He swallowed several times and gagged because his mouth was so dry. He’d had nightmares before, but nothing was as real, as scary, as this one. Because this nightmare had happened. That girl really had been killed, and he’d seen her hollow stare in the middle of the woods, accusing him. He’d almost closed her eyes because of that look, but didn’t want to touch the body.
But his nightmare combined reality with fiction. She hadn’t reached out for him in the woods, he told himself over and over again. That was a dream, something his mind made up. It took several minutes for Ryan to separate what he’d really seen last week with what he’d imagined in his dream.
But Rebecca Douglas’s blank eyes haunted him whether he slept or not.
He slid silently out of bed and crossed over to his dresser, carefully sliding open the bottom drawer. Inside were his special things, in one of the few places his mother didn’t search in his room. Cool rocks, a fish fossil he’d found at Yellowstone, a piece of petrified wood, baseball cards, wrappers from Double Bubble gum that had funny cartoons.
And the belt buckle.
He didn’t remember the entire nightmare, but right before he woke himself, he’d pictured the belt buckle, the bird with the glowing green eyes.
He didn’t turn on any lights, but felt around in the far corner of the drawer until his hand touched the cold steel. He froze, sensing something was wrong, but not knowing what.
He should have gone down to that FBI guy and showed it to him. But it was too late now.
It was probably nothing, just some guy pissing in the woods.
No, it wasn’t.
His fingers wrapped around the metal bird almost as if they had a mind of their own. And at that moment, he knew what he had to do, whom he needed to show the buckle to.
His father wasn’t the easiest person to talk to, but he was the smartest person Ryan knew. He was a judge. He’d know exactly what to do with the buckle, who should have it.
He started toward his parents’ bedroom, then smelled coffee downstairs. He detoured into the kitchen, hoping his father was there.
He was. “Hi, Dad.”
“You’re up early.”
He shrugged, fingered the belt buckle. “I was wondering . . . well, I found something and don’t really know what it is. I thought you might . . .” That sounded stupid. He knew it was a belt buckle, he just didn’t want to tell his dad where he’d found it.
“Sure, what is it?”
“There you are.”
Ryan jumped. His mother walked in wearing her robe, and frowned.
“Delilah,” his dad said, “I thought you were still sleeping.”
“I woke up and you weren’t there. I went to check on Ryan, and he wasn’t there, either.”
“I went to check on the horses, they seemed kind of spooked, and couldn’t get back to sleep so I made a pot of coffee. Can I get you a cup?”
“I can get it myself,” his mother said.
Ryan didn’t want to talk to his dad with his mother there. He was sure to be punished for going back near where that dead girl was found. His father’s punishments were usually lighter than his mother’s. He’d catch his dad tonight.
“I’m going to get ready for school,” he said.
“Didn’t you want to show me something?” his dad asked.
“It’s not important. I’ll show you tonight.”
“Okay.”
His mother leaned over for a kiss, and he brushed his lips against her cheek, then his father’s, before scrambling up the stairs.
I’ll ask Dad about the buckle tonight.
CHAPTER
20
Before Miranda could leave the hospital, she had to see JoBeth Anderson. She had no trouble talking her way past the guard. Sometimes being Nick’s ex-girlfriend had its advantages.
JoBeth was a survivor. She wasn’t Rebecca or any of the dead girls. She was alive. More than anything, Miranda wanted her to know that she was strong and had to fight. Fight to take down the bastard who’d kidnapped her friend.
There could be clues to the Butcher’s identity locked in her head. Her unconscious head.
JoBeth lay on a gently reclined hospital bed with a white blanket pulled almost to her neck. Machines beeped softly as her heart beat in her chest. Other devices monitored her breathing. Her brain activity. Her life.
She was alive and breathing on her own, an IV in her arm hydrating her. Miranda remembered too well spending a week in the same hospital. She couldn’t wait to leave then; she didn’t want to be here now.
