“Sit,” Gray said, pulling out a couple chairs.
They sank into them, and Bill poured them both doubles of his best Scotch. “Oh, wait, you can’t drink on pain medication,” he said, holding back her glass.
“Give it to me, Dad,” Miranda said, holding out her hand. “I didn’t take the pills. You know how I hate taking drugs.”
He handed her the glass and sat down at her side. “It’s over. You’re safe.”
Quinn didn’t trust himself to say anything. He hadn’t gotten over the shock of seeing Larsen’s knife puncture Miranda’s leg.
Most people hadn’t had a serial killer touch their lives. Twice.
Quinn filled Bill in on the abbreviated version of what happened.
“I can’t believe Delilah Parker’s brother—poor Ryan, to find out like that,” Bill said, shaking his head.
Miranda spoke up for the first time. “Ryan is brave. I don’t know why Larsen didn’t kill him. He must have sensed Ryan knew.”
“From what I know about serial killers,” Quinn said, “they have their own set of morals.”
Bill guffawed. “Morals!”
Quinn explained. “Perhaps ‘rules’ is a better word. Some killers won’t touch animals, for example. Larsen was a wildlife biologist, and according to everyone my partner talked to in Denver, he loved the birds he cared for. He even named them.”
“Theron,” Miranda murmured.
Quinn turned to her. Sudden, hot emotions threatened to overwhelm him as he thought again about how close she’d come to dying. “Excuse me? Did you say Theron?”
She nodded. “When he died, he said, ‘Theron.’ I didn’t understand what it meant.”
“Could be one of his birds.” Quinn turned back to Bill while squeezing Miranda’s hand. “Larsen might have felt a kinship with his nephew. They went fishing together. Ryan felt his uncle was a good listener. Larsen probably couldn’t conceive of killing him, but he also probably didn’t believe Ryan would turn him in.”
“But why didn’t he just leave? Disappear?”
“He had to finish what he started.”
“I gave Richard a suite of rooms,” Bill said. “He and Ryan are staying here a few days. Richard’s worried about Delilah. He thinks Larsen killed her.”
“It’s possible,” Quinn said, though he couldn’t figure out the time line on that scenario. Richard and Delilah had been at the house together when Sam Harris visited. Richard said she left shortly thereafter, very upset. Ryan met up with Larsen at about the same time Delilah left the ranch.
There was an hour of Larsen’s time unaccounted for, the time it took for Ryan to ride his horse to the Lodge.
From evidence at the Parker Ranch, Larsen had gone into the house at some point, but Quinn didn’t know when.
Had Delilah Parker returned during the short time Quinn and Judge Parker had left? Had she and Larsen had a confrontation? There was no evidence of violence in the house. They hadn’t made a complete search of the property because of the rescue in the canyon. Tomorrow a full team would be out there, as well as at the Parker cabin outside of Big Sky where Nick had stumbled upon Larsen’s hideout.
Or maybe Delilah was scared that he would go after her and went into hiding. She’d return, then, tomorrow, when she learned he was dead.
Or maybe she fled because she felt guilty. That she knew what he was doing and hadn’t stopped him.
Quinn didn’t know, but he didn’t like loose ends, and Delilah Parker’s role in her brother’s life was one big mess.
Nick was still unconscious. He had a serious head wound and an infection they had yet to get under control. Quinn hoped to God he made it.
It looked like JoBeth Anderson would pull through. And Ashley’s parents had already arrived from San Diego. She would be released from the hospital in a day or two, and had already decided to go back to California.
“What happened with Sam Harris?” Miranda asked, stifling a yawn.
Quinn tensed. “He eventually came back to headquarters and the dispatcher told him he’d been relieved of duty. He left the station, apparently furious. I’ll deal with him tomorrow.”
Frankly, he didn’t know what he would do about Harris. He’d jeopardized the entire investigation and Quinn would like nothing more than to make an example of him, but he should probably leave the situation in Nick’s hands once he was fully recovered. He’d write up a formal report for the Sheriff once they tied up the loose ends in this investigation.
