and his field supplies were there, but no Larsen. They tried calling him on the radio—the researchers are required to keep them on at all times when in the field—no answer.”

  “Did you find out what kind of car or truck he drives? Is it there?” Quinn pulled out his pad and made notes.

  “He drives a truck, but I don’t have the details. It’s not with his trailer.”

  “I’ll check on car registration. Get out there and see what you can find. If he turns up, detain him. I’m going to put an APB out on him. For questioning only—I don’t want him getting spooked. And do it quietly—I don’t want him panicking and killing Ashley van Auden. He’s only had her two days. She’s probably still alive.”

  “Got it.”

  “If you find him, Colleen, I get first crack at him.” Quinn shut his cell phone.

  Miranda spoke quietly. “David Larsen. It seems like such a normal name.”

  He leaned over and kissed her forehead, brushing the hair back with his fingers. He wanted to take away her pain, steal her memories so she’d never again think about David Larsen or the women he had killed. Quinn would have to give Miranda lots of good memories to replace the bad. They’d started last night, but it was only the beginning.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “I will be.”

  She didn’t sound like herself, but he didn’t press it. He would, later.

  He kissed her again and rolled out of bed. “I’m going to the Sheriff’s Department. Want me to drop you off at the University?”

  “Yeah. I need to check in on my team.”

  “Don’t go anywhere alone. Anywhere.”

  “I won’t.” Her voice sounded distant.

  “Miranda, we’ll find him. He’s not going to touch you. And for the first time, I think we can get to him before Ashley dies.”

  “I think so, too,” she said. “And there’s nothing I want more, except—” She paused. “Nick. Ashley might be alive, but what about Nick?” She stopped, unable to go on. She slid out of bed and dressed. “I’m going to take a quick shower and I’ll meet you in twenty minutes at your car.”

  Quinn stopped her before she walked out. “He’ll pay for killing Nick.”

  “I know. But it doesn’t seem like enough.”

  At the Sheriff’s Department, Quinn went first to Lance Booker. “Booker, I have a favor to ask.”

  “Anything.”

  Good kid. No wonder Nick had liked him. “Could you go to the University and stick with Miranda? Anywhere she goes, I want you nearby.”

  “Did something happen?”

  “We have a suspect. David Larsen.”

  “The wildlife biologist?”

  “He’s missing, he had opportunity, and we’ve ruled out the other three men on the short list. My people are doing an in-depth background check on him right now. I’ll call you with more information as I get it. But if he feels pressured in any way, he might do something unpredictable. I don’t want Miranda in his sights.”

  “I’ll stick to her like bees on honey.”

  Not that close, Quinn thought.

  “Booker, keep the info under your hat. Miranda knows—but I don’t want the press getting hold of it yet. Not until we have more information.”

  “Got it.” Booker left.

  Quinn entered Nick’s office and was only partly surprised to see Sam Harris had taken over the desk. He was on the phone and looking at a fax. Quinn recognized the masthead.

  Federal Bureau of Investigation. Seattle. His office.

  He pulled the paper out of the undersheriff’s hands. It was the background information on David Larsen.

  Truck . . . recent model, four-wheel drive. Powerful. Graduated from MSU . . . doctorate at Colorado . . . wildlife biologist . . . very little detail. He knew most of this stuff.

  Parents—deceased. Siblings—one sister. One sister? What about her name, residence, status?

  Harris slammed down the phone. “What are you doing?”

  “This fax was addressed to me.”

  “It came in to my office.”

  “It was addressed to me,” Quinn repeated, temper rising.

  Harris stood, walked around the desk. “Agent Peterson, you didn’t tell me you had a suspect. What kind of respect does that show my department?”

  Quinn ran a hand through his hair. “You knew we were narrowing down the list. I got the call this morning about David Larsen, not much more than an hour ago.”

  “If the sheriff were still here, you would have called him first thing.”

  That was true. Quinn hadn’t even thought to call Sam Harris—he was too busy contacting his own superiors for immediate access to resources and information.

  “Point taken. I’m sorry.”

  Harris’s jaw worked and his face grew red. “You Feds think you know everything. Fine. Solve this case without me. But you’ll be sorry.”

  Quinn had to have heard wrong. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing,” he snapped, and walked out.

  Shit, the last thing Quinn needed was a pissed-off cop. “And you’re supposed to be the diplomat,” he muttered to himself.

  Quinn crossed over to Nick’s desk and searched through all the papers to see if Harris had pulled anything else addressed to him off the fax. He didn’t see anything. He called the small Helena field office and requested a couple of agents for the next two days. He needed help, and he wasn’t afraid to ask for it.

  Not when the life of a young woman was at stake.

  His eyes rested on a small photo partially hidden under the blotter. He pulled it out.

  It was actually a series of four photos, Miranda and Nick, taken in one of those two-dollar photo booths. Miranda smiled the same in each shot, a little self-conscious even though no one but she and Nick was likely to ever see these pictures.