“Wake up,” she whispered. If they were to have a real chance of saving Ashley, JoBeth had to regain consciousness soon.
A large section of her head was covered with a thick white bandage, stark against her limp red hair. Her pale skin seemed almost translucent and Miranda wondered how much of it was from the attack and how much was her natural pallor.
“JoBeth,” Miranda said, her voice thick with unshed tears. She sat in the chair next to the girl and swallowed. She didn’t want JoBeth to perceive, through the coma, her own fear and worry. She wanted the girl to take her strength.
“Jo,” she said, her voice stronger. “My name is Miranda Moore. I don’t think we’ve met before.”
What to say? She’d never faced a living victim before. Well, that wasn’t completely true. She’d counseled rape victims, eased the fear of those lost then found, dealt with hysterical parents and worried children.
But never a victim of the Butcher. Except when she looked into the mirror.
She could do this. She had to. If anything in JoBeth’s mind could lead them to the man who’d hurt her, Miranda had to find some way to get it out. To save Ashley.
“You survived, JoBeth. You are alive. I’ve heard that people in comas can hear what’s going on around them. Focus on me, JoBeth. Focus. If you want to save Ashley’s life, focus on my words.”
Was that the right approach? Should she even tell her Ashley was in danger? What if that made things worse? What if the guilt killed her?
I survived. Sharon died.
Miranda squeezed her eyes shut and took a deep breath.
“I don’t know why he didn’t take you, too,” Miranda said, looking at the unconscious girl. “But you’re the lucky one. You’re the survivor. You made it this far, and you’re going to make it back to us. You have to. For Ashley. Because somewhere in that sleeping mind of yours is the key to the identity of the man who kidnapped her.”
She hadn’t forgiven herself for not remembering more about her days in captivity. For not being able to identify her attacker. The man who killed Sharon. She could hear his voice, the few times he actually spoke.
Bitch.
How do you like this?
Stay.
Run. You have two minutes.
She’d repeated those words to the investigators. To the FBI profiler. To the shrink she was forced to see. The cruel words spoken in a dull, even monotone didn’t mean anything to her. Oh, the profiler made noise that her attacker had been sexually abused by a woman as a child and was “punishing” his tormentor, but what good did that do in the investigation? Miranda didn’t know. Certainly if they had a suspect it might help. But the police had nothing. The FBI had nothing.
She’d been no help.
But maybe JoBeth would be.
Miranda sucked in a ragged breath. “JoBeth, I was the one who got away,” she whispered. “The Bozeman Butcher. I escaped. But my best friend died. Her name was Sharon and I loved her. Like a sister. I shared everything with her. I never thought—well, I never thought anything bad would happen to us. But the Butcher took us.”
Why had the Butcher not taken JoBeth? Miranda didn’t know, and Quinn and Nick could only speculate. Perhaps he didn’t have time to get her into the truck. Maybe she’d seen his face. Maybe she knew him. Speculation that could be confirmed only by JoBeth Anderson.
“Jo, you need to come out of this daze you’re in. I know you’re in pain. I know it’ll h
urt. But if you don’t wake up soon, the Butcher will kill Ashley.” Miranda swallowed. “None of this is your fault. Know that. But you need to wake up and help us. Help the police find whoever took Ashley. Before he hurts her. Before he hunts her.”
Nothing. No movement, nothing to tell Miranda that JoBeth had heard a word she’d said. Miranda squeezed her hand, rested her forehead on the bed, and took a deep breath.
She had a job to do. A woman to find. Before it was too late.
After a moment, she stood, stronger and with purpose. She touched JoBeth’s shoulder and said, “You get better, Jo. Promise me, get well. I’ll be back to talk to you. Maybe tonight, but definitely tomorrow morning, okay?”
She didn’t expect an answer. She didn’t get one.