Like, where was Delilah Parker? Was she dead—or alive?
Miranda yawned, and Bill told Quinn to take her back to her cabin. “Take care of her, Peterson,” he said. Quinn didn’t miss the double meaning.
Bill hugged his daughter. “I love you, Randy,” he whispered in her ear, tears making his voice raw.
“Love you too, Daddy.”
Miranda disliked being fussed over, and Quinn was going overboard. He kept making sure she was comfortable in bed, her leg elevated, her pain medication and a water bottle on her nightstand, even though she insisted she wasn’t going to take the pills. He started a fire in the wood-burning stove to ward off the chill that descended once the sun had set, and offered her food, another drink, water. He told her it was late, and she needed to get her sleep.
All in all, though, it was kind of sweet.
“Quinn, sit.” She patted the bed beside her.
“I don’t want to hurt your leg.”
“You won’t. Please.” She reached out for his hand, and he took it.
Quinn sat, and Miranda saw the fatigue in his rich chocolate eyes. Fatigue and worry and relief.
And love.
Tears sprang to her eyes, but not of pain or sadness.
For the first time since the Butcher had changed the course of her life, she felt truly, wonderfully alive.
She wanted to share it all with Quinn.
His hand reached out and caressed her cheek. She leaned into it and sighed, closing her eyes.
“I love you, Miranda.”
Her eyes opened. She saw him searching for her response. She had been unable to say it before. Not because she hadn’t felt deeply for him, but because she had been afraid. She couldn’t bear losing him a second time, and she didn’t know how she’d be able to work through her resentment and feelings of betrayal.
But the fear was gone, along with her confusion. The past was just that—gone.
“I love you too.” Her voice cracked. “Quinn, I was such a fool. I’d been so hurt all those years ago I never understood what you’d done and why. I don’t know if you were right, but it doesn’t matter anymore. My stubborn pride got in the way. I thought you doubted me, and that hurt more than anything.”
“I’m so sorry I hurt you.” Tears glistened in his eyes. “But I never doubted you. I hope you believe me.”
“I believe you. I hurt you too. I said cruel things that I regret.” She paused. It was so hard to open her heart, even to Quinn, whose love for her radiated on his face.
She took a deep breath and asked for what she wanted, what she needed: him.
“Can we get back what we had?”
He leaned forward and kissed her lightly.
“Randy, we can’t go back. We’re not the same people. But—” he kissed her again “—we can move forward.”
Hope blossomed in her heart. But she had to hear him say it. Exactly. “What do you mean? What do you want?”
“I need you. I want you. My life has been empty without you in it. I never fell in love with anyone but you. You’ve always been in my heart. I should have come back earlier, but I ended up being as stubborn as you.” He shook his head and tucked her hair behind her ear.
“I thought for sure, after time, you’d call me,” he said. “Maybe yell at me, but in the end you’d tell me you loved me and ask when was I coming to visit.”
“Well, I think it’s pretty well established that we are two very stubborn people.”
He squeezed her hand and he
ld it close to his chest. “Randy, you are incredible. You beat back your demons by sheer will. Every time I watched you, I feared you wouldn’t find your inner strength, that you would let your doubts win. I could only tell you so many times that you were brave and courageous. You had to prove it to yourself.”
He kissed her. Soft, warm, sweet. “And you did.”
“I feared I’d never be able to face the monster who took so much from me.”
Her hand trailed to her covered breasts. Tears sprang to her eyes. She would always be marked, always bear the evidence of a killer on her body.
“Sweetheart, I don’t see the scars. I see you. I know they’re there, just like you do, but they are all on the outside. The scars inside have faded. And I’ll do everything in my power to make sure they never return.”
Her tears spilled over and Quinn wiped them away.
He kissed her, his lips light on hers. She leaned in, wanting more than a feather of a caress. She wanted him, completely and fully. And forever.
He leaned away as if afraid of hurting her.