  Nick, on the other hand, was more animated. First smiling wide, then making a silly face, and in the third he was making rabbit ears with his fingers over Miranda’s head.

  In the last picture, he was looking at her, and Quinn could see he had loved her.

  All jealousy at Nick’s past relationship and friendship with Miranda flew out the window. Raw emotion climbed his throat thinking about his friend who was now probably dead.

  One mistake, and Nick had paid with his life. It wasn’t fair, and Quinn vowed to make Larsen pay, not only for the women he’d killed and what he’d done to Miranda, but for Nick as well.

  He put the pictures in his wallet, planning on giving them to Miranda. Then he went out to talk to the deputies and assign them tasks.

  There was a lot of ground to cover and little time.

  Miranda had six deputies assigned to Search and Rescue, and she sent one with two volunteers into the area south of Gallatin Gateway. Quinn had come in and briefed everyone about David Larsen, telling them to proceed with caution. Do not pursue. They were there to find Ashley and rescue her, not apprehend a suspect.

  He stressed that Larsen was only wanted for questioning, but everyone knew what that meant.

  They had their first real suspect in twelve years.

  Miranda didn’t have a lot of hope t
hat her team would find Ashley, but going through the motions helped her push to the back of her mind that she knew the identity of the Butcher. Once everyone was gone and she was alone, she sank into a chair and closed her eyes.

  And pictured him.

  She’d only seen that one photograph of Larsen, but it was too easy to animate it, to put his picture on the faceless man who’d tortured her and shot Sharon in the back.

  Run. Run!

  She’d never seen David Larsen. She would have remembered his face. But she knew his voice, the low monotone, cruel in its lack of emotion. His words and actions not matching the distant, almost bored tone.

  She was certain she’d never seen him because surely his evil heart would be visible. His hatred for women etched on his face.

  But in the photograph, David Larsen appeared neither evil nor hate-filled. His was the face of an ordinary man. Pleasant on the surface. Normal.

  The Butcher was anything but normal.

  She remembered a biblical lesson from her father. That evil could masquerade as beauty, that black hearts were sometimes clothed in compassion. Evil didn’t have a calling card alerting everyone to its pending visit. Evil came and went with a smile, laughing at the lives destroyed in its wake. The serpent who enticed Eve to sample the forbidden fruit couldn’t have been repulsive, or she would have run in terror. No, the serpent must have been a thing of beauty, a thing that called all to trust it. Don’t trust what you see with your eyes.

  Evil lurks beneath the surface.

  “Miranda?”

  She jumped out of her seat and reached for her gun at the same time.

  It was Deputy Booker.

  “Shit, Lance.”

  “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “I wasn’t scared.” She’d been terrified. Sitting here alone, thinking about the Butcher and David Larsen and Sharon . . . “What can I do for you?”

  “Agent Peterson asked me to stick by you today. You know, since they can’t find Larsen and all.”

  Last week, she would have been furious at Quinn’s protectiveness. She would have sworn she was capable of defending not only herself, but everyone else, from the Butcher and any other evil that stepped foot in her state.

  But while she had been trained in self-defense, taught it to the women at the University, and kept in shape, and knew she could find her way in any part of the county, the thought of facing David Larsen in person paralyzed her.

  “Thanks, Lance,” she said.

  She crossed over to the wall map and stared, gathering up courage to get through this day. If they found Larsen, would he lead them to Ashley? Would he tell them where Nick was? Whether he was dead or alive?

  What had Nick been looking for at the Recorder’s Office? He’d pulled the property records of every landowner in the region. Including her dad, she’d noticed when she and Quinn were looking through them. Nothing jumped out at her; what had so caught Nick’s attention that he would risk his life to investigate it? He must have thought it wasn’t dangerous, otherwise he wouldn’t have gone in alone.

  She missed Nick. She wished she could have told him she was sorry things hadn’t worked out between them. She’d never wanted to hurt him; he’d been so good to her. He’d given her space and let her do her job and supported her in everything she did. The problem was she hadn’t loved Nick the way he loved her.

  The way she loved Quinn.

  She warmed, remembering last night and how he had touched her. Gently. Slowly. He hadn’t forgotten where she liked to be touched. He hadn’t forgotten her sensitivity about her breasts, her preferring to be on top, all her little idiosyncrasies that had been forged by one madman and one week of terror.

  With Quinn, she relaxed and gave herself, willingly, happily. They were partners when they made love.

  It had been on the tip of her tongue to tell him she loved him. She had wanted to. But the words wouldn’t come. Some part of her held back and she didn’t know why.

  Quinn said he knew her. How could he know her so well when she was scrambling to discover herself? So she had held back and said nothing, even when his words rang true and she wanted to ask him to never leave.

  Maybe, ultimately, that was her greatest fear: that he would leave her again. She wasn’t the easiest person to get along with, she knew that, and maybe sometimes she deliberately became difficult so people wouldn’t get too close. It was easier to keep people at arm’s length than to let yourself be vulnerable.

