“Waiting.”
“For what?”
“For your lover to show himself.”
“You’ll never get away with this.” That sounded so stupid! Worse, she feared Delilah was desperate enough to do anything.
Miranda ran scenarios through her head. She could scream, but Delilah would simply render her unconscious. She could kick out, hope to loosen the gun from her grip, but tied to the tree Miranda had no opportunity to seize the gun. The best chance she had was to warn Quinn when he came close enough. Warn him that it was a trap. She could only hope he would figure it out before it was too late.
“I watched you and that cop,” Delilah continued. “Screwing each other last night.”
She was there? She’d been so close and they hadn’t known. Miranda felt tainted that her most intimate moment with Quinn, their reunion, had been observed by such a twisted, sick individual.
“When I was little I never understood what was so wonderful about sex. It seemed so messy. Sweating bodies and all that. I used to watch my mother, after my daddy left us. Watch her with men. Watch her with Davy.”
Miranda’s ears perked up. Her mother had molested her own son? The whole family was deranged. A faint spark of pity shot through Miranda’s soul, but she suppressed it. We all have choices. They chose to be evil.
Delilah said nothing for a long moment. Then, “I used to hate Davy. Mama loved him more. Cuddled him. Hugged him. I was the unwanted daughter. Daddy had loved me, but he left and never came back. Never, not even once. Just walked out the door.” She took a deep breath and shook the childlike tone from her voice. “But Mama loved Davy more and took him to her bed. Did everything for him. And I hated him. Of course, once I realized she was fucking him I sort of felt sorry for the kid. He’d lie there and cry. So pathetic. Why didn’t he fight back? Why didn’t he just leave?” She shook her head.
“I didn’t let him kill you,” Delilah told her.
Miranda stifled a response. Now was not the time to challenge Delilah.
“After you got away, he wanted to kill you, but you fought back. I admired that. And look how you repaid me. I gave you your life and you killed my brother!” She hit Miranda in the face and her head slammed into the tree. Miranda literally saw stars and shouted in pain.
“You sick bitch!”
“None of that,” Delilah said. She pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and stuffed it in Miranda’s mouth, then tied a length of rope around her face to keep the gag in place.
Miranda was now helpless to warn Quinn. Her stomach lurched. Please, please stay away.
I can’t bear to watch you die.
Officer Dick Walters was dead. Shot in the back of the head. And Miranda was missing.
Quinn turned from the cop’s faceless body on Miranda’s small porch and gave orders to the half-dozen sheriff’s deputies already there. More were on their way, plus additional FBI agents, but time was of the essence. Quinn couldn’t wait for more help.
Delilah hadn’t even attempted to cover her tracks. She expected them to follow. Wanted them to follow.
What was her goal? She had Miranda, presumably alive—there was no blood inside the cabin—but why keep her alive?
Delilah wanted someone or something, and taking a hostage would give her leverage.
Quinn hated hostage negotiations. The intense stress of being responsible for the lives of innocent people had destroyed some of the best agents he had worked with. But it was worse when the hostage was someone you knew.
Or someone you loved.
“Proceed with caution,” he told the deputies, directing two to the right, two to the left, and two with him directly up the trail Delilah had taken.
They hastened, staying as close to the tree line as possible in case of an ambush. They didn’t go far, not even two hundred yards, before the trail opened into a meadow, camouflaged by a thick growth of trees.
Quinn couldn’t miss her. Miranda’s white robe practically glowed in the green and brown of the tree-lined meadow, like a beacon advertising her location. She sat up against a tree. He pulled out his field binoculars and stared.
She was tied to the tree and gagged. Her hair was wet and she wore only a thin robe. But the cold was the least of her problems.
Quinn couldn’t see Delilah anywhere. He smelled a trap.
He ached to run to Miranda, but took a step back. It would do neither of them any good if he was gunned down.
He spoke quietly into the radio. “It feels like a trap. Do not, I repeat, do not walk into the clearing.”
