He circled the cabin. It was the standard A-frame—a large room or rooms on the main floor supported by pillars; a loft of sorts in the V of the roof.
He walked up the rickety staircase that led to the wraparound deck. It was obvious no one was here. Dark. No vehicle. Empty. Still, his entire body tensed, his instincts on alert.
He looked through a window, the half moon allowing him to make out shadows. Sparse furnishings—a couch, a chair, a table. No luggage. No food on the table. No gun or knife or woman strapped to the floor.
Yes, it had been a waste of time coming down here.
He holstered his gun, looked around the deck. Two lounge chairs were pushed flush with the house. He crossed the deck and stared at a lake a hundred yards away, the moonlight reflecting off the still surface.
What am I going to do now?
Well, no one knew he’d ventured out this way. Go home, sleep a couple of hours, tell Quinn he’d gone through the property records on a hunch that didn’t pan out. Brush it off and focus on Quinn’s fifty-some-odd men from the University.
It’s what he should have done today rather than pursuing a long shot.
Nick turned away from the railing and saw a pair of boots sitting outside the side door.
Odd.
He reached for his gun.
Before he could draw his weapon, he was unconscious.
CHAPTER
22
Miranda glanced at her watch. It was already seven thirty in the morning; where was Quinn?
Because she’d left her truck at the University, she was dependent on Quinn for transportation back to town. Why had she agreed to ride with him last night?
You were exhausted. Yes, she had feared she would fall asleep at the wheel. Nearly two weeks of virtually sleepless nights had taken their toll.
She’d slept surprisingly well last night. No nightmares, no interruptions. But when she woke up in the morning, she remembered a conversation she’d had with Quinn a year before she was accepted into Quantico. Thinking about it now, she realized he had always had doubts, but not about her ability.
“I’m leaving tomorrow morning,” Quinn said as he tucked Miranda’s hair behind her ear.
“Tomorrow? I thought you had a week off.”
“I did, but something’s come up.”
His tone clued her to the truth. “A murder.”
“You don’t want to hear about it.”
“Yes I do.”
“Miranda, why do you do this to yourself?”
They were sitting on the front porch of the Lodge. It was late evening and most of the guests had retired, or were having a final drink before the bar closed at eleven.
“I’m going to be an FBI agent, Quinn. I can handle the details.” She’d signed up for psychology and criminology courses; she’d already received her bachelor’s degree by doubling up on her studies last year. She would have entered Quantico this year, except she wouldn’t be twenty-three for ten more months.
“You keep talking about it.”
“I told you my plans.”
“You did. I just thought you’d change your mind.”
“Why?” Had she given him the impression she was flaky? She hoped not.
He looked at her, his dark eyes holding so much emotion she felt wonderfully, completely drowned in him. “I’ve been amazed by you for a year, Miranda. You’ve inspired me when I was becoming jaded with the job. Not catching the bastard who hurt you—” He swallowed and glanced away, but not before she caught a glimmer of moisture in his eyes.
“That’s not your fault. He will be stopped. Someday we will find him.”
Quinn slowly turned back to her, holding her hands tight. She leaned into him, content and confident in herself and her own sexuality for the first time since last spring. “You’re so close to this. I—I think you’re smart enough and driven enough to make a damn good FBI agent. But I think the Butcher investigation is driving you more than wanting to be an agent.” He sighed and stroked her hair. “I don’t know if I’m making any sense.”
“I’ll prove to you I’m capable.” Did she sound panicked? No, just emphatic. “You said you’d give me a letter of recommendation. But if you don’t want to, I can get others.”
“I promised you a letter, and you’ll get it.”
“Besides, I won’t be entering the Academy for nearly a year.” She paused. “You didn’t tell me about your case.”
He held her close to his side and they watched the shadows. She’d bundled in four layers of clothing and had a blanket around her legs. Here, with Quinn at her side, she felt secure.
“The victim is a child,” he said softly. “They’re the worst cases.”
“Miranda?”
She jumped, startled. Quinn stood at the base of the stairs looking at her quizzically.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Let’s go.”
She should have read between the lines back then. Thinking back on that night, she realized that Quinn had reservations about her career choice from the beginning. He gave her the letter of recommendation because he had promised, but he’d never expected her to follow through. She didn’t know if she was more upset with him for his concerns or with herself for not picking up on them at the time.
She’d been so certain she’d wanted to be in the FBI. Listening to Quinn talk about the cases he’d worked and the murderers he’d put behind bars—it inspired her and gave her hope that she, too, could fight the bad guys and win.
But there was only one bad guy she really wanted—needed—to defeat. Not for the first time, she feared the shrink might have been right. Her determination to capture the Butcher drove her, had led her to the FBI. She wouldn’t have called it obsession, but she focused on little else. How could she give up when he still hunted women?
In the car, Quinn said, “Miranda?”
“What?”
“Is something wrong?”
“No.” Was it that obvious? She shot Quinn a smile. “I actually slept pretty well last night.”
