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.
A poisonous snake. After all, Mary Sue had held hands with Matt Drake in the all-school assembly last week. Did that bitch think she wouldn’t notice?
Davy had always had Mama’s special attention, anyway. Delilah had been the unwanted daughter. Sometimes she preferred the freedom that came with being unwanted; the rest of the time she alternated between hating Davy and their mother.
But she did step in front of their mother’s heavy hand many times, taking the brunt of the beating so Davy wouldn’t have to. If she didn’t love her brother, would she have taken the beatings for him?
But he wasn’t normal. She figured that out at an early age. How could he be normal when his own mother raped him?
You raped him, too.
No! I loved him. He loved me. He always came back, didn’t he? He always said he needed me.
You hurt him.
No! Nothing I did marked him. He understood—pain and pleasure. It was her. Miranda Moore. She killed him. She stabbed him. His blood is on her hands.
Kill her.
After sixteen years of marriage, Delilah was surprised she felt nothing but irritation for her husband. He hadn’t loved her. She had done everything for him, kept his house, raised his brat, cooked and cleaned and attended to his stupid functions. She had been the perfect wife.
And he looked at her as if she were a stranger.
The only other thing that bothered her, really bothered her, was Ryan. As if she would hurt her own child! She was not her mother. She painstakingly avoided ever touching Ryan so she wouldn’t be tempted. Not that she was tempted.
She was not her mother.
She hadn’t wanted a child—most definitely not a son. But when she learned she was pregnant—what good was birth control if it didn’t work?—she just knew the baby would be a girl.
A girl to raise the way a daughter should be raised. To be lavished with attention, dressed in beautiful clothes, taken to fancy restaurants, given a big debutante coming-out party.
She laughed bitterly.
What she had was a boy. Another Davy.
But she was a good mother, dammit! She did everything for him, too. Baked fucking cookies. Cleaned his fucking room. Went to every fucking teacher’s conference and play and soccer game.
What more did he want? Her blood? Would that satisfy him? Would it satisfy any of them?
She took a deep, calming breath. It wouldn’t do to lose control. Her control had kept her from doing stupid things.
Like the night she almost suffocated Ryan in his crib. At the last minute, she pulled back the pillow from his face. Richard would have known, have her thrown into prison.
Or the time she threatened to tell the police about the girl in Portland. She almost didn’t give Davy an alibi. The stupid, stupid idiot! He was throwing away everything for some rich-bitch slut from the Delta-something sorority.
But in the end she gave him the alibi and was very convincing. Because without Davy, her life would fall apart. She needed him just like he needed her.
Together they were stronger.
Now he was dead.
It was all Miranda Moore’s fault. The bitch would pay.
CHAPTER
37
Miranda woke up late, the sun streaming through her picture windows. Below in the valley a gray fog had settled, but it would soon burn off.
The day promised to be beautiful.
She rolled over expecting to find Quinn beside her. Instead, she found a note.
Miranda—
I didn’t want to disturb you. I’m meeting Colleen down at Big Sky to do a quick walk-through of the cabin. I should be back by lunchtime, or I’ll call if I’m delayed.
I called the hospital. Nick is the same, which is more or less good news. JoBeth Anderson is awake and alert. Ashley was asking for you. She’s going to be okay, thanks to you.
Stay at the Lodge. I have four deputies assigned there. Until I know what’s up with Delilah Parker, I’d ra
ther play it safe.
I love you.
Q.
P.S. Stay off your leg. If you have to shower, make it quick.
She smiled. Just last week, she would have thought police protection was overkill. But today, she allowed Quinn his paranoia.
Her smile turned into a worried frown. She couldn’t imagine what Delilah Parker was going through right now, finding out her own brother was the Butcher, a rapist. Miranda was certain Quinn’s fears were unfounded; how could a woman participate, even just by remaining silent, in the rape and torture of another woman?
It was sick. Almost as sick as what David Larsen had done.
