The Hunt

by Allison Brennan

  “Ryan, why don’t you tell me what you boys were doing this morning, in your own words. Timmy, Sean, pipe up if you think of anything to add. There are no right or wrong answers. And no one remembers everything, so one of you might remember something another doesn’t. Understand?”

  They all nodded as Quinn and Nick took out their notepads. Ryan spoke. “We took the horses out at seven this morning. Sean and Timmy spent the night because we wanted to go early, and they live in town.”

  “Mom works weekends,” Timmy said with a bob of his head. “We come here a lot.”

  “It’s probably fun to hang out at a ranch with horses and cool stuff to do,” Quinn said, smiling.

  Timmy nodded. “Oh, yeah, and we get to—” His brother hit him hard in the arm.

  “Shut up,” Sean said. “They only want to know about the dead girl.”

  Timmy looked sheepish.

  “That’s okay,” Quinn told the younger boy. “You never know what might be important in an investigation.”

  The boys had left the ranch early and ridden across the pasture to the east. They took an overgrown trail intending to find an Indian burial site on the north ridge.

  “You know you aren’t supposed to go that far,” Parker admonished. “That’s a treacherous path. You’re damn lucky one of the horses didn’t break a leg.”

  “I’m sorry, Pa,” Ryan said, looking down.

  “Go on,” Quinn said. Just what he needed was a scared kid and belligerent dad. “Where’s the Indian site you were looking for?”

  “We don’t know. That’s why we were looking. Gray, you know, the caretaker at the Lodge down there,” he motioned vaguely south, “says it’s up on the north ridge, above Mossy Creek. Even he doesn’t know exactly where it is, just that it’s there and we’d know it if we saw it. We looked all last summer and couldn’t find it. And since it’s been raining all week, this was the first good day to look for it.”

  Quinn remembered Gray. How could he forget the time he spent at the Gallatin Lodge when he was investigating Sharon Lewis’s murder? Or the weekends he came to visit Miranda on personal time?

  Shaking his head, he pushed Miranda from his mind. It was harder now that she’d crept in, unbidden, but he had to focus on his job.

  His job was to stop the Butcher.

  Nick said, “You didn’t get to Mossy Creek.”

  Ryan shook his head. “The horses started acting a little spooked, and then we heard a large animal. We steered them into a clearing and saw a brown bear sniffing at something. I fired my rifle to scare him away. Then we saw her.”

  Ryan and Timmy had stayed in the area while Sean—the oldest of the three at twelve—took the old logging trail back to the main road and rode his horse three miles to the nearest phone.

  “Did you touch the body?”

  They all shook their heads vigorously. “I went close,” Ryan said. “A couple feet away. It didn’t seem real, you know? Until, well, until I saw it was that girl who’s missing. That’s when Sean went to get help. But I didn’t want to leave her there, you know? The bear could come back and, well, I just didn’t want to leave.” He looked down at his hands clasped tightly in front of him.

  Quinn reached over and squeezed Ryan’s shoulder until the boy looked him in the eye. “You did the right thing.”

  He stood and his joints popped from squatting so long, reminding him that he’d be forty this fall. “Thank you, Judge,” Quinn said as he turned to face Richard Parker.

  An impeccably dressed blonde with vivid green eyes stood next to Parker with a blank expression. Parker’s wife? Quinn was surprised he hadn’t heard her approach.

  “Mrs. Parker?” he asked, hand extended.

  She took his hand, her grip surprisingly strong for someone who looked so fragile. Her fingers were icy cold, though the day had warmed considerably since he’d viewed the victim earlier this morning. “Delilah Parker.” Her voice was smooth and cool.

  “Special Agent Peterson, ma’am.”

  “I’ve made lemonade and banana bread in the kitchen, if you would care for some.”

  Quinn was about to decline when Nick said, “Thank you, Mrs. Parker. We are much obliged at your hospitality.”

  She beamed at Nick. “Excuse me, I’ll ready a tray.” She hurried off.

  Quinn dragged his heels as they followed Judge Parker to the house. “We need to get back to the ridge.”