He turned to Jorgensen. “Bullhorn.”
The cop handed it to him.
Quinn took a deep breath. This was it.
“Delilah Parker,” he said into the bullhorn, his voice loud and tinny-sounding.
“Delilah, I’m Special Agent Quincy Peterson of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. You might remember me. You graciously served me lemonade and banana bread when I first came to town.”
Quinn said the first thing that came to his mind, but it felt right. He motioned to the other men to take either side and stay out of sight. He nodded to Jorgensen, who turned and headed back to the Lodge. Plan B was a last resort.
Quinn feared it was their only option.
Delilah Parker was all about control and image. Quinn remembered what Nick told him about her need to be the hostess, how you never turned down a drink or meal from Mrs. Parker.
He needed to appeal to that side of her.
Not the side that watched her brother rape nearly two dozen women.
“Delilah? Can you come out so we can talk?”
“No! He’s doing it wrong!”
Delilah was angry and Miranda glanced from her to Quinn nearly a football field away.
Delilah had been hiding behind a hollowed-out, rotting tree. Her goal was to shoot Quinn when he came for Miranda. So Miranda could watch him die.
But Quinn wasn’t playing her game, and now Delilah was angry. She pounded the ground and pouted.
Quinn’s voice came over the speaker. “Delilah, this is between you and me now. No one else. You tell me what you want, and I’ll figure out how we can get it for you. Okay?”
“No!” Delilah jumped up and strode over to Miranda, the tip of the gun touching her head. Miranda couldn’t stop shaking. She’d seen Dick Walters’s body. Delilah would kill her, too.
And she would kill Quinn if she had an opportunity.
“Put the gun down so we can talk,” Quinn said. He was walking around the short side of the meadow. Seeming to be moving farther away, but Miranda knew what he was doing. Trying to get closer. Trying to distract Delilah from everything else going on. Miranda saw only one cop among the trees. There had to be more.
“No, no, no!” Delilah kicked the ground. “Don’t you see?” she shouted. “Don’t you get it? She has to die. But it doesn’t mean anything unless she sees you die, too. She killed Davy. She needs to suffer for taking him. Don’t you see that?”
“Delilah, I understand what you’re going through,” Quinn said. “Grief is a powerful emotion.”
“You know nothing about grief.”
“Try me.”
“No. You’re buying time. What are you doing? Getting a SWAT team to run in here and shoot me? Well, I’ll tell you, your girlfriend’ll die too.”
Delilah’s hand was steady, but she sweated profusely. Her eyes kept darting back and forth, like a rodent’s. Miranda waited for an opportunity to do something, but she had no idea what. She watched Quinn for a signal, but he wasn’t looking at her. His eyes were on Delilah.
He moved closer.
“Delilah, you don’t mean that. You made some wrong choices, but you didn’t kill any of those girls, right?”
“Who cares? No one cared when I told them what my mother did to Davy. They didn’t believe me.”
“I believe you, Delilah.”
“I’m not stupid, Special Agent Peterson,” she shouted. “I know what you’re doing. Y
ou’re trying to get me to break down in remorse and say I’m sorry. Well I’m not sorry. The only thing I’m sorry about is I didn’t let Davy kill this bitch—” she kicked Miranda in the side “—when she got away.”
Miranda started to close her eyes, ready for the pain of a bullet, when she saw Quinn motion with his hand. It was sign language. They were required to learn it at the Academy.
Get low.
From the opposite side of the field, a voice shouted, “Mom! Don’t!”
Delilah turned and the gun moved away from Miranda’s head. Miranda leaned down as far as she could.
“Ryan? You would betray me too?” Delilah turned the gun toward her son.
Then the noise.
Whap! Whap whap whap whap whap!
Delilah’s body was thrown backward into the tree as the bullets hit her. She fell into Miranda’s lap, her eyes looking right into Miranda’s.
“Peace,” she gurgled.
Her body jerked and she died. Miranda stared at Delilah Parker’s dead body.