She slowly maneuvered herself out of bed. Cautiously, she stood. Her injured leg was stiff and sore, but she could walk without crutches if she went slowly. Moving around was the best medicine. In fact, the leg didn’t hurt any worse than the huge bruise on her shoulder from hitting the boulder.
She needed a shower. She’d had one at the hospital, but the water was tepid.
She turned on the water and waited for it to get hot. She wished Quinn were here. She took off her pajamas and looked at herself in the mirror.
Her breasts had been scarred with nineteen slashes, all about an inch long. She had counted them. Over and over. Her nipples had little sensation, her nerves having sustained permanent damage. She closed her eyes, always feeling revolted at the sight of her disfigurement. The scars on her wrists and ankles from being chained and the long one on her inner thigh didn’t disturb her half as much as her damaged breasts.
Then she forced herself to look again, to stare at herself until the mirror clouded with steam and she could no longer see her reflection.
The scars were part of her now. She had to stop feeling sorry for herself. Quinn had never been as repelled by them as she was. Angry, yes. She’d seen the flash of anger in his eyes.
Anger didn’t bother her; pity did.
No more of what-might-have-been! She was growing more comfortable in her skin each day. The Butcher was gone; Miranda had to bury her self-pity and anger with him. She had a full life ahead of her, with Quinn.
And he loved her just the way she was.
She stepped into the hot shower and thought about what life would be like married to Quinn. Fun. Challenging. Exciting. Frustrating. She was stubborn; so was he. But making up was half the fun of arguing, right?
It had taken them years to find their way back to each other, and Miranda didn’t want to waste a single minute. As soon as possible, she wanted to get on with their wedding. When Quinn returned to Seattle, she would go with him. Certainly she could find a job in search and rescue in Washington state. Seattle had rivers and waterways and the Cascade Mountains. Miranda had experience in all kinds of terrain.
And for the first time in more than a decade, she thought about having a child.
With Quinn.
She shut off the water and reached for the towel that hung on the hook outside the shower. She didn’t feel it. Odd. She thought for sure she’d put one there. Must have fallen to the floor. Opening the door fully, she stepped out.
And faced a nine-millimeter semiautomatic.
She looked up into the cold, wild eyes of Delilah Parker, who appeared nothing like the society matron Miranda had known.
“Washing my brother’s blood off your hands?”
When there was no answer at Miranda’s, Quinn used the radio to check in with the deputies stationed at the Lodge.
“I’ve had an APB put out on Delilah Parker,” he said. “She should be considered armed and dangerous. There is strong evidence that she assisted her brother David Larsen in abducting his victims.”
“Good God,” he heard one of the deputies say.
“Check in. Name and location.”
“Jorgensen, main entrance outside and perimeter check every twenty.”
“Zachary, main entrance inside and interior check.”
“Ressler, trails, barns, parking—all clear.”
Silence.
Jorgensen spoke. “Walters, check in.”
Silence.
Quinn’s heart rose into his throat. “Ressler, you and Jorgensen get down to Miranda’s cabin, stat! Zachary, check on Richard Parker and his son immediately. Call all guests and employees into the dining hall and keep them there until you get the all clear. I’m calling in reinforcements. ETA is ten minutes.”
He slammed down the radio. “Goddammit!” Why had he left her? He thought she’d be safe. Four cops protecting the Lodge. Few criminals blatantly took out a cop. They waited for a hole, where they couldn’t be seen.
But Walters was down. Delilah Parker had gotten to Miranda.
Quinn accelerated the truck, taking turns fast and dangerous.
He and Miranda had finally found their way back to each other. He wasn’t about to lose her now.
CHAPTER
38
“If you so much as squeak, I’ll kill you. Slowly. And then I will kill your lover.”
Miranda believed Delilah’s threat. She didn’t want to die. Not now, after she’d finally put her demons to rest. She couldn’t bear thinking of Quinn finding her dead body.
Delilah Parker was a sick woman.
Her hands bound behind her back, goosebumps rose on Miranda’s damp skin. She wore a thin cotton robe and nothing else.