“Glad to hear it. You needed it.” He turned onto the main highway. She glanced at the dashboard clock: 7:50. She started planning the search, mentally reviewing the grids they’d worked on yesterday and wondering if there was someplace else she should send her team. Anyplace she picked was a shot in the dark.
“Does it even help?” she said.
“Excuse me?”
She hadn’t realized she’d spoken out loud. “I was just thinking about the searches. Every time another woman is abducted, I pull out all the stops and scour thousands of acres. But does it help? We’ve never found one in time. We couldn’t save Rebecca. Why did I ever think we could?”
“Don’t second-guess yourself, Miranda. Nick was doing that yesterday because the press jumped all over him. You are an expert in search and rescue. I looked over your methods and routes and I would have done the exact same thing with the people and resources you had.”
“You would have?”
“Absolutely. And if it weren’t for your methodical searches, we’d never have found some of the bodies.”
“But it was too late.” They’d found the Croft sisters four weeks after they’d been killed. Rebecca less than a day. But it would have been weeks if Judge Parker’s son hadn’t stumbled across her body.
“I talked to Olivia last night.”
“And? Did she find out something? She wouldn’t have called if she didn’t have news. What is it?”
“I called her,” Quinn explained. “And she doesn’t have anything definitive. But she sent some unusual soil samples to the FBI lab in Virginia. Do you know of anyplace around here that has red clay or red soil?”
“Red?” She thought back to her geology classes. “I don’t think so. Not around here.” She bit her lip. “Red clay? I could talk to someone in the geology department, they might have an idea.”
“Why don’t you ask—discreetly—when I drop you off at MSU? I’d come with you, but I need to meet
with Nick about the University’s records. We’re going to split up the remaining stack. It’ll be about three dozen men to check out, but right now it’s the only thing we’ve got until Olivia comes up with something definitive.”
Miranda glanced at Quinn. He wanted her to follow up on this? She hadn’t expected him to include her in anything, in light of their past. Knowing that he trusted her to find answers, even if it was a small component of the investigation, meant everything.
“Thank you,” she said.
“For what?”
“Trusting me.”
He paused. “Just be careful.”
The Bitch was going to skin him alive.
But what was he supposed to do? The damn cop was snooping around. What if he’d decided to break all those search and seizure laws and go into the cabin?
Well, he couldn’t really say anything to The Bitch about that. She didn’t know about everything he’d kept. She wouldn’t understand. He needed a connection to the women he’d cared for. He touched their photographs and remembered everything about them. Their hair—how soft it was. How beautiful their throats were. And their breasts . . . he loved their breasts most of all. Beautiful, round, full.
No, The Bitch wouldn’t understand.
But he had to get rid of the cop’s damn truck. Run it off the side of the road maybe. Or ditch it where it could be easily found. Better to hide it or have it discovered?
He didn’t know. That’s why he’d called her in the first place.
She drove up the narrow driveway faster than she should, her wheels spinning, and almost slammed into the back of the sheriff’s truck. She jumped out, her blonde hair bouncing off her back.
“You fucking idiot!”
“He was snooping.”
“We gotta go.” She stomped up the stairs and strode over to the door. “Where is he? What did you do with the body? Bury him?”
“He’s with the girl.”
She blinked, then her eyes widened. “Why the fuck would you drag his body miles away? Why not just bury him here?”
“I don’t think he’s dead.”
“Why the hell not?”
He shrugged. He hadn’t planned on killing him. He just knocked him out. There was some blood, but he didn’t think he was dead. Once the sheriff was just lying there on the deck, there was no urge to kill him. What was the fun in killing someone who couldn’t see it coming?
Oh, well. He’d never planned on letting the sheriff go. Eventually he’d die of starvation.
“You are an idiot. You’re stupid, stupid! We have to go, leave Montana. You’ve ruined my life. Damn, damn, damn!”
The Bitch stomped and paced, pulling at her hair. He shrank against the wall of the house. There was no telling what she’d do in this mood.
She muttered and swore for ten minutes before turning around and pointing her long, bony finger at him. “Pack up. We’re going. Leave the girl, leave Nick Thomas. They’ll be dead before anyone finds them. I have some money put aside. We’ll get new identities, maybe in California. Yeah, California is good. Los Angeles is a big city, and we’ll lay low.”
“No.”
She stopped talking and stared at him. “What?”
“I’m not going. Theron and Aglaia have eggs. I can’t go until they’ve hatched.”
“You’re going to jeopardize everything because of some stupid fucking birds?”
He tensed. “They’re not stupid.”
“They’re birds. And didn’t you tell me once that they’re everywhere, even breeding on the ledges of skyscrapers in Los Angeles? If you need to go see the stupid things, you can just walk down the street rather than traipsing through muck in the middle of nowhere. Dammit, this is serious! You kidnapped the sheriff; we can’t stay here. We have to go. And you will come with me.”
Her disdain for Theron and Aglaia ate at him as The Bitch went on and on, making plans about what she would tell her husband, how they were going to buy new driver’s licenses, when they would leave.
He wasn’t leaving.
She lied, just like everyone else. She’d always told him she was proud of his work, how she admired his patience and how well he cared for the peregrines. But now she called them stupid. How could she? How could she think that way about an animal as sleek and fast and free and beautiful as Theron?
