He wasn’t picky. He just wanted a blonde again.
He’d hunted from this place once before. As a rule, he didn’t use the same place twice. Just in case. But enough time had passed. It was in this place that he’d found another blonde, twelve years ago.
If only she hadn’t had a friend with her.
The Bitch never let him go after Miranda Moore. It ate at him constantly. But The Bitch thought Moore deserved to live since she got away. Always, she taunted him. Always, she rubbed his nose in his failings. He hated her. Hated both of them.
Someday he’d make them pay. They were two peas in a pod, teasing him, ridiculing him.
But for now he couldn’t touch Miranda Moore. The Bitch said she’d turn him in. And he believed her.
“We’ll kill Miranda Moore if she becomes a threat, but she’s not,” The Bitch said over and over again. “She beat you, sweetheart. I want you to always remember that.”
As if he could forget with her constant reminders.
A Honda Civic pulled onto the frontage road. Bypassed the gas station and went straight to the pizza place. He raised his binoculars.
A blonde stepped out from the driver’s side. His heart swelled, pounded in his chest.
The One.
Instantly he knew, just like every other time he’d hunted for women. She was The One, and he would have her.
“I’m going,” he said.
“Wait.”
“What now?”
“Look.”
Grudgingly, he looked. The passenger door opened. A redhead emerged. Together the blonde and the redhead walked into the pizza parlor.
“Wait,” The Bitch told him.
“No.”
“I said no more pairs. It’s too risky.”
“All right.”
She relaxed, and he opened the passenger door.
“Where are you going?” she demanded, almost leaping across the seat to grab him.
He stepped back, pocketing the bottle of molasses in his windbreaker. “I’m taking care of the car.”
“You said you agreed!”
“No pairs. Trust me. I’ll only take care of one.”
She didn’t believe him, but he didn’t care. He had no use for the redhead. This time, he only wanted the blonde.
He’d have to kill the redhead first.
CHAPTER
18
The lights of Nick’s truck illuminated the blue Honda Civic as he pulled up behind it, staying back thirty feet from the probable crime scene. He jumped out, leaving his lights on, and approached the responding officer, Brad Jessup.
“How’s the girl?”
“The EMT said critical. They’ve already taken her to the hospital.” Jessup checked his notes. “According to her driver’s license, she’s JoBeth Anderson. She had an MSU identification in her wallet and twenty-three dollars.”
“What happened? Hit and run?”
“Doesn’t appear to be any damage to the vehicle, sir.”
“Who called it in?”
“Red Tucker, sir.”
Everyone knew old Red. He owned the saloon fifteen minutes down the road at the 191/85 junction and was rumored to be the oldest man in Gallatin County.
“Where’s he now?”
“I had him sit in my cruiser, sir.”
Red sat at an angle in the passenger seat of Jessup’s patrol car, feet outside the car. His thick shock of white hair was in need of a trim, and his weathered face had so many wrinkles it could pass for a map of Yellowstone trails.
“How’re you doing, Red?” Nick asked as he approached.
“Been better. How’s the girl?”
“Critical. If she makes it, it’s because of you.” Nick squatted next to him and took out his notepad. “Mind telling me what happened?”
“I leave the tavern at eleven or so nowadays. Need a bit more sleep than I used to. Saw the car by the side of the road and slowed, thinking someone might be in trouble, run out of gas or something. I didn’t see anyone and thought they’d broken down and hoofed it back to the Junction, or up the road a couple miles. So, I started to speed back up when my lights hit on something in front of the car. I thought it might have been an animal, maybe the driver hit a small bear or something. So I pulled over.”
Red shook his head. “I couldn’t believe it was a young lady. Just lying there, half in the road. It’s amazing that one of the big rigs didn’t run over her legs.”
“Did you see anything else? Anyone else?”
“No. It was dead quiet. I don’t have a cell phone, but I didn’t want to leave her there, so I waited for someone to drive by. Then I saw a phone near her, like she’d been holding it before she was hit. I used it. You think it was okay I did that?”
