The Hunt

by Allison Brennan

  Had he killed her?

  No, he wouldn’t do that. He needed the hunt. She’d probably passed out. He listened with bated breath until he was confident she was still breathing.

  Nick wanted to comfort the girl but didn’t know how. What could he say to take away the pain and humiliation of what she’d just endured?

  Instead, he mentally prepared for escape. Maybe the Butcher would find it a challenge to hunt the sheriff. Nick devised psychological manipulations to encourage the Butcher to let him go.

  You shoot weak women in the back. Aren’t you good enough to hunt down a man?

  Women are easy. They cry and stumble and beg for mercy. What’s the sport in that? You let me out, you won’t be able to catch me. See what you’re really made of.

  If Nick could taunt the Butcher into pursuing him, it might give Ashley a real chance to escape. He had to convince her to run in the opposite direction.

  And not look back.

  The Bitch had told him not to use the cabin anymore in case the cop had told someone where he was headed. She thought she was still running the show.

  He didn’t mind sleeping outdoors, though. He had a forty-below sleeping bag, a space blanket, and hot coffee he’d picked up at a gas station after leaving his girl.

  It had been difficult to concentrate on her when the damn cop wouldn’t shut up. He’d considered just killing him and getting it over with—he’d kill him eventually, anyway—but the thought of hunting a cop excited him. He’d be a tough opponent. He might even try to attack.

  But the cop would lose, of course.

  I’m at the top of my game.

  He’d been thinking for a while about tying up loose ends. The Bitch had told him he couldn’t have Miranda Moore. That would change. The Bitch was no longer in charge.

  He’d kill the one who got away. She’d been difficult. Haunted him, even now. When he looked at her picture, it brought bad dreams. He couldn’t fully remember the nightmare, only that he’d awake soaking in sweat, with an image of her slicing open his heart and eating it while he watched.

  She would then morph into his mother.

  He found his hands pummeling his sleeping bag. He forced himself to calm down. Don’t think about her. She was dead. Gone. Good riddance. Why even think of his mother?

  It was Miranda. She brought back the damn memories. The one who got away.

  The Bitch wouldn’t let him kill her, but he didn’t care anymore. If she said anything about it, he’d slice her throat, too.

  Maybe he’d do it anyway.

  CHAPTER

  27

  They rocked on her porch swing drinking a glass of wine, watching the shadows and listening to the sounds of night. It almost—almost—felt like before. Before she’d left for Quantico and lost her dream.

  But had it really been her dream? Or had she been running away from something?

  Miranda had been positive that being proactive, working in law enforcement—becoming an FBI agent specifically—would give her the strength she needed to conquer her demons. That if she had the badge, the courage would follow. And her nightmares would fade.

  Weeks after her attack, Miranda feared the Butcher would come after her. Kill her in her sleep. Take her back to the middle of nowhere and hunt her again. She’d wake up, a scream caught in her throat, her feet kicking as if running.

  That nightmare faded, but others replaced it. Calling out for the women who’d disappeared. Yelling until her voice was hoarse and her feet were weary. Then falling into a bottomless grave. Tumbling down, down . . . until she woke up in a cold sweat.

  It wasn’t her physical safety she worried about. It was her state of mind. As long as the Butcher preyed on women, he would control her dreams.

  “What if the Butcher isn’t Palmer or Larsen?” she asked Quinn.

  “Then we broaden the search. Truck drivers, salesmen—maybe we missed someone in the stack of files from the University. We review every interview, every note, reinterview people. Olivia is working the evidence hard; they’re prioritizing every test. If there’s DNA in a rock, she’ll find it.”

  “But we need a suspect’s DNA to compare.”

  “I know how hard this is on you.”

  “I feel like I should be out there right now. Looking for Ashley. And Nick.”

  Her eyes burned and her head ached from staring at the maps and property records, trying to figure out what Nick had seen and where he had gone.

