2 - The Hunt

by Allison Brennan

  Shit. He should have left the damn message on Quinn’s voice mail. They could have surveilled Parker, put an undercover team on the house, dug deeper into Parker’s past.

  He’d spent so much time second-guessing himself this week that he hadn’t listened to his instincts. Now he was paying the price.

  A slight noise, a rustling, made him jump. Rodents? A bear?

  No. The sound hadn’t come from outside.

  He wasn’t alone.

  Nick didn’t know how he knew it, but all at once he sensed someone else breathing the same air he was. Then he heard it. A faint whisper.

  The pounding beneath his skull was so loud it took him a minute to understand the words.

  “Who’s there? Who’s there?”

  He tried to speak, but it came out a moan.

  “Who’s there?” Whispered. Hoarse. Female.

  He licked his dry lips. “Sheriff.” The effort to speak hurt.

  “Who?”

  Dammit, he could barely think, let alone talk.

  He forced himself to swallow. “Sheriff. Thomas.” He spoke each word carefully.

  “Sheriff?”

  Nick realized then that the person wasn’t whispering. The voice was hoarse. Like when his brother Steve had laryngitis back in high school.

  Or a throat raw from repeated screaming.

  “Ashley?” Even speaking single words pained him, but he had to get over it. He was certain he had a concussion. And there was something wrong with his legs. Maybe they were bound as well, but he couldn’t feel anything below his waist. Nick’s entire body was cold and numb.

  But he was alive. He planned on staying alive. And keeping Ashley van Auden alive, too. How he would do this was another story. He didn’t know where he was, what time it was, or how the hell to get out of here.

  “Yes.” Her voice squeaked out, then ended in a sob. She was so close that if he wasn’t bound he could reach out and touch her. “He’s going to kill us. He’s going to kill us. It’s him. The Butcher. He’s going to kill us like all those others—”

  “Shhh.”

  Ashley repeated her mantra over and over, making Nick’s head throb. He tried to shush her, but couldn’t, so he tried to ignore her. That failed, too.

  “Ashley. Ashley.” He repeated her name until she finally stopped sobbing.

  She whimpered. “What?”

  “We need to plan. Think.” Think? Hell, he could barely calculate two plus two.

  “I don’t want to die,” she sobbed.

  Neither did he. “At some point he’ll release you.”

  “And then he’ll kill me! I know what he did to Rebecca Douglas. H-h-he slit her throat. He k-k-killed her!”

  “Ashley. Stop.” Nausea rose in his throat and his mind swam, dizzy. He took in as big a breath as he could; eased it out. In. Out. He couldn’t lose consciousness again. It was too dangerous for both of them.

  “Sheriff?”

  From the concern in her whisper, he must have dozed off or passed out for a minute. “I’m here.”

  “You didn’t answer me.”

  “Sorry.” He exhaled. “Do you know where you are?”

  “No. I’m blindfolded. I can’t see anything.”

  “Did you see anyone when you were kidnapped?”

  “No,” she sobbed. “No one. Ohmygod, Jo! She’s not here, she hasn’t answered me. She’s dead, isn’t she? She’s dead.” Ashley started sobbing hysterically. It took Nick several minutes to calm her down. It wouldn’t do any good for Ashley to know her friend was in a coma, so he lied.

  “JoBeth is going to be fine. She’s in the hospital, but she’s going to be fine.”

  “Thank God, thank God.”

  Did the Butcher think Nick knew his identity? He must have felt threatened somehow to have attacked him at the cabin.

  If that was the case, there was no way the Butcher would give Nick a chance to escape. Unless he found a way out, he was as good as dead.

  “No matter what, when you get out of here, run. Don’t do the expected. Try to cover your tracks. Avoid screaming or even breathing too loud. Stay in the trees. If it’s night and you can’t go on, bury yourself under leaves and hide. But as much as you can, run.” He pictured a map of the places the Butcher chased the women. Everything was south of the interstate, west of Gallatin Gateway. “Head northeast as much as possible. Eventually, in a day, maybe two or three, you’ll hit the main road.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I know his hunting ground.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’ll stay with you if I can.”