Quinn knelt at her side and pushed Delilah’s body off her, then pulled out the gag. He untied her as he tried to hold her at the same time.
Quinn got her hands undone. She grabbed on to him, holding him tightly to her, silent tears running down her face. He picked her up, carrying her farther into the trees, away from death.
He kissed her, held her close. “I’m sorry we had to bring in Ryan, but—I only did it as a last resort.”
“I know.”
“Now, Miranda, it’s really over.”
CHAPTER
39
Two weeks later.
The first day of June boasted clear blue skies and unseasonably warm weather. Miranda’s dress was a simple crepe—backless with spaghetti straps, a draped bodice, and gently flared floor-length skirt. Elegant and classic without seeming out of place for the informal affair. She was pleased she’d made the effort to pin up her mass of curls and actually put on more make-up than a touch of mascara. The look of appreciation and pride on Quinn’s face was obvious. She felt like a giddy teenager beaming over her first love.
Quinn was her first love. First and last.
She smiled at herself in the mirror. A real, genuine smile. She suspected she bounced when she walked, a definite change for her. But when your world suddenly opened up and the weight of fear lifted from your heart, you simply felt lighter all around.
A knock on her cabin door disrupted her moment of solitude. Quinn had left before she dressed—yeah, she knew the groom and bride weren’t supposed to see each other, but that was a stupid rule she was only too happy to break.
“Come in,” she called from her bedroom. “Couldn’t stay away for even ten minutes?”
“Try ten years.”
Miranda dropped her makeup brush and rushed from the bedroom.
“Rowan!” She hugged her friend tightly to her. “I can’t believe you’re here.”
Along with Olivia, Rowan Smith had been her roommate at the FBI Academy ten years ago. She left the Bureau when she sold her first crime novel. Rowan had recently survived her own living nightmare when a brutal killer re-created her fictional murders and sent her sick mementos of his crimes.
Now that the ordeal was behind her, she looked as happy as Miranda felt.
“Quinn called,” Rowan said, her eyes twinkling. “Did you think I’d miss you and that stubborn fool finally tying the knot?”
“I knew it would happen.” Olivia stepped into view. Miranda reached for her hand and squeezed it.
“I thought you’d gone back to Virginia.”
“I did. I just returned to Montana last night.” She smiled. “You look happy.”
“I am.” She glanced around. “Rowan, did you bring the guy Quinn told me about? John?”
“He’s talking with Quinn and your dad up at the Lodge. We were sent to change and fetch you.” Rowan looked at peace, like a huge weight had been lifted off her shoulders. Miranda knew exactly how she felt. Yet Rowan walked like she was still in pain, and eased herself into a chair, her face deliberately blank.
“What’s wrong? Quinn said you were fine.”
Rowan waved off her concern. “I am fine,” she said. “It’s just been a long day and my body isn’t rebounding as fast as it did in the past. When that bank robber shot me eight years ago, it only took me two weeks to feel like myself.” She laughed. “I’m getting old.”
“Hey, I resent that,” Liv said, crossing her arms. “I’m five years older than you.”
“And you look five years younger,” Rowan countered.
Miranda noticed two garment bags from a Bozeman dress shop and wrinkled her nose. She loved her simple white wedding dress, but had no intention of wearing anything other than jeans after the reception. “What are those?”
“We’re your co–maids of honor,” Liv explained with a wide smile.
“I can’t believe it.”
Rowan shrugged. “I didn’t think Quinn had a romantic streak, but it was all his idea.”
Rowan slowly rose from the chair. “We’d better get changed, Liv.”
Miranda was about to follow them into her bedroom when her cabin door opened and the love of her life stood on the threshold.
She smiled and said, “Isn’t there some sort of rule that you’re not supposed to see the bride before the wedding?”
Quinn crossed the room and pulled her into his arms. “You look beautiful. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in a dress.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
She kissed him and his hands trailed down her neck to her shoulder, making her shiver with anticipation.
“I love you, Miranda.”