“You did the right thing. Did you touch anything in the car? The ignition? The hood? Anything?”
“Umm, maybe the roof when I leaned in. I was checking to see if someone else was in the car. You don’t think—it was an accident, right? Hit and run? You don’t think it’s that killer again?”
Nick’s stomach fell. Though he’d wanted to believe JoBeth Anderson’s injuries were the result of something less nefarious than a serial killer, as soon as his lights swept over the car he was transported back twelve years.
Sharon Lewis’s little Volkswagen Beetle had been found less than two miles from here. On this same road.
“I’ll find out.” Nick stood, knees cracking. “Can you hang out here a couple more minutes?”
Red nodded. “I couldn’t sleep if I wanted to.”
Nick pulled his jacket close as a wind picked up. Near midnight and the temperature had dropped considerably. It’d be below fifty tonight.
He prayed it wasn’t the Butcher. Rebecca had been found only three days ago—Nick couldn’t remember the killer attacking again so soon.
There was an easy way to find out.
His feet felt filled with lead, his heart twisted, as he approached the car. “Jessup!” he called.
“Yes, sir?”
“Did you run the tags and registration?”
“The car belongs to Ashley van Auden, twenty-one. Her residence is listed as San Diego, California, and her mail goes to a dorm at the University.”
Where was Ashley?
Nick walked around the back of the car to the gas tank. He took out his flashlight and trained it on the small door. The Honda Civic had a release lever on the floor next to the driver’s seat to unlock the gas tank. But most people in Montana didn’t lock their cars when they stopped for gas or a meal, or even when they parked in front of their house.
And even if they did, the cars were easy to break into if you knew what you were doing.
He leaned closer, his Maglite illuminating a small trail of something thick next to the fuel door. He took in a breath, the sweetness of the molasses turning foul in the realization that the Butcher had struck again.
Nick wanted to kick something. “Jessup!” he shouted. “Call in the crime techs. I want everyone out here, full gear, no excuses.”
“Sir?”
Ignoring Jessup’s implied question, Nick pulled out his cell phone and pounded the key pad.
“Peterson here.”
“Quinn, the Butcher has another woman. When will you be back?”
“I’m already on my way. Where are you? I’ll be there in less than an hour.”
Ashley van Auden felt hungover, like the time she’d drunk way too much champagne at her aunt Sherry’s wedding. Her head thick, heavy, pounding.
She shivered and realized that it was the cold that had woken her. She’d never grown used to the cold weather in Montana. Coming from sunny San Diego, she was accustomed to fun and warmth and sandy beaches. She hated Montana, but MSU had a great wildlife biology program and she ultimately wanted to work with the endangered Bighorn Sheep in Southern California.
But this cold was worse than cold. She was chilled to the bone; her skin felt raw and exposed. No blanket covered her, no heater blew
warm air over her body. And the room stank. Rotten, moldy. It smelled like a dead animal, as if a family of rodents had holed up in the corner and died a week ago.
This wasn’t her dorm room.
Fear hit her as soon as she fully wakened. Not a steady increase of heart rate or growing worry, but an instant and deep terror. Panicked, she tried to sit up and realized she was restrained. Her wrists burned with the struggle of trying to get free. What had happened? Where was she? Where was JoBeth?
The last thing she remembered was the car stopped running. Just like that. It sputtered a couple of times and died. She was lucky to get it to the side of the road.
Jo said she’d call roadside service and got out of the car because her cell phone was all static. Another thing Ashley hated about the mountains. She never had trouble with her cell phone in San Diego.
She leaned over to check the CD changer and see if there was enough juice in the car for music. When she looked up, Jo was gone.
She stepped out of the car and saw the figure of a woman walking toward the trees on the other side of the road. Why had Jo crossed the road? “Jo? What are you doing over there?”
Then nothing. She remembered nothing else. Why couldn’t she remember anything? What had happened?