Quinn couldn’t park in front of the Sheriff’s Department because of the dozens of media vehicles taking every available space. He frowned, parked around the corner, and approached on foot just in time to hear Nick, who stood at the top of the steps, say, “That’s all the questions I have time for. I have an investigation to run.”
Nick turned and went back into the building while the reporters hurled questions at his retreating back.
Quinn ducked down the alley to avoid the reporters and flashed his badge at the deputy guarding the back entrance. He walked straight to Nick’s office.
“What happened?” he asked as he poured himself a cup of coffee from the pot on Nick’s sideboard.
Nick grunted. “Hell if I know, but there’s someone from CNN calling up the public relations officer wanting an interview, and that guy from America’s Most Wanted wants to come out this weekend to film a segment on the Butcher.”
“It couldn’t hurt. Those shows get a lot of attention.” Though by the time the show aired in seven to ten days, Ashley would be dead.
Nick stared at him. “Have you seen the paper this morning?”
“No.”
Nick tossed him the front section.
The headline screamed: Butcher Strikes Again.
“How’d he get it in?”
“Stopped the presses? I don’t know. Most of the story could have been written before Ashley van Auden disappeared, though. Only the first and last paragraphs are related to her.” Nick paused, drummed his fingers on his desk. “Did you talk to Banks?”
Quinn skimmed the article. “No. Not really. I ran into him yesterday at MSU, where he was snooping around.”
“What did you tell him?”
“Nothing important.” Quinn glanced up. “Why?”
“Read on.”
Quinn continued reading. A recounting of Rebecca’s abduction and death . . . Ryan Parker finding the body . . . rehash rehash rehash . . . Banks also wrote about a specialist being called in from the FBI crime lab, and added the fact that Quinn had retrieved 189 files of male students from the MSU Dean. He noted: The files of suspects from Penny Thompson’s disappearance had been returned to MSU, an example of the incompetence and disorganization evident in the investigation.
Banks also blasted the Sheriff’s Department and Nick in particular: One anonymous source close to the investigation said, “The Sheriff’s Department has mishandled this case from the beginning. It’s about time someone competent steps up to the plate. We are living in a state of fear and it has to stop.”
It implied that Quinn had said Nick was incompetent without actually quoting him.
What a jerk!
“I didn’t tell him anything, about Olivia or the files,” Quinn said, tossing the paper back at Nick. “He’s just trying to rile you up. It’s an anonymous quote, Nick. Don’t take it personally.”
Nick’s expression told Quinn his friend had taken the criticism to heart.
“We’re doing everything we can,” Quinn said. “We have the best of the best looking at evidence. We’re searching all known shacks and cabins. We’re taking Ashley’s car apart and Rebecca’s as well. And I have the list of men who could have known Penny whittled down to a few dozen. Much more manageable than the hundreds we had twelve years ago, and the nearly two hundred from yesterday. Let’s get on it.”
Nick stood. “I have some things to do.”
“What?”
“Nothing important. Just some ideas.”
“I’m here if you want to brainstorm. Bounce ideas around.” Nick looked defeated, something Quinn had never expected from his friend.
“Seriously, it’s nothing. But if something comes of it, I’ll call you. Keep following Penny’s associates. I’m probably chasing shadows.”
He left before Quinn could question him further.
Quinn frowned. Something was disturbing Nick, but maybe it was just the article. Still, maybe he should go with him and help with whatever he was looking into.
He looked down at the huge stack of files he’d picked up from MSU yesterday. They had culled out the men who no longer fit the profile. Fifty-two possible suspects remained. He needed to narrow it down further.
Quinn picked up the phone and started making calls.
She felt detached, as if she weren’t in her body, just watching the scene unfold like a movie on the filthy floor in front of her. She’d seen the same performance many times and it never failed to both arouse and repel her.
He panted over her, fucking her like a doll. The girl was only there because she was tied to a stake in the floor. He never had been able to keep the interest of a girl. It was as if after one date, his potential girlfriend sensed he harbored dark fantasies she wanted no part of. He hadn’t even dated since that first girl, in Portland. When she’d said no, he’d lost his mind. Broke into her house and raped her. The fool.