“Don’t,” she said, pulling him back.
Their lips were inches apart, his eyes locking hers in an intangible embrace. Her breath caught.
“Marry me, Miranda. I love you, and I’m not going to let you walk away this time.”
She nodded, her heart beating fast and sure. “Oh, yes. If you can put up with me.” She tried to laugh, but it was almost a sob. “I can be a little—obsessive about things.” She tried to make light of it, but it was true. When she cared about something, she focused. Hard.
“Only about the things that matter,” Quinn said. “And we matter.”
“Yes, we do.”
CHAPTER
36
Quinn met Special Agent Colleen Thorne and her current partner, Toby Wilkes, early the next morning, outside Richard Parker’s fishing cabin near Big Sky. The small A-frame had a wraparound deck and view of the lake below.
Though the rain had stopped sometime during the night, the air was heavy and wet, and a gray mist hung low to the ground.
Two deputies had been stationed outside the cabin all night after securing it, and two more had arrived right before Quinn. Introductions were made and Quinn’s phone rang. It was Deputy Zachary, calling in that he was relieving the cops outside Miranda’s lodge. He hung up, and Colleen raised an eyebrow.
“You have a patrol watching the Lodge? Why?”
“Actually, I have more than a patrol. I have one car outside, a deputy in the Lodge, and another outside Miranda’s cabin.”
“You told me Larsen was dead.”
Quinn shifted uncomfortably. Colleen was a facts-and-logic agent, and a damn good one. His concerns were based on feelings. “It’s Delilah Parker. She might be harmless, but . . .” His voice trailed off. How could he explain the odd sense he had that she knew all along what her brother was up to? “She was his alibi for the rape in Oregon. Until I know why, I’m treating her as a threat.”
“Caution in this case is probably warranted. Ready?” She nodded toward the door.
Quinn broke the seal on the door while Wilkes investigated the grounds.
“How’s Miranda?” Colleen asked.
“Remarkably resilient.”
“Back together?”
He smiled. “The only question is how fast we can make it to the altar.”
Colleen grinned. “I’m glad.”
The cabin had a dark, cold, empty feeling. The main door opened into a large multipurpose room: living area to the left, kitchen and dining to the right. The kitchen door led to the back deck, and two other doors led to a bathroom and large storage room filled with canned food and fishing gear.
The downstairs was bare and utilitarian: sturdy pine furniture with dark coverings; a large round table with six chairs; a corner stove that would easily heat the small cabin.
There was nothing personal downstairs, nothing to suggest anyone had been living here except for a lone coffee mug in the sink. Quinn made a note and bagged it for evidence.
A spiral staircase led to a loft. Though the deputies had already secured the house, Quinn cautiously went upstairs.
At first glance, the room appeared unused. The bed was made, the solitary dresser devoid of personal effects. No clothing littered the floor, and the hamper in the corner was empty.
A window overlooked a small meadow and the slope of a pine-studded mountain. It could have been romantic as a lover’s hideaway.
Under the window was a desk. Simple, with one long, narrow drawer. A wooden chair had been pulled up to the writing area.
With gloved hands, Quinn opened the drawer. Considering the house seemed vacant, he didn’t expect to find anything.
Inside were pens, loose paper, paper clips, and the like. A box, the kind that stationery came in, sat in the middle of the clutter.
Quinn’s chest tightened as his instincts hummed. Carefully, he extracted the box and placed it on the desk.
“What’s that?” Colleen asked, looking around his shoulder.
He didn’t answer and took off the lid.
It was a journal of sorts. The leather cover was worn and faded from repeated handling. He carefully lifted it from the box.
Several business cards fell onto the desk top. No, not business cards.
Driver’s licenses.
Heart pounding, he picked one up, turned it around, and stared at the motor vehicle photograph of Penny Thompson.
Bile rose in his throat as he counted twenty-two driver’s licenses and identification cards. Twenty-two victims over fifteen years. Sharon Lewis. Elaine Croft. Rebecca Douglas. His hands trembled as he held Miranda’s youthful license.