  “Some things you don’t do. Refusing food from Mrs. Parker is one of them.”

  “Playing politics,” Quinn mumbled sarcastically.

  “Ten minutes will save me months of headache. Believe me. I declined the first time, too.” Nick rolled his eyes.

  Quinn wasn’t quite sure what to make of the Parker family. Though the judge joined them in the dining room, Quinn noticed he and his wife didn’t speak much to each other.

  Mrs. Parker’s impromptu get-together was surprisingly elaborate. She served the lemonade in crystal and the banana bread with fresh whipped cream on white bone china. Quinn felt uncomfortable with the formality, but Nick seemed to accept it with ease. When Quinn complimented her on a beautiful home, she beamed. The Stepford Wife of Montana, he thought, hiding a grin.

  Nick was true to his word. Ten minutes later they were on their way, headed back to the stable to collect samples from the horses’ hooves before leaving.

  “What’s with Parker’s wife?” Quinn asked as he shut the passenger door of Nick’s truck. “A little formal for a morning snack, wouldn’t you say?”

  Nick shrugged as he started the ignition and drove down the long, winding road leading from the Parkers’ ranch to the main highway. “She likes entertaining. I declined the first time I came out here years ago when a couple of their cattle had been stolen. After I was elected, Judge Parker explained that his wife takes hospitality seriously, and he’d appreciate it if I accepted in the future.”

  “You should have told me Parker was a judge. I didn’t even remember he was an attorney.”

  “Nonpracticing at the time. He was on the Board of Supervisors. Now, he’s a state Superior Court justice. Word is he’s up for consideration to the Appellate Court.”

  “That’s a big jump.”

  Nick shrugged. “He has friends in high places.”

  “Wonderful,” Quinn said cynically.

  Nick shot him a glance. “You’re not thinking that Richard Parker has anything to do with what’s been happening to these girls?”

  Quinn didn’t say anything for a minute. “I don’t know,” he said honestly. “We have no witnesses, and Miranda only had vague impressions of her attacker’s shape and size.”

  The Butcher not only kept his victims bound in chains to the floor, but he blindfolded them. Miranda swore she would know him by smell, but a man’s scent would be next to impossible to get a conviction on. They needed hard evidence.

  Quinn hadn’t realized how much he had missed Miranda until he saw her today. He’d wanted to touch her, make sure she was really there, in the flesh and not another dream.

  “She led us to the shack she’d been held in,” Nick continued. “She tracked down where the Croft sisters had been imprisoned. Miranda has led us to more evidence than anything you or I could have done on our own.”

  Quinn knew it, and he knew why. The very reasons why Miranda would have made a damn good FBI agent were the same reasons why she would likely have gotten herself killed.

  Miranda was driven, steadfast, unwavering in her pursuit of a killer. But she was obsessed with the Butcher. The case ate at her until it consumed her existence. Quinn didn’t blame her. Hell, who would? The bastard had destroyed her life. She’d had to rebuild it, brick by brick. And, amazingly, she had become an intensely strong woman. No longer a victim, but someone whom Quinn greatly admired for her ability to heal.

  While she had dealt with being raped and tortured better than any victim he’d ever met, she hadn’t handled the survivor’s guilt. She blamed herself for Sharon’s murder, a
nd her decision to join the FBI was more to avenge Sharon than to become an agent. And, ultimately, it was her need for vengeance that showed up in the psychological tests. Quinn had gone to bat for her time and time again, but when faced with the results of repeated sessions with the shrink, he had to agree Miranda wasn’t ready.

  He ran a hand over his face and closed his eyes. Because he’d loved her, and because his recommendation as much as her qualifications led to her acceptance into the Academy in the first place, he’d insisted that he be the one to tell her.

  It hadn’t gone well.

  He would never forget the look of betrayal in Miranda’s deep blue eyes when he told her she was out of the Academy. Was it really ten years ago? Damn, he missed her.

  “Shit,” Nick muttered as he slammed on the brakes. Quinn jerked in the passenger seat, opened his eyes.