  People died violent deaths. Her mother’s painful bout with cancer. Sharon’s murder. And now, probably, Nick. All gone.

  What would she do if anything happened to Quinn?

  Quinn called his office in Seattle and spoke with Bonnie Blair, a pro in background research. If there was anything to find on David Larsen, Bonnie’d find it.

  “Hi, Bonnie. I got your report. Not much there. Do you think you can work a little of your magic and come up with something else?”

  There was a long pause. “What more do you want?”

  She sounded ticked off.

  “Well, to start I’d be interested in his parents’ names, his sister, where he was born—”

  Bonnie interrupted him. “That was all there. I sent sixteen pages.”

  “Sixteen? I got one.” Sam Harris. He must have taken them. But why?

  Had there been something in the faxed pages Harris had wanted to hide? Or someone he wanted to protect?

  “I’m sorry, Bonnie. Would you mind faxing it again? I’m sitting right by the fax machine.”

  “For you, yes. But don’t think I’m not going to expect some chocolate on my desk when you get back.”

  “You got it.”

  He opened the door and motioned for the desk sergeant to come to Nick’s office. “Sergeant, please contact Sam Harris and tell him to return to the station immediately.”

  The sergeant raised an eyebrow, but didn’t say anything as he went back to the main desk and picked up the phone.

  Quinn was back in Nick’s office when the first page came through. It was the one he’d already seen.

  Fifteen followed. As they emerged from the fax, Quinn saw the life of a serial killer in the making.

  Born and raised in Portland, Oregon. Father, Kyle Larsen, deserted the family when David was three and apparently had no further contact with the family. He was killed in a drug deal gone bad nine years later.

  Abusive mother . . . David had been removed from the home twice by Child Protective Services as a minor, but each time he’d been returned. Bonnie noted that they would have to petition the courts for the files.

  Two sealed juvenile crimes. Again, they’d have to petition for the files.

  One arrest for rape when he was eighteen. Interesting. He’d been a freshman at Lewis and Clark College in Oregon. He’d been arrested for rape, but the victim recanted her statement. He stuck with his alibi—that he was at his sister’s house all night, which his sister supported. Had the victim been so traumatized she didn’t want to go through the justice system?

  One point caught Quinn’s eye: the victim’s breasts had been permanently scarred with a knife.

  It made perfect sense. Fatherless home, abusive mother—probably sexually abusive. He’d need to see the CPS records to be sure. Grows up in a female-dominated environment. Mother molests him. Breasts are both sexual and maternal. He damages the breasts of his victims as he wished he could do to his mother.

  His older sister became his guardian when he was fourteen after the death of their mother. Cause of death was simply listed as “accidental.” His sister had been his alibi for the rape charges. Either she was protecting him or terrified of him. Or both.

  Sister, sister . . . Quinn flipped through the pages.

  Delilah Larsen.

  Delilah. Where had he heard that name recently? Richard Parker. His wife was Delilah. The name was so unusual, it had to be her. Delilah Parker certainly hadn’t seemed like a victim to Quinn, but he knew appearances could be deceiv
ing, and he’d only met her that one time. He would have appraised her as meticulous, organized, and intelligent.

  But even the most distinguished woman could be abused and manipulated by a person she loved or feared. Quinn would have to proceed with caution with the Parkers.

  If Delilah Parker didn’t suspect that her brother was dangerous, she could be in denial and attempt to warn him. Quinn had seen it happen in several cases where a close relative, friend, or lover didn’t believe someone they trusted could kill.

  On the other hand, if she did know what David Larsen did to those women, a whole other dynamic was going on. She obviously hadn’t gone to the police with any suspicions. She could be abused and manipulated by him, essentially brainwashed into protecting him. Or, she could be complicit in his activities.

  Delilah Parker needed to be watched closely.

  Quinn read the remainder of the report and found the confirmation he needed:

  After the rape charges were dropped, David Larsen transferred to MSU and lived with his sister, who took a job as a secretary in the Board of Supervisor’s office.

  Richard Parker had been a supervisor during the time she worked there.

  Sam Harris had taken the report to give Parker a heads-up about his brother-in-law. Parker was an influential judge—but what was Harris thinking? Jeopardizing the entire investigation in order to save someone’s political ass?

  Unless he thought he could ascertain the whereabouts of David Larsen from his sister and try to bring him in alone.

  The fool!

  Quinn jumped up. He called to the desk sergeant, “Have you reached Harris?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Keep trying. Who’s available to go out on a call with me?”

  “We’re pretty thin here, sir.” The sergeant looked at his sheet. “I can call in Jorgenson. He’s on traffic duty.”

  “Do it.”

  Ryan Parker was playing video games in the living room after lunch when a sheriff’s car pulled into the driveway. His mother walked in. “Ryan, please clean up and go to your room. We have company.”

  He shut down his game even though he’d almost defeated Darth Maul.