“I know,” she teased, then realized he wasn’t smiling. “What’s wrong?”
“I almost lost you. It’s not something I’m going to forget anytime soon.”
“I’m okay.”
“Are you? Really? Because I’m not.” He ran a hand through his hair, fidgeting.
“I am really okay. For the first time since the attack, I feel free. I faced David Larsen and didn’t panic, didn’t run. I did the best I could with what I had.”
“You sure did. But I’m also thinking about what happened ten years ago.”
“I told you, the past is the past.” Why did he keep bringing it up? What did he hope to accomplish?
“What happened then kept us apart.”
“It’s more my fault than yours.” She truly believed that. “I could have returned. And maybe under different circumstances, I would have.” She paused, trying to figure out how to explain her feelings, ideas that had just started forming over the last two weeks since David Larsen and Delilah Parker died.
“I’ll never understand fate. Why Sharon died. But I do believe there was a reason I didn’t go back to Quantico. At the time, it was easy to blame you and the shrink and my own fears. But looking back on my decision not to return to the Academy, I realize it was the right choice. Maybe I didn’t think it through like that, but in hindsight if I wasn’t here, maybe Ashley and Nick wouldn’t have been found until it was too late.
“I can’t discount my contribution to this investigation, just like I know if you hadn’t returned to help things might have ended a lot differently. So I think everything happened the way it did because it was supposed to. And I’m not going to regret my choices, even if I made them for the wrong reasons.”
Quinn wrapped his arms around her waist and kissed her. Long, slow, warm. This was exactly where she was supposed to be.
“And you’re okay about having to postpone the honeymoon?”
“Oh, please.” For some reason, Quinn felt bad that they couldn’t go on their honeymoon until September. He’d taken the last two weeks off to put together the wedding. “We had the honeymoon before the wedding,” she said and laughed.
He grinned. “We sure did.”
“I love you, Quincy Peterson. And now you’re stuck with me, warts and all.”
“Wha
t warts?” He smiled and kissed her ear, sucking on her lobe.
“Stop that or we’ll be late for our own wedding.”
“So?” he murmured. “They can’t have a wedding without the bride and groom.”
She laughed. She’d laughed more during the last two weeks than she had in the previous ten years. She looked forward to many years of joy with the man she loved.
The ceremony was peaceful and small, just their closest friends at the Lodge. Quinn’s parents had flown in for the day, joining Miranda’s father, Gray, Nick, a couple of the deputies, and her Search and Rescue team.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Peterson.”
Quinn smiled as he kissed her lightly.
She arched her eyebrows. “Mrs. Peterson? I thought I’d keep my maiden name.”
“Whatever you want, Ms. Moore.”
She laughed and threw her arms around him. “I think Mrs. Peterson sounds perfect.”
He spun her around and she laughed again. When was the last time she’d felt so free?
Out of the corner of her eye she saw Nick approach. She squeezed Quinn’s shoulder, and he released her.
“Nick, I’m so glad you came. How are you doing?”
He nodded without emotion. Her heart twisted for her friend. His eyesight still hadn’t fully returned and glasses didn’t completely correct his problem. The infection had run its course, leaving him thin and hollow-looking. Though he didn’t talk about it, Miranda knew the decision he made to go down to Richard Parker’s cabin alone haunted him.
She hugged Nick tightly. He’d been a solid friend when she’d needed one. “It’s finally over, Nick. We got him.”
“It was my life for years.” He looked at her pointedly. “Your life, too.” He glanced at Quinn. “I’m glad you’ve been able to get beyond it. Really I am.”
“If you want to talk about anything, call me. You know I’d do anything for you.”
“I know, but you’re moving to Seattle.”
“They have phones in Seattle.”
“True.” He smiled wanly. “I’ll be fine.”
Miranda nodded, though she still worried about Nick. He hadn’t bounced back as quickly as she’d thought he would, and had been talking about not running for reelection. She hoped he would change his mind, especially since he’d decided not to remove Sam Harris from his position as undersherriff.
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