The Hunt

by Allison Brennan

  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. Montana’s hunting season was predominantly during the fall months. Accidental discovery would be less likely in the spring, when legitimate hunters weren’t out searching for game.

  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 Yellowstone National Park. He knew where every hunting shack was located, every abandoned cabin, all the places he could imprison one or two women for a week to torture and rape them at his leisure.

  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 Montana every free moment. At least once a month he spent a weekend with her. He didn’t rush her, couldn’t rush her, but together they formed a bond he’d never thought he’d wanted to find.

  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.

  CHAPTER

  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.

  She waited for him to catch up to her. “Don’t wander off,” he snapped.

  Without acknowledging him, she pointed. “Look.”

  He stared at the ground. Buried in the mud, barely discernible from the storm-disturbed earth, was a long gold rifle casing.

  He photographed the shell, bent down, and with his gloved hands placed it in an evidence bag.

  The find was incredible. They’d only recovered two other casings they could for sure say belonged to the Butcher. Either he picked them up after firing or the search parties simply couldn’t locate them in the dense wilderness. The casings had been wiped clean of fingerprints—he’d likely worn gloves while loading his rifle, but there was always hope the killer would make a mistake.

  The killer used a .270-caliber rifle. Unfortunately, it was a very common gun used to shoot virtually every game animal on earth, so it would only help once they had a suspect and could inspect his guns. A firearms expert would be able to determine from the recovered casings and bullets if a specific gun was used; finding that gun was the proverbial needle in a haystack. Virtually every male over the age of fourteen in rural Montana owned the same type of firearm.

  Little good any of the evidence they had would do them until they brought in a suspect, but anything was better than nothing.

  “She almost got away,” Miranda said, her voice cracking.

  Quinn expected to see tears or hurt in Miranda’s eyes. Instead, he saw anger. Raw and on the surface, her deep midnight-blue eyes staring beyond him to where Rebecca had died.

  He slowly rose and looked over to the narrow opening of the path that Rebecca had ultimately stumbled upon. “He shot at her from here,” he said, though it was unnecessary.

  “Because she was going to disappear into the undergrowth,” Miranda nodded. “He knew the road was only a few miles away. He took the shot, though it wasn’t ideal.”

  She looked around slowly, absorbing the scene.

  Quinn said, “We need to call in a team. He shot at her before she had cover, but missed. The bullet is somewhere in there.” He gestured toward the area from which they’d just emerged. “We may never find it, but with the right equipment at least we have a chance.”

  She finally looked at him, a strange combination of relief and fear on her face. She swallowed and it was gone, her control firmly back in place. “You’re right,” she said sharply.

  He called Nick to fill him in on what they’d discovered.

  “It’s nearly five, Quinn,” Nick said over the walkie-talkie. “By the time a team gets to your location, it’ll be near dark. We can’t get bright enough lights into that area. Mark it. First thing in the morning we’ll be back.”

  “Dammit!” Miranda pulled on her ponytail in frustration.

  “He’s right,” Quinn told her.

  “I know that,” she snapped, leaning against a tree. She sighed and her voice softened. “It doesn’t make the delay any less frustrating.”

  They had several bullets, all extracted from the bodies of the Butcher’s victims. Quinn didn’t expect any stray bullet here to tell them much of anything—except to tie Rebecca’s murderer to the other girls.

  “We have an hour before we need to head back,” Quinn said. “Let’s look around.”

  In silence, broken only by the call of birds and scurrying of small animals or the occasional scamper of deer disturbed from their feeding, they tracked the killer’s trail. The clearing went on for miles, and it was nearly five thirty when Quinn said, “We have to get back.”

  “Ten more minutes,” Miranda said without stopping, her eyes scanning the ground.

  “Miranda, tomorrow.”

  “But—”

  “No.” He reached out but stopped short of contact, remembering the quickly concealed fear in her eyes when he’d surprised her before.

  Miranda obviously wanted no part of him. No use even trying to rekindle their flame.

  She faced him, an inner battle over whether to argue or comply evident in her expression. Quinn concealed a smile. He appreciated the passion she brought to her work.

  Before she could argue, he reached for her shoulder and squeezed. She didn’t back off. The connection felt good.

  “Miranda, I’m just as frustrated as you are. There is evidence out here, evidence that very well may lead us to Rebecca’s killer. But we can’t do her any good searching in the dark when we can’t see the clues. Tomorrow morning we’ll come back and start right here. We’ll have the forensics team searching for the bullet, more people fanning out.”

  “We’re close,” she whispered. “I can feel it.”

  Quinn didn’t say anything, and Miranda wondered if he thought she was crazy. Sometimes, when she was alone and feeling helpless, she questioned her own sanity. Every day she focused on the missing girls. And him.

  The Butcher.

  She may have lived, but he’d stolen her life just the same.

  “You’re right,” she reluctantly agreed. “Let’s go.”

  Quinn dropped his hand and she felt colder, like she’d lost some important connection. She frowned. She’d been alone for a long time. Any physical human contact—even a gesture as innocuous as a pat on the back—would disturb her.

  Especially from Quinn.

  She led the way back to the ridge, grateful she didn’t have to look at Quinn any longer. Seeing him again brought up too many conflicted feelings, too many thoughts she had buried for the ten years since he had betrayed her and took from her what mattered most.

  Not her career, but her trust.

  Miranda lay awake after midnight, alone, physically drained and weary. She’d staggered into her cabin after eating a sparse dinner—to please her father, not because she was hungry—and tur
ned the heat and bubbles on high in her indoor hot tub. She stepped in cautiously, the hot water almost burning her skin. As one foot grew accustomed to the temperature, she submerged the other one. Five minutes later, she eased back on the sloped seat of the tub and took a sip of wine.

  She couldn’t get Quinn out of her mind.

  “Go away,” she whispered to no one.

  There was a time when she had counted the days until his next visit. When the sound of his voice over the phone made butterflies flutter in her stomach and brought a smile to her face.

  When he started visiting her regularly after the Butcher investigation was put on hold for lack of evidence, she didn’t know what to think or feel or how to react. She had liked him, liked him a lot, but in the back of her mind she worried she’d never be able to care about a man, never be able to let a man touch her intimately. She was scarred, her body so permanently damaged that even surgery could do only so much. She would never be a normal woman, inside or out.

  With Quinn, she felt like a princess.

  They’d taken long walks and he’d held her hand.

  They’d talked for hours about everything—his family, his career, his dreams. Her family, her past, what she wanted in the future. And they talked about the Butcher.

  She found herself wanting him to kiss her, but he never made a move. She worried how she might react if he did kiss her.

  One evening they had been sitting on her porch swing at sunset. “Quinn?” she said, looking at their entwined fingers.

  “Hmm?”

  She glanced at his handsome, almost chiseled profile. His eyes were closed and he seemed at peace, a half-smile on his face. The setting sun made his skin more ruddy than normal, and she realized she cared far more for Quinn than she’d admitted to herself.