  She didn’t say anything. Maybe she knew how injured he was. Or maybe she thought he wouldn’t be released.

  Several moments passed, and Nick thought Ashley had gone to sleep. “He hurt me.”

  Her voice was faint. Pleading. Almost childlike.

  “I know, honey. I’m sorry.” He was so sorry. Her abduction was partly his failure. He hadn’t been able to protect the women in his town from the madman who stalked them.

  That hurt as much as the pain in his head.

  Lying here, on the cold, hard floor, Nick knew they were in a dire situation. The Butcher would be back before anyone could find them. No matter how many people were out searching, they’d never be able to cover enough ground.

  He had to think, come up with a plan to save Ashley and himself.

  But he feared it was already too late.

  CHAPTER

  24

  Miranda knocked on the door of Professor Austin’s basement office in Traphagen Hall. It hadn’t changed in the fifteen years since she’d taken his class. Rocks were the prominent decorative item in the overstuffed office. Topographical maps of the western United States filled the walls along with faded charts of rock and soil comparisons. The entire room smelled like dirt and paper.

  Professor Austin had already been old when Miranda was in his class; he hadn’t changed. His white hair stood straight up, and his beard needed a trim. But his emerald eyes sparkled with recognition when Miranda cleared her throat to catch his attention.

  “If it isn’t Miranda Moore!” He stood, not noticing or caring when a stack of papers hit the floor, some sliding under his desk. No wonder he’d lost their midterm essays fifteen years ago.

  “Hi, Professor,” she said as he gave her a hard slap on the back and a wide grin.

  “It hasn’t been so long that you forgot to call me Glen?”

  “Sorry.” On the first day of class, Professor Austin insisted everyone call him by his first name. The problem was, he looked like a professor, and Miranda always felt uncomfortable calling him something as informal as “Glen.” Maybe if his name were Archibald . . .

  “What brings you here so early?”

  “The Rebecca Douglas murder.”

  The professor’s face clouded. “Poor girl.”

  “The investigators found something unusual and I thought you might be able to help.”

  “Me?” He sat on the corner of his desk and more papers toppled to the floor. He motioned for Miranda to sit in the single chair.

  She removed a large box of books from the seat before sitting. “There’s an unusual soil sample that’s been sent to the FBI lab at Quantico for testing. It’s red. Like brick. The lab technician says it’s clay. I couldn’t think of any place around here that had red clay or soil. I thought maybe you would know of some place.”

  “Hmmm.” He looked beyond Miranda, over her shoulder at the wall behind her, lost in thought. “There’s an area over by Three Forks along the Missouri, but I wouldn’t call it brick-colored. Red dirt. Hmmm.” He thought again, then jumped up suddenly, startling Miranda.

  He crossed to the crammed bookshelf, pulled out a thick tome, and turned to the back. Nodding and muttering to himself, he flipped through the book and stopped. “Red soil, particularly clay, is an erosional product that is very common in the Middle Paleozoic sandstone formations.”

  Miranda felt l
ike she was in school again. “What are the Middle Paleozoic formations?”

  He glanced at her and frowned. “You passed my class, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.” But the information had promptly left her memory.

  He shook his head and sighed. “The Paleozoic formations were created by shallow seas that covered much of the western U.S. from 500 to 250 million years ago, particularly the Four Corners states—Colorado, Utah, Arizona, and New Mexico—as well as a large slice of Nevada.”

  “But what about southwest Montana?”

  “Well, like I said, there are fine clays and soils all along the Missouri River. They come in varying colors and textures, but nothing that I would call red. Still.” He frowned. “If I can see it, I might be able to tell you more.”

  “Thanks, Professor. Glen.” She stood. “I’ll see if I can have someone bring you a sample, but it’s evidence and I don’t know how much the lab retained.”