She was naked. Restrained. Something bound her eyes, tight. Too tight. She heard nothing except her panic pounding in her ears. Her lips quivered, a sob escaped. She swallowed, trying to force her fear back.
Crack.
What was that? Was someone coming? Dear God, what was he going to do to her?
Rebecca Douglas.
Total fear embraced her and squeezed tight, draining every ounce of hope from her soul. They’d found that girl from the University, Rebecca. The newspaper said it was the Bozeman Butcher. The man who tortured women in the woods and hunted them like animals. The Butcher.
No. NO! NO! NO!
Dear God, please! Don’t let him hurt me!
Her throat constricted, her chest heaved as she fought her restraints. Kicking and pulling and pushing. She wasn’t going to die. She couldn’t die! She had a full life ahead of her. Her friends. Her family. Her daddy had told her to be careful. To watch. To be cautious. That she was too friendly, too naÏve.
She thought she’d been careful. What had she done wrong?
More than anything, she wanted to spare her father from the pain. She was his princess. What would he do when he found out she was missing? When she turned up dead? Tortured and—and—raped.
No. No. NO! This wasn’t happening.
Where was JoBeth?
“Jo?” she whispered into the blackness. She listened, trying to force her racing heart to slow.
Nothing.
Then she heard it again. Something. Outside. Voices, whispering in the dark. She listened harder and began to make out words.
“I told you it was too soon!” The voice was low, but sounded like a woman’s.
“Go away. Come back next week.” A man. Gruff.
Slap.
“I have to get home. It’s late. I’ll come back tomorrow.”
Mumble, something she couldn’t hear. Crack. Nothing.
The silence heightened her fear, sounds as black as the blindfolded night. Then rustling. The call of an owl. Sounds of the night had been there all along, but until this moment she’d been too terrified to listen. A thrashing, a squeak, then quiet. A scurrying on the roof—tin. The sound of tin. She was in a shack of some sort and it was so damn cold.
Ashley knew the door opened not from a sound, but from an icy breeze.
Then a quiet snap, two pieces of wood brushing against each other. Breathing. He was here. He was here and so was she, only she couldn’t do anything.
“Please, please, please don’t hurt me,” she cried out, her voice raw and cracking.
A loud crack resounded in the room, then a piercing pain on her inner thigh made her scream out. A whip.
Then he was on top of her. Intense, sharp pain between her legs shattered what little composure she had left and she screamed until her throat burned.
She thought she heard distant laughter. Then it was gone.
CHAPTER
19
Miranda paced the waiting room for two hours before finally sitting in one of the green plastic chairs that lined the wall of the emergency room. She’d learned next to nothing about JoBeth Anderson’s condition. The hospital couldn’t reach her next of kin in Minnesota, so they’d contacted the University. An administrator was tracking down her parents, but because it was life or death, they took JoBeth in for surgery.
When Miranda’s phone rang earlier at two in the morning, she’d been pulled from a nightmare, grateful for the interruption.
It had been Nick. The Butcher had another victim.
At the time, Miranda hadn’t questioned JoBeth being left behind by her attacker. Now, she couldn’t stop thinking about it.
Why hadn’t she been taken with Ashley?
Why had the Butcher attempted to kill her, leaving her by the side of the road?
And why had he acted so soon on the heels of Rebecca Douglas’s murder? His shortest interim period had been two weeks. Ashley had been abducted after just three days.
She needed to talk to Quinn and figure out what this meant. Were they any closer to catching the Butcher? Had something in this investigation tipped his hand? Or might this be the work of a copycat criminal? But Quinn and Nick weren’t around to answer questions. They were interviewing possible witnesses at the Junction, where JoBeth and Ashley had stopped to eat.
From the floor nurse, Miranda learned that JoBeth had a life-threatening contusion on the back of her head. She had been hit three times with enough force to crack her skull. The doctors were focusing on saving her life, but even then she could have a broken spinal cord. Her injuries were serious; the blows had been meant to kill.