She alone understood his needs. An insatiable appetite for power boiled under her skin, searing her from the inside out, needing release. Watching him satisfy his craving gave her some measure of relief. But he was such a fool. When he raped these girls, they still had the power. Because he wanted them, needed them, they controlled him.
The girl had cried herself out.
It usually happened over time. An hour. A day. Sometimes longer. But eventually, the girl accepted her fate and lay still, not fighting, not screaming. Silent tears running down her face.
She almost laughed at the absurdity of the whole thing. He was like a bitch in heat, needing the women to satiate his growing appetite. But it was becoming harder and harder to get the same satisfaction; she could tell by the viciousness of his abuse. The last girl, before Rebecca Douglas, he’d beaten to death so she’d never even had a chance to run.
He slapped the girl, trying to get her to respond to him. The sound of flesh on flesh normally excited her, but today it didn’t have the usual effect.
For the first time in her adult life, a sliver of fear ran down her spine. She stepped out of the shack and breathed in the cold, fresh morning air.
She didn’t fear for herself as much as she did for him. He was her responsibility, and his rash decision to take another girl so soon on the heels of the last was stupid. She’d tried to talk him out of it, tried to manipulate him out of it, but he’d been adamant: He’d take the girl with or without her.
She couldn’t allow him to do it alone. He needed her. To watch. To cover his tracks. To protect him.
The other reasons she stayed with him this time were a little more complicated to discern, even for her. She felt compelled to watch, hating the thought of him on another woman without her involvement. If he ever thought his satisfaction was better, more complete, without her around, he would go after more women by himself. Every time he kidnapped another one, the threat of discovery increased. If he took more of them, he’d be found out. It was only a matter of time.
So she was protecting him. It had nothing to do with what these women had that she didn’t, right? All she was doing was watching out for him like she’d always done.
He could have these women, but only if she was part of it.
He was led around by an invisible leash by all the women in his life. Her. The girls he ra
ped and killed. And especially by the one who got away.
She hadn’t let him kill Miranda Moore because her existence kept him more under her thumb than anything else. Fool. He was a fool. But he needed her.
Everything seemed to be running away from them. They were going to have to leave and find somewhere else to hunt. To protect him.
As soon as they were done with Ashley van Auden.
CHAPTER
21
Nick sat in the far corner of the Clerk and Recorder’s Office above the courthouse and pored over damn near a thousand parcel maps from the region of the county where the Butcher hunted.
While he had told Quinn he had an idea, he really had nothing more than a little hunch that the Butcher had a specific reason for choosing this section of Montana to hunt in. Maybe an idea would come from reviewing every land transaction for the past fifteen years.
He could have assigned a deputy to this tedious task, but after Eli Banks’s article questioning his competence and the fiasco of a press conference, he needed to step away.
He didn’t believe Quinn had called the Sheriff’s Department “incompetent.” But Nick’s ego was bruised knowing everyone in town was reading about the failure of the Gallatin County sheriff to catch the Butcher. His term was up next year, and at this point, he didn’t want to run again. Sam Harris was breathing down his neck, second-guessing each decision he made, and with Eli Banks back in town dogging his every step, the pressure was getting to him.
Nick had been second-guessing every decision he’d made over the last three years. It was completely unproductive. But last night, unable to sleep, Nick had made a list of every major turn in the Butcher investigation since he’d been sheriff. He wouldn’t have done anything differently; every avenue they’d explored was logical and followed the little evidence they had. But every path led to a dead end, and he didn’t see it changing now.
He was glad he’d called in Quinn. Though some of his deputies grumbled over bringing the Feds into their jurisdiction, Nick would use every possible resource to catch the Butcher. And with Quinn came a quiet confidence, natural leadership, and the presence of authority.
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