  “I hope you and Sheriff Thomas catch this guy. He’s been terrifying the women of Bozeman far too long.”

  “Thanks.” She left, her heart beating frantically. She pulled out her cell phone and called Quinn.

  “Peterson.”

  “Quinn, it’s Miranda. I just spoke to Professor Austin about the soil. He said there’s a small area in western Montana that might have it. It’s also found in New Mexico, Arizona, Utah, and Colorado. Can he take a look? He might be able to give us more information.”

  “I’ll call Olivia and see if she can have someone drive it down to the University.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Is Nick over there?”

  “With me? No. I haven’t seen him this morning.”

  “We were supposed to meet thirty minutes ago at his office, and he’s not here. I tried his house and cell phone and he’s not picking up.”

  Miranda frowned. “That’s unlike Nick.”

  “Hold on.” Miranda heard Quinn mumbling in the background, then he came back on. “Deputy Booker has been trying to track him down, but no one has heard from him since yesterday evening when he called for his messages.”

  “I’ll drive by his house. Maybe he’s sick,” Miranda said. Her stomach did flips. Something was wrong.

  “Be careful,” Quinn said. “Booker and I are going to call around and see who talked to him late yesterday. Check in as soon as you get to Nick’s, okay?”

  “I will.” She shut her cell phone and crossed the campus to her Jeep.

  Fifteen minutes later, Miranda stopped in front of Nick’s small Victorian on a quiet street in downtown Bozeman. His SUV wasn’t in the driveway.

  The hairs on the back of her neck prickled. The house felt empty.

  Miranda slid out of the car and cautiously approached the house. She didn’t know why she felt so apprehensive: it was the middle of the morning in downtown Bozeman. Down the street, an old man was watering his lawn. Around the corner, she heard young kids playing a game of tag, their shrieks of laughter slicing the air.

  But Quinn had sounded concerned. Nick hadn’t checked in this morning.

  She walked up the wide front steps and paused on the porch, staring at the bench she and Nick had often sat on, talking, during their years of friendship. It reminded her of what she’d lost after they split up—before they’d been involved, Miranda never thought twice about stopping over for pizza and beer, or just sitting around talking. But after they stopped seeing each other romantically, she’d never felt comfortable just visiting.

  She’d always considered Nick her best friend. But during the last year or so they’d had only a working relationship. It saddened her.

  She rang the bell, then knocked. “Nick! It’s Miranda.”

  No answer.

  She knocked again and looked through the narrow side window. Nothing moved within sight.

  Leaving the porch, she walked down the carport toward the rear of the house. Everything seemed in place. No broken windows, no open doors.

  She circled the house and noticed nothing unusual. Nick kept a spare key in the shed in the rear of the property, so she retrieved it and unlocked the back door. The house was too cold—as if the heat hadn’t been on the night before.

  Nervous, she pulled out her gun. Foolish, she thought, but better a fool than dead.

  The kitchen was immaculate except for a large plastic cup from a local fast-food restaurant. It sat on the edge of the counter and she picked it up carefully. It was half full. Nick kept his trash under the kitchen sink; she walked over and opened the cabinet door. On top was a bag from the same restaurant. She extracted it and looked at the receipt. Time stamped 8:04 the night before.

  She put the trash back, looked around, but didn’t see anything else out of place. She went upstairs and paused in the bathroom. Nick was a tidy person by nature. He had a place for everything. On his organized counter was a pill box with seven compartments, one for each day of the week. Nick believed daily vitamins kept him healthy, and Miranda couldn’t remember a day he had been out ill. He always took them first thing in the morning, right when he got up, so he didn’t forget.

  She opened the compartment for Friday.

  Today’s pills were still there.

  She opened all the other compartments—maybe he wasn’t as regimented as he used to be.

  Sunday through Thursday were empty. Nick hadn’t changed.

  Going back to her Jeep, she called Quinn. “Nick’s not at home.”

  “Shit.”

  “He came home last night after eight, but I think he left sometime later.” She explained about the fast-food receipt.