She is a survivor, Miranda thought. Just like me.
JoBeth didn’t deserve this, lying in surgery as the doctors tried to stop her brain from bleeding.
Trapped in her brain could be something to lead them to the killer: maybe she had seen the Butcher, maybe she knew him, something to help! They needed a break. They needed the killer to make a mistake.
Miranda willed JoBeth to survive. To regain consciousness. To say, “Yes, I saw him, he is—”
Please make it, JoBeth.
Miranda sat in a hospital chair. As dawn peeked over the horizon, she closed her eyes. Just to rest for a minute.
JoBeth was still in surgery when Quinn walked in an hour later.
He wasn’t surprised Miranda was in the waiting room outside the surgery wing. But he was taken aback when he saw her lying on a couch, asleep, her backpack a pillow. A wool blanket covered her thin body; her arms were crossed over her chest, holding the blanket close. Like a child. Innocent.
Her pale skin was relaxed in sleep, belying her body’s simmering tension. He quietly approached; the sight tugged at his heart. Beautiful, strong, vibrant. Smart.
Passionate. Intelligent. Such a pain in the ass sometimes, she was so stubborn.
He licked his lips. He’d never be able to eat pecan pie again without picturing Miranda. Tasting her sweet, sugary lips as they melted into his. Feeling her body mold against his, a perfect fit.
He couldn’t resist bending over and tucking a loose curl behind her ear.
Her eyes opened and she sat up abruptly, blanket dropping to the floor, a look of fear crossing her face before she recognized him. He felt bad that he’d startled her. He sat next to her and touched her cheek. Her skin was so soft.
She didn’t pull back, but neither did she lean into his caress. He’d take what little he could get at this point. He certainly didn’t want to jeopardize the tentative progress he’d made in getting her to trust him again.
As if he hadn’t already made a mistake by kissing her. Even though at the time it sure didn’t feel like a mistake.
“I’m sorry, Miranda. I didn’t mean to
wake you.”
“I felt someone watching me,” she said, her voice hoarse from sleep—or lack of it. She cleared her throat, the fear in her eyes now hidden behind her thick lashes. She took a deep breath and looked up at him. “What happened? JoBeth?” She jumped up and wobbled a bit. He took her elbow to steady her, and she didn’t push his hand away.
Another small step.
“I just got here,” he said.
She glanced toward the nurses’ station. “They promised to wake me if there was a change.” She turned to the lone nurse behind the counter.
“Any word?” she asked. “JoBeth Anderson, she was in—”
The nurse nodded. “I know. She’s out of surgery and was moved to the ICU thirty minutes ago.”
“How is she?”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Moore, I can’t tell you. You’re not her next of kin.”
Miranda tensed next to Quinn and bit her lip. He empathized with her—she was already grieving for Ashley, and worried about JoBeth.
Quinn pulled out his wallet and flashed his badge. “Special Agent Quincy Peterson, Federal Bureau of Investigation. If you would be so kind as to find Ms. Anderson’s doctor, I need to speak with him.”
“Yes, sir.” The nurse picked up the phone and Quinn guided Miranda by the elbow back to the waiting room.
She sighed and put a hand to her head, shielding her bloodshot eyes. “Dammit, Quinn,” she muttered. “Why?”
He didn’t have to ask what she was talking about.
“We’ve taken the car to the Sheriff’s Department and they’re going over it with a fine-toothed comb. Scouring for fingerprints, hair, anything. The crime techs are still at the scene taking a sample of every rock, piece of dirt, and leaf in the immediate area. If there’s trash by the side of the road, it’s being sent immediately to Helena.
“If he made one small mistake, we’ll find him, Miranda.”
He tipped her chin up, forcing her to look at him. His heart twisted seeing the pain in her large blue eyes.
“I promise, I’m not leaving until we get answers.”
The Hunt Page 16