  “Honey, I don’t want you getting your hopes up about Nick.” Quinn’s voice cracked; he was as torn up about Nick’s disappearance as she was.

  “I can’t help but think he’s alive. Why else would the Butcher plant just his car? If Nick’s dead, why not leave his body, too?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe he feared there was evidence that could be gathered from the body. If there was a struggle, some of the assailant’s skin or blood might be found on Nick. Best to dump the body where it can never be found.”

  “Then why leave the truck by the side of the road?”

  “To distract us. Split our resources. If we’re focusing on finding Nick, we’re not focusing on finding Ashley—and finding Ashley will lead us to the Butcher.” He ran a hand through his hair. “But I’m only guessing. Though the Butcher has never before taunted the police, maybe this is his way of saying he’s smarter than all of us. ‘Look at me, I can kill the sheriff and you can’t catch me.’ ”

  Quinn’s phone rang and Miranda tensed. News this late was never good.

  He squeezed her hand and didn’t let go. She squeezed back.

  “Peterson.”

  Miranda was sitting close enough to hear a woman’s voice on the other end.

  “It’s Colleen. Toby and I just left Palmer’s place. I’d say there’s a next-to-zero probability that he’s our guy. He drinks his meals. He gets winded walking from the La-Z-Boy to the refrigerator.”

  “Shit.”

  “I have his employer’s contact info; Palmer says he hasn’t missed a day in weeks. He’s pretty bitter about what happened with his girlfriend, doesn’t like cops, but I think he’s harmless.”

  “I trust your instincts. Where are you now?”

  “We’re driving to Denver. About two hours to go. In the morning we’re all set to talk to Larsen’s department head. She called me directly, says Larsen is in the field but she can send someone to fetch him.”

  “In the field? Doing what?”

  “The guy is an expert in—” she paused—“um, falcons, I think. He tracks them, monitors breeding, that sort of thing. The research facility is based in Craig, but Larsen works near the Dinosaur National Monument.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “I know,” Miranda interrupted.

  “Hold on, Colleen.” Quinn turned to her.

  “It’s in the northwest corner of Colorado. Less than an eight-hour drive to Bozeman. And fully within the boundaries of Professor Austin’s map.”

  Miranda couldn’t sleep. She tossed and turned for an hour.

  “This is ridiculous,” she muttered to no one as she tossed off her comforter and pulled on her boots.

  Quinn had left at midnight after getting a call from Olivia that the preliminary tests confirmed that the soil found in Nick’s truck matched the soil found in the shack where Rebecca had been held. In addition, they extracted a good shoe print—size eleven—from the truck’s floor mats. Nick wore a size twelve.

  Quinn had told her to get some sleep. She needed it, and she wanted it, but her mind was spinning. Every time she closed her eyes, she remembered David Larsen’s small photograph from his University file.

  It seemed unreal: putting a face to the Butcher. Could it be Larsen? She didn’t know. She’d now seen his face, but she couldn’t definitively say it was him.

  She’d almost asked Quinn to spend the night. She wondered if he’d been waiting for her to ask. Now she wished she had.

  The anger she’d held on to so very long seemed to have dissipat
ed these last few days. When she had first seen Quinn, she’d been so angry, so shocked, so worried that he would see right through her tough façade. She feared he’d question every decision she made, everything she said, every action.

  But when she woke up this morning, she didn’t fear what he’d say if he saw she was struggling under the strain of the investigation. Instead, she found herself wanting to see him.

  She pulled on her warm coat, pocketed her gun, and left the warmth of her cabin. She paused on the porch, breathing in the cold air, shivering even though she was bundled up. It would be forty-five degrees tonight. Not cold enough to freeze poor Ashley, but cold enough that she’d probably wish she were dead.

  Miranda had.

  She half ran to the Lodge and let herself in through the employee entrance. She didn’t give herself the opportunity to second-guess her decision. She walked right up the stairs to his room and knocked on the door.