The familiar anger built, but this time it was different. The fury grew more powerful. More real. His own needs weren’t essential anymore; this rage swelled into something more important than him.
If he didn’t return to Theron, who would look out for them? Some bureaucrat from the state who identified the birds by their radio frequencies? Never. Theron had a distinct personality. Unique. He’d never allow him to be relegated to a mere number, one of many, nothing. Now that the peregrines were no longer considered an endangered species, no one cared about them like he did.
If he left, what would happen to them? Who would watch them? Track them? Protect them?
No. He wasn’t leaving. And she couldn’t make him.
Besides, he hadn’t finished with the blonde he had hidden away. He couldn’t leave until he was done with her.
Slap!
He raised his hand to his cheek, the heat from her assault spreading from his head to the rest of his body. He stared at her—he’d almost forgotten she was standing in front of him, talking.
“You haven’t listened to a word I said! I swear, you’re nothing more than a fool. Get your stuff together. Now!”
“No.”
He sounded calm. In fact, he felt free. He savored his defiance.
“What?” She sounded shocked. Good.
“I’m not leaving. Not yet.” He took a step toward her. He was seven inches taller than The Bitch, but he’d never felt bigger until now. He straightened his spine and stared her down.
She glanced away first, taking a step back. Was that fear on her face? Yes, it was. He knew that look well. He just never had thought he’d see it on her.
For years she’d coddled and neglected him; loved and hated him; protected and hurt him.
She no longer had any power over him. The years washed away.
Her eyes darted right and left, but she smiled. A shaky smile.
She knew.
“Sweetheart,” she said in that cooing voice of hers. “Be reasonable.”
“I’m not leaving until the eggs are hatched.”
“But—”
His hand came down across her face and she staggered backward.
He didn’t know who was more startled—her or him. He’d never raised a hand to her. Never seriously considered it.
But she’d never attacked his birds before.
He grew under the power of her fear. The tables had turned.
“You can do whatever you damn well please,” he told her. “I’m not leaving.”
CHAPTER
23
Nick remembered the first time he got drunk. Not simple intoxication. Mind-numbing, porcelain-god-bowing, ground-worshipping drunk.
He would gladly trade the pain in his head now for a three-day hangover.
A moan escaped his parched lips, the faint sound making his headache worse. His eyelids felt crusted with sand and shut tight by weights. Just the thought of moving intensified the pain.
But he was alive. That, he knew. Surely there wasn’t pain when you were dead? Unless hell existed and he’d done something bad enough to merit eternal damnation. The way he felt now, he might prefer hell.
Cold seeped through the pain in his head. He shivered, then moaned from the pain of moving. Though deeply chilled, he wasn’t outside. He was lying on his side, something harder than the ground beneath him. A wood floor. The smells. Mold. Urine. Dead animals. The musty stench of layer upon layer of damp dirt.
He tried to move his arm. His hands were numb, but not from the cold. They were bound behind him. He breathed deeply, riding the tide of pain as he exhaled. His breath came right back at him; his face was up against
a wall.
What had happened? He’d been driving . . . where? That’s right, to the small A-frame on the far southern boundary of Judge Parker’s vast land holdings.
He hadn’t seen anything suspicious and was about to head home. A complete waste of time, and he remembered thinking he was glad he hadn’t bothered Quinn. He’d turned, seen a pair of boots, and thought it odd that they sat by the side door of an unused cabin.
He’d reached for his gun, but someone hit him from behind. He hadn’t heard a thing, only felt a sharp pain . . . then nothing.
Until now.
Had his attacker been sitting in the dark in Parker’s cabin the entire time Nick had been walking the perimeter? Why? Had someone broken in? Were people using it illegally? Or did Parker know them?
Was his far-reaching theory true about the Butcher using it as home base?
Nick knew with certainty that he wasn’t in Parker’s cabin. The foul odors and deep cold suggested a makeshift cabin or small shack.
Deep cold. Miranda hated the cold because of what the Butcher had done. Now, Nick was in the same position. Bound, on a cold wood floor.
Could Richard Parker be the Butcher?
Nick couldn’t imagine the judge he’d known his entire adult life torturing women. But he partly fit the profile, didn’t he? Maybe a little older. And he was married and certainly not a loner. But Parker was physically fit and had been raised hunting and fishing in southwest Montana. Of course, the most damning evidence was that Nick had been attacked at Parker’s cabin.
FBI profiles could be wrong. The thought that Parker could be the Butcher sickened Nick. He remembered all the times he’d gone to the judge for help getting additional resources. The strings Parker had pulled to get the county to allocate more resources for searches that always ended with bad news. Could Parker have been laughing from the sidelines, knowing how wrong the police were in their analysis? Did he get some sort of sick pleasure watching Miranda search for women he held captive?
There was no concrete proof the Butcher was Parker. The killer could have staked out the cabin, seen that it was rarely used, and stayed there without incident. Or Parker could have rented it or loaned it to a friend.
2 - The Hunt Page 19