  “Do you know what he was doing yesterday?”

  “No. I assumed you did.”

  “No idea.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Nick’s office.”

  “I’ll be right over. I have a bad feeling about this.”

  “So do I.” Quinn sounded as worried as Miranda felt.

  Quinn was going through Nick’s desk trying to find out where he’d gone off to when the undersheriff, Sam Harris, came in without knocking.

  Harris was a short man who stood rigid in an attempt to make himself appear taller. Quinn had met many men in law enforcement like Harris, cops who enjoyed the power they had just because they wore a uniform.

  “Agent Peterson,” Harris said with a nod.

  “What can I do for you?”

  “More, what can I do for you? It seems the sheriff has disappeared, and that puts me in charge. Of course, I’m pleased to have the FBI assisting our small department.”

  “We need an APB put out on Nick if it hasn’t already been done. I asked two deputies to put together a timeline of Nick’s entire day yesterday. We know he ate dinner at home between eight and nine. He called in to dispatch for messages at eight thirty from his home phone. But at some point he left and didn’t return.”

  “It’s done,” Harris said.

  “Thanks.”

  Quinn was about to ask if Nick’s truck had Global Positioning—many police departments had installed the systems in their vehicles—when Harris spoke up.

  “I need to brief the mayor on the investigation. She didn’t hear from Nick after the press conference yesterday, and the mayor has asked for daily reports.”

  “Nick and I agreed that the mayor—and media—are on a need-to-know basis. I don’t have to tell you that this is a very sensitive investigation.”

  “I completely agree,” Harris said in a tone that conveyed the exact opposite, “but the mayor has been upset with the media coverage. She’s being put under intense scrutiny not only by the local paper, but national news stations.”

  “Everyone’s under the microscope,” Quinn said. “It’s the nature of the business.”

  Harris smiled thinly. “True, true. But you know which way shit flows. The mayor is under pressure, we’re all under pressure.”

  Even under the most heated circumstances, Quinn usually handled local politics well. But this case was personal. First
Miranda’s involvement, now Nick’s disappearance.

  “I understand,” Quinn said with forced restraint. “I will trust you to relay the appropriate information to the mayor.”

  Harris stared at him. “Let me ask you something, Agent Peterson. Put your friendship with Sheriff Thomas aside. Can you honestly say everything that could be done has been done?”

  “I’m not going to stand here and play Monday-morning quarterback when we have two missing people,” Quinn said. “I can assure you, I have found no fault with the Gallatin County Sheriff’s Department.”

  “We’re not a big department. We don’t have the resources for two major missing person’s cases. Maybe the sheriff just needed a little time. He’s been under intense pressure.” Harris attempted to sound understanding, but an undercurrent of disdain was evident in his tone.

  Quinn was about to respond when Harris cut him off.

  “Perhaps now’s the time to bring in some more of your people,” he said, standing with his hands behind his back. “Since the sheriff is unable to request the assistance at this time, I would be more than happy to do it.”

  It was subtle to be sure, but coupled with Harris’s tone, Quinn didn’t miss the insinuation that Nick should have requested additional FBI assistance.

  He took a deep breath before answering. “Thank you,” he said diplomatically, “but a pair of agents are already on their way to assist with the interviews. They’ll be here tonight. In fact, I need to get on it right now.”

  Miranda burst through the door while asking breathlessly, “Quinn, have they found Nick yet?”

  She almost ran into Sam Harris. A look of distaste swam over her face, then she hid it. “Sam,” she acknowledged.

  “Miranda,” he said in the same formal tone. He looked back at Quinn. “I’ll be happy to talk to the mayor for you, Agent Peterson,” Harris said with another curt nod.

  “What was that about?” Miranda asked as she closed the door behind the undersheriff.

  “Hell if I know. Power game?” He ran a hand through his hair. “Last thing we need are egos getting in the way of the job.”

  “No word?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Was Sam acting his usual asshole self?” She rolled her eyes.