Shaking and barefoot, Miranda stumbled down the path, her leg aching. She had no idea where Delilah was taking her, but she wasn’t dead yet. She would find an opportunity to escape.
“Why are you doing this?” Miranda asked.
“Because I want to,” Delilah said like a recalcitrant child. “Now keep moving.”
Keep her talking. Miranda remembered that from her criminal psychology classes.
“Why did you help your brother kidnap women? You’re a woman. Certainly you would have sympathy.”
Delilah shrugged. “It was interesting.”
Interesting? She thought raping and shooting women in the back was interesting!
“You just handed us over to your brother and walked away? Knowing what he was going to do?”
“Keep your voice down,” Delilah hissed.
Miranda couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She pushed on, though she kept her voice low, mindful of the gun in her back.
“How could you do that? Just walk away?”
“I didn’t walk away. I’m not a coward. Not like Davy.”
Miranda stumbled at her words. Delilah prodded her up. “Keep moving.”
“My leg.”
“Who gives a fuck about your leg? Davy’s dead.”
Miranda bit her tongue, tears springing to her eyes. “You knew? You saw?”
“I wanted to watch. To see what it took to break someone. Davy insisted that if he found the right girl she would want to stay with him forever. I told him he was a fool. I was right.”
How could Delilah ignore the endless screams? She watched her brother rape and torture women and it was interesting? To see what it took to break a human being? Miranda’s stomach twisted and bile rose to the back of her throat. She forced herself to swallow, the burning sensation making her grimace.
Delilah was as twisted as her brother!
She continued. “You know, it’s not my fault. Davy took that first girl without telling me. Can you believe that? He just kidnapped her and raped her. He thought that if she knew how much he loved her,” Delilah said, eyes rolling, “she’d stay with him.”
“Penny,” Miranda said, almost to herself.
“He wasn’t supposed to touch another woman without my permission. But I knew, like a wife knows her husband is cheating, I knew he had another woman. I followed him. And there she was, tied on the stinking floor of some abandoned cabin. I watched Davy through the window. Begging her to say she loved him, blah, blah, blah.
“Davy left an hour later and I let her go. I told her how to get down from the mountain. She begged me to take her with me. Like I wanted to help her? I sent her further into
the canyon and caught up with Davy before he got to his truck.” She laughed, a surprisingly light and airy sound considering her words.
“I told him he had to kill her. She would turn him in to the police if he didn’t.” She shook her head. “I waited for him. It didn’t take long.”
She pushed Miranda forward. Miranda stumbled over a tree root and fell to her knees. Her stitches pulled and a thin trickle of blood slid down her leg. Delilah kicked her. “Get up!”
Miranda pushed herself up with her calves, legs spread for balance, her anger rising. She was terrified of what Delilah was capable of doing. She showed a complete and total indifference to the pain and suffering of others.
“You’re sick, Delilah. You. Getting a thrill out of watching your brother rape women.”
Miranda braced for an attack that didn’t come. Delilah remained silent, and Miranda realized then where they were headed. Her field. Her special meadow where she went to think, to relax, to celebrate life.
Had Delilah watched her sit in the middle of the wide, open space? Followed her? Stalked her? What about her sick brother? Had he?
At the far edge of the clearing, Delilah pushed Miranda down. She stumbled and couldn’t avoid her face hitting the ground. Tears sprang to her eyes, more from indignation and fear than pain.
Delilah looked delicate, but she was strong. She pushed Miranda up against a tree and sat her down, the rocks and sharp pine needles stabbing her butt and legs, but Miranda resisted the urge to cry out. She wouldn’t give the bitch the satisfaction. Delilah untied Miranda’s hands.
This was her opportunity.
Miranda swung her arms together toward Delilah. Anticipating the move, Delilah used the grip of her gun against the side of Miranda’s head. Miranda fell to the ground, her breath coming harsh and deep. She ground her teeth against the pain and nausea. Delilah pushed her up against the tree, binding her hands around it. Delilah pulled hard on her arms and Miranda cried out.
“What are you doing?” Miranda managed to ask.
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