  There were at least thirty Jeeps, trucks, and cars parked along Route 84. Quinn scanned the area. “Miranda finally gained some sense. Her Jeep isn’t here.”

  Nick glanced at Quinn as he carefully turned onto the rough logging road. “You think she didn’t just drive in?”

  “You said no unauthorized personnel could use the old road,” Quinn said. “I would—”

  “Quinn, she is authorized. She’s the director of Search and Rescue, a division of the Sheriff’s Department.” Nick paused. “Miranda doesn’t want to be protected, so give it up.”

  “It has nothing to do with protection, and everything to do with jeopardizing this case.”

  “Miranda knows these woods better than anyone, including me. I’d be surprised if she didn’t have every hill and crevice memorized. She has a frickin’ map on her bedroom wall! She sleeps and rises to six red pins staring at her, reminding her that she survived.” Nick took a deep breath. “Seven. Seven pins now.”

  Quinn glanced at Nick’s hard profile, but couldn’t miss the emotion tightening his expression. He didn’t know whether it was his naked emotions or the rawness in his voice, but Quinn knew with certainty that Nick was still in love with Miranda. He pictured Nick in Miranda’s bedroom staring at the map that had become such a focal point in her life. Nick would be wanting to help Miranda find peace, but unable to tear her away from her nightmares. Quinn shifted uncomfortably.

  He’d heard about their relationship from his partner, Colleen Thorne, when she returned from investigating the Croft sisters’ murder. Years after Miranda stopped speaking to him, refused to see him, it still hurt to think about her with another man. Even one he liked and respected.

  Damn, he’d loved her! Few women could compare to Miranda. Her intensity, her laugh, her strength, her strong sense of right and wrong. Everything about Miranda was passionate, from how she lived her life to her quest for justice.

  That she’d turned to Nick when she was ready for another relationship irritated and hurt him. She’d forced him to give her space, and against his better judgment he did. But she never came back to Quantico, never returned his calls, never accepted that he’d made the only decision possible. Then, she started seeing Nick.

  He didn’t want to know about their relationship, but he couldn’t stop himself from asking, “What happened?”

  “What?”

  “Why’d you two break up?”

  Nick shrugged. “Lots of things. Mostly, I couldn’t stand not being able to protect her.”

  “Hmm.” Miranda didn’t need protection, except from herself. What she needed was to get over the guilt. But she never recognized her obsession, let alone did anything to fix it.

  “I think what did it was I wanted to take her away from Montana,” Nick said. “I could be a cop anywhere. I’d always thought Texas would be a good place to live. A helluva lot warmer than the Gallatin Valley.”

  “I can just picture you with a white ten-gallon hat,” Quinn said with a half-smile.

  “Miranda wouldn’t leave. She’s determined to do what she can to protect the women of Bozeman. She teaches a self-defense class every week at the University. She heads up the search and rescue—not just when another co-ed turns up missing, but when hikers are lost, skiers disappear in an avalanche, anything. Last year two little girls wandered off from their campsite just this side of the Wyoming border, in Yellowstone. Miranda tracked them, found them, and brought them to safety.”

  Quinn said nothing. What could he say? He had no claim to Miranda, no right to know anything about her. But dammit, he wanted to. He wanted to know everything that had happened in her life during the ten years since he’d last seen her.

  “Thanks for coming, Quinn,” Nick said several moments later. “I know it’s not easy on you to work with her.”

  As Nick stopped the truck behind Miranda’s red Jeep, Quinn said, “I have no problem working with Miranda, but if she crosses the line she has to be pulled.”

  “Agreed.”

  They got out of the SUV and the first thing Quinn noticed was Miranda standing up on a ledge, hands on her hips.

  “Where have you been?” She bounded down the embankment and stood in front of them, jaw set. “You said two hours, it’s been nearly three!”

  Though pale and thin, her deep blue eyes rimmed with fatigue, Miranda was a beautiful woman. A bundle of barely contained energy and strength Quinn had always admired.

  “We went to interview the boys who found the body,” Nick said.

  Quinn wanted to ask Miranda what business it was of hers, but bit his tongue. She was part of the investigation, at least for the time being. Nick had already established her role and Quinn wasn’t going to step on his toes.