He opened the journal.
Penny lied to me. She told me she wasn’t dating the jock. But I saw them. Their lips locked together. I knew what he wanted to do to Penny. He wanted to fuck her. He wanted her breasts. . . .
With increasing horror, Quinn flipped through the pages.
The Bitch let her go. I had no choice but to kill Penny. Didn’t Dee understand that Penny would have stayed if only I had more time with her? More time to convince her how much I loved her? That I could take care of her?
Dee? Delilah?
Quinn skipped the account of Miranda and Sharon’s abduction and the documentation of the rapes. He couldn’t read it now. Quinn should have turned the case over to Colleen right then; he was far too personally involved.
But he didn’t. Larsen was dead.
Dee wouldn’t let me kill her.
She said the Moore bitch was too strong for me. That she’d won and I had to accept my losses.
I hate Dee. She pretends to love me but she hates me. Just like Mama. Always like Mama. Oozing kindness with their mouths while their hands and their breasts torment me.
The hairs on the back of Quinn’s neck rose when he saw an entry a few pages later.
I almost killed the Moore bitch. She was alone. Walking. In that field she always goes to near her house. I had her in my sights. I could have taken what was stolen from me.
But she won fair and square. Dee said I couldn’t have my trophy.
I hate them. I hate her. Hate her hate her hate her hate her!
But Dee’s right. I don’t deserve my prey this time. I wasn’t fast enough. I failed. I won’t fail the next time.
I already found the next one. She’s beautiful. She’ll lie, too. They all lie.
I hate her. Hate her hate her hate her . . .
The handwriting deteriorated over the rest of the page as his pen dug into the paper, tearing it in two places. Quinn didn’t know if Larsen hated Delilah or Miranda, or both. He turned the page and found a new entry dated a week later. Ironically, the same week Miranda had left for Quantico. The handwriting was again neat and orderly.
I have one in the old Carson shack. I didn’t think it would hold up, but Dee said it was fine for our game . . .
Quinn slammed the book shut, handing it to Colleen before
he did something stupid like shred it.
“Put an APB out for Delilah Parker. She should be considered armed and dangerous.”
It was all Miranda Moore’s fault.
Delilah wept for Davy. Her little brother was dead. She’d cried out when she heard the news as she hid in the Vought family vacation house. They wouldn’t be arriving from their home in California until their kids were out of school next month.
She could stay here until Friday, when the caretaker came to air out the place and dust, but she feared the police would investigate all known vacation houses in the area.
Delilah assumed the police knew everything. She would not go to prison. Locked in a cage like an animal. No. She was not an animal. She had done the best she could. Didn’t anyone understand? She had done her best!
The news on television was vague, just that the Bozeman Butcher had been identified as David Larsen and that he was pronounced dead on arrival at Deaconess Hospital.
Her gut churned. She was supposed to protect Davy, make sure he was never hurt, never caught.
She hated him.
Pain pounded her head. She didn’t hate her brother. No, he needed her. She only hated the attention he’d had when they were growing up.
Growing up, Davy had been shy and quiet. Until they went to college, Davy wasn’t even taller than her, scrawny as a malnourished kid. But he seemed to blossom when their mother died in a car accident. He grew six inches and started working out and turning into a man.
Delilah didn’t like it. Not one bit. Davy was hers. Hers to control. Hers to manipulate. Hers to tell what to do and what not to do. He had always listened to her. Always. He had always done what she told him to. And she protected him as best she could. Well, maybe not the best. Like, how could she stop her mother from touching him?
Once, when she was fourteen, she hid in the closet. She watched through the slats as her mother touched Davy’s privates. Davy seemed to like it. His penis grew hard and he spurted sperm all over their mother’s breasts.
She knew it was wrong, what her mother had Davy do. But who would she tell? Who would believe her? And Delilah had her own problems, anyway. Like how to put a snake in Mary Sue Mitchell’s locker and not get caught.
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