  Opening the door, Quinn wore gray sweat pants and nothing else. Miranda sucked in her breath at the sight of his chest. She thought she’d forgotten how handsome he was, but she hadn’t. She remembered every well-defined muscle on his lean body. There wasn’t one extra fat cell.

  He was as perfect now as he had been at thirty.

  “I couldn’t sleep,” she said, sounding a tad breathless. Her heart pounded with anticipation. Coming here, she had known what would happen. What she hoped would happen.

  She needed him. Quinn would chase away her demons and make her feel warm. Desirable. More a woman, less a victim.

  “Miranda—”

  She stepped inside and closed the door. Quinn reached out, took her hand, and drew her to him. “I didn’t realize how much I’ve missed you,” she said, her voice unusually husky.

  “God, how I’ve missed you, Miranda.”

  He kissed her.

  There was nothing tentative about this kiss. He held her face and sunk into her. She felt like she was coming home.

  She’d never stopped loving him. Quinn had been so patient with her, so incredibly supportive. He’d done everything for her, including recommending her for the Academy when he hadn’t thought she was ready.

  Miranda’s feelings of betrayal and fear were washed away in his warm embrace. The heat flared. She wouldn’t be satisfied with just a kiss. She wanted more. Everything.

  She wanted him back.

  Quinn pulled away, looked at her, and frowned. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “Wrong? Nothing.”

  “These?” He wiped tears from her cheek. She hadn’t known they were there. He kissed his damp fingers, then her cheek.

  “Miranda, I’ve been waiting so long for you to come back to me.”

  She took his hand and kissed his palm, holding it close. “I realized something over the last couple of days. You were right. I wanted to be in the FBI for the wrong reasons. I thought the badge would buy me courage. It would be a shield against the fear I lived with every day.”

  “Miranda, you have more courage than anyone I’ve ever met. You never needed a badge to confirm it.”

  “I understand that now. But I don’t know if I have the courage to make it through tomorrow without you. If Larsen really is the Butcher, I don’t know how I’ll face him.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  She nodded. “Oh, but I do. I was going to say, I don’t know how I’ll face him, but I will. I will prove to myself that I can do it. But it’ll be easier with you at my side.”

  Quinn pulled her as close to him as possible with her bundles of clothing. “Miranda, I’ll be there every step of the way.”

  “Can I get rid of the jacket?”

  Quinn smiled and kissed her forehead as he helped her off with the jacket. Her sweater. Her shirt. She stood in her camisole and jeans. Quinn looked as if he wanted to eat her up. She warmed under his intense perusal.

  She leaned up and kissed him.

  He held her face in his hands and kissed her again and again, as if trying to make up for all the kisses they’d missed over the years. How had she given up such affection? Each kiss brought back the intimacy they’d once shared, Quinn’s patience, his support, and the first time they’d made love.

  A moan escaped her lips and he gently pushed her down onto the bed. “You’re beautiful, Randy,” he whispered, his lips trailing kisses down her neck, then back up again. She shivered, little currents of electricity running up and down her spine.

  She reached for him, wanting to pull him down with her, to fully kiss him, but he teased her with the light caresses, his fingers walking down her arm and back up, skimming over her breasts, then back again. A seductive touch that made her want to peel off his sweatpants.

  Except she was enjoying every delicious moment. It had been too long, much too long.

  She reached out for him, ran her hands up and down his hard back. His dark eyes looked down at her, his strong jaw quivered with suppressed desire. “Miranda, are you sure?”

  She nodded, leaned up, and kissed him.

  Quinn wanted to make love to her. Now.

  The first time they made love more than a decade ago, he knew she hadn’t enjoyed it. She had wanted to get it over with, prove something to herself. That she trusted him with her body and heart had been a heady experience, and he’d never pushed her. But as their relationship grew and Miranda became more comfortable in bed with him, their lovemaking turned passionate and full of heat.

  Her touches now sparked that same intense desire. And by her body moving to meet his, he was hitting all the right spots.

  He took off her jeans and pulled off her sexy little camisole.