  Not yet, anyway.

  So the sheriff had brought in the Feds again.

  It was easy to spot the city boy, all done up in new blue jeans, stiff boots, unused down jacket. All the times the hotshot government types came to town looking for clues, they’d found nothing.

  Because he was smarter than all of them.

  He recognized Agent Peterson. He’d been around before, a long time ago. He’d proven to be an able opponent then—he’d been so close, but couldn’t see the forest for the trees.

  He almost laughed at his pun. Fools. All of them.

  Except her. The one who got away.

  His entire body tensed and the horse beneath him shifted uneasily on the mountain path, high up from where the cops milled about. He forced himself to relax, patted the gelding gently until the horse calmed. Soothing the animal also helped him contain his anger.

  He wanted to kill Miranda Moore so badly he could feel her body beneath his. He pictured himself inches from her face. Grabbing her hair and jerking her head back. Exposing that white throat. Feeling her entire body tremble as he unsheathed his knife and held it to her neck.

  One swift slice and her warm blood would coat him and the earth.

  But she’d got away. He’d lost. His failure ate at him, a reminder that he was flawed. He should never have gone after a local. It wasn’t her he’d wanted, anyway. It was the blonde she had been with. He didn’t have a choice; if he wanted the blonde, he had to take her friend.

  He still wanted to kill her, but he couldn’t.

  She’d won, after all.

  Twelve years ago his greatest fear of being caught lay with Miranda Moore. Had she seen or heard anything that would lead the police to him? He’d been so careful, but he hadn’t thought she’d live. He’d felt cheated watching her fall off the cliff into the Gallatin River, certain she wouldn’t survive.

  He’d been surprised and worried when he saw the news reports the next day that she was alive.

  But as time passed, he relaxed. She didn’t know anything, either didn’t remember or never saw him.

  No, he couldn’t kill her now. But if she got too close, that would change.

  He glanced at his watch and frowned. He hadn’t planned on being here this late. Gently urging the gelding along the narrow mountain path, he headed South.

  CHAPTER

  6

  “Do you all understand what you�
�re supposed to do?” Nick asked after detailing the responsibilities of the search team. One sworn Gallatin County sheriff’s deputy or Bozeman police officer was paired with one volunteer. Three out of four on-duty cops stood there, some worried, some excited, most sipping the hot coffee Miranda’s father had had the foresight to send with her.

  Miranda looked around at the men and women who made up the search team. They’d be searching for evidence. Bullet casings, footprints, torn clothing. Anything that might lead them to the killer.

  She caught Assistant Sheriff Sam Harris staring at her and turned her head. She didn’t like the man who’d lost the election to Nick when he ran for sheriff a little over three years ago, six months before the Croft sisters were killed. When Nick made the fifty-year-old deputy the undersheriff, Miranda told him he was making a mistake. Harris would undermine him every chance he got. Nick disagreed, and Miranda tried to keep her feelings to herself.

  It was one-thirty P.M. They had less than five hours of daylight left.

  Miranda intended to pair off with Cliff Sanderson, a Bozeman cop she respected who helped her teach the self-defense class at the University. She waved at him as she crossed the clearing and he smiled back, his boyish dimples taking ten years off his thirty.

  “Nick,” she said as she approached him for her assignment. “I want grid C-1 through 10. Sanderson and I can cover it, and I think—”

  “You should stay here,” Quinn told her, arms crossed.

  She glared at him, his dark, intense eyes trying to command her to do his bidding. She couldn’t help but remember the many times she’d appreciated his intensity, the way a mere gaze melted her like butter on a hot griddle.

  She ignored him.

  “C-1 through 10,” she repeated as she hoisted her backpack over her shoulders and cinched the belt around her waist. She adjusted her .45 in her waistband for comfort.

  “You have a gun,” Quinn said through clenched teeth.

  “So do you,” she snapped back, instantly regretting showing that he’d gotten to her. “Do you have a problem?” Damn, she was being sarcastic, a sure sign of insecurity.