The Hunt

by Allison Brennan

  “We have four possibles,” he said, his pale eyes darting back and forth with excitement. “I can’t believe out of all those files, we could narrow it down so fast.”

  “Follow the evidence,” Quinn said. “Every detail helps.” He took the list from Booker, mindful that Miranda was looking over his shoulder.

  “The first guy,” Booker said, “is still on campus. Mitch Groggins. He’s a cook at the cafeteria. Been there for seventeen years. Forty years old. His mother lives in Green River, Utah.”

  Quinn nodded, his entire body humming with anticipation. This was it. The killer was on this list. He felt it.

  “Have you talked to his mother? Found out if he visited recently?”

  Booker shook his head. “We’ve been busy narrowing down the list, we haven’t had time, I’m sorry—”

  Quinn put up his hand. “You did the right thing.” He made a note in his pad.

  “The next guy graduated the year after Penny Thompson went missing. He only had one class with her, an advanced biology class, and he didn’t live on campus. David Larsen. He left town after he graduated and got his master’s in wildlife biology at the University of Denver. I checked their records and he’s on staff there.”

  Denver—that was in the middle of Colorado. Quinn consulted the map Professor Austin had outlined. Denver was out of the region. Still, a wildlife biologist would probably work outdoors. It warranted follow-up to find out if the guy worked in the field. “How old is he?” Quinn asked as he flipped to the fact sheet in the file Booker had put together.

  “Thirty-seven.”

  “Okay. Next?”

  “Bryce Younger. Thirty-five. Freshman at the time of Penny’s disappearance. He was in the same dorm as her—North Hedges. MSU has co-ed dorms, you know, guys on one floor, girls on another.”

  “I know,” Quinn said.

  “So, he was on the floor directly beneath hers. They knew each other, had one class together. And get this—he’s from St. George, Utah. He went back there when he graduated and is in construction. Never married, no kids.”

  Construction—probably physically fit, capable of subduing a woman.

  “Any reason to believe he’s come up to Montana recently?”

  “His construction company is pretty big, they have projects all over the western U.S.—including building the new science wing at Missoula.”

  The University of Montana in Missoula was about two hours northwest of Bozeman.

  “The last guy is forty-five, a little older than the others. Brad Palmer. He was a teaching assistant in one of Penny’s classes and left shortly after her disappearance. They’d been involved. He’s this big ex–football type. Apparently, he had a football scholarship and played at Stanford, then busted out his knee. Graduated, coached high school, came up here to get a degree in mechanical engineering. He was interviewed several times about her disappearance, according to the records. Nothing stuck.

  “But get this,” Booker added. “He lives in Grand Junction, Colorado.”

  Quinn looked at his map. There it was, Grand Junction. Right over the line on Professor Austin’s map.

  Miranda listened to Quinn take charge. She had to admit, he did it well.

  She stared at the photographs of the four men—any one of them could be the Butcher. Goosebumps rose on her skin.

  She sat in the corner and absorbed Quinn’s orders more than listened. He’d called the two agents expected this evening and directed them to Colorado. First to Grand Junction to check on Penny’s ex-boyfriend, then to Denver to investigate the wildlife biologist.

  He called the St. George Police Department, filled them in on the investigation, and asked them to check on Bryce Younger. He sent Booker and Zachary to Missoula to investigate the construction company owner and see if Younger had been around in the last three weeks. He was on the phone, dispatching deputies, and massaging Sam Harris’s ego all at once.

  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 corrup
tion 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 should 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, h
unted, 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.