  The first time he’d seen the scars the Butcher had left on her breasts, he hadn’t been able to conceal raw anger. Miranda interpreted it as disgust, and it took him days to make her understand.

  She was beautiful, scars and all. He had convinced her of his sincerity and his love, but every time she exposed her breasts she tensed.

  He kissed them. Lightly. Lovingly. He didn’t spend too much time on her chest, knowing she wasn’t completely comfortable. He remembered everything about her. She’d lost weight and her ribs showed. He should have been here to keep her eating right, keep her healthy. But her muscles were tight and hard. She was in better physical shape now than she had been at the Academy, but that didn’t surprise him.

  He was proud of her, that she’d worked so hard to get where she was. And she thought she lacked bravery? She was the epitome of courage.

  Miranda gasped when Quinn’s tongue lightly skimmed over her stomach, sending glorious shockwaves tingling up and down her body, heating her from within. His teeth bit her panties and pulled them down so his tongue could tease and tantalize her, getting closer and closer without touching the one area she wanted him to fully explore. With firm hands, he stripped her, staring at her body.

  “You’re beautiful,” he repeated, bending down again to kiss her thigh.

  “Make love to me,” she said, her voice urgent. She wanted him now.

  She felt more than heard a chuckle from his lips on her inner thigh as his mouth moved down to her knee, her calf, trailing kisses and warmth.

  He kissed her toes and she shivered, slivers of fire beginning to pool in her center. His patience was admirable in many ways, but right now she wanted him inside her. Making love to her.

  “Quinn,” she gasped.

  His lips trailed back up her leg, searing her skin. She was never cold in Quinn’s arms. She was hot. Combustible.

  She reached down, trying to draw him up to her mouth where she could sink into him, become one with him. Instead, he parted her legs and used his thumbs to rub small circles everywhere but there, the one place she needed him.

  “Quinn, I’m ready.”

  She moaned and arched her back.

  “I know,” he murmured, but did nothing to speed up his foreplay.

  It was as if he wanted to get to know her all over again. He’d spent so much time in the past touching, hol
ding, petting every inch of her skin. She’d missed the attention, both the sweet affection and the hot passion. As Quinn explored her body, the memories of everything that had been right between them flooded back. How he had not only accepted her flawed body, but helped her learn to love herself again. He made her comfortable in her own skin.

  His mouth drew closer, closer . . . she arched in anticipation. He didn’t disappoint. As soon as his mouth clamped down on her mound, she orgasmed. A hot, fast purging that had her gasping for air. His hands stroked her thighs, her back, taking her up, then easing her back.

  He kissed her inner thighs, her navel, her stomach, her breasts, all the way to her neck.

  She rolled over with him so she straddled him.

  “What?” he asked, his wicked grin illuminated by the glow of the desk lamp. But his light manner was betrayed by his hard body trembling beneath her. He wanted her as much as she wanted him.

  I need him.

  She pushed her needs aside. She didn’t know what would happen after tonight. She didn’t want to think about the sunrise and the stark light of reality it would bring. She didn’t want to think of Quinn leaving again, of going back to being alone. Without him.

  Seize the time they had now. Embrace rediscovering a small part of what they’d shared in the past. Pretend nothing had happened in the last ten years to keep them apart.

  She kissed him, her hands running over his skin as he had touched her. He held her close, their bodies molding together. She slid down, out of his arms, and pulled off his sweats. This was what she wanted. A complete union.

  Quinn’s patience was drawing to a close. He wanted to make love to Miranda in the worst way. Where sex and love merged. He watched her in the dim light, her long, dark hair falling in front of her face, looking like a wild woman with large, luminous eyes. His satisfaction at having given her pleasure quickly turned to urgency, and he moaned as she reached between his legs and squeezed.

  “Wait,” he said. He didn’t want to lose it too soon. He had wanted to make love to her, hold her. Take it nice and slow. But the way she held him, slow was the furthest thing from his mind.