The Hunt (10 page)

She waited for him to catch up to her. “Don’t wander off,” he snapped.

Without acknowledging him, she pointed. “Look.”

He stared at the ground. Buried in the mud, barely discernible from the storm-disturbed earth, was a long gold rifle casing.

He photographed the shell, bent down, and with his gloved hands placed it in an evidence bag.

The find was incredible. They’d only recovered two other casings they could for sure say belonged to the Butcher. Either he picked them up after firing or the search parties simply couldn’t locate them in the dense wilderness. The casings had been wiped clean of fingerprints—he’d likely worn gloves while loading his rifle, but there was always hope the killer would make a mistake.

The killer used a .270-caliber rifle. Unfortunately, it was a very common gun used to shoot virtually every game animal on earth, so it would only help once they had a suspect and could inspect his guns. A firearms expert would be able to determine from the recovered casings and bullets if a specific gun was used; finding that gun was the proverbial needle in a haystack. Virtually every male over the age of fourteen in rural
Montana
owned the same type of firearm.

Little good any of the evidence they had would do them until they brought in a suspect, but anything was better than nothing.

“She almost got away,” Miranda said, her voice cracking.

Quinn expected to see tears or hurt in Miranda’s eyes. Instead, he saw anger. Raw and on the surface, her deep midnight-blue eyes staring beyond him to where Rebecca had died.

He slowly rose and looked over to the narrow opening of the path that Rebecca had ultimately stumbled upon. “He shot at her from here,” he said, though it was unnecessary.

“Because she was going to disappear into the undergrowth,” Miranda nodded. “He knew the road was only a few miles away. He took the shot, though it wasn’t ideal.”

She looked around slowly, absorbing the scene.

Quinn said, “We need to call in a team. He shot at her before she had cover, but missed. The bullet is somewhere in there.” He gestured toward the area from which they’d just emerged. “We may never find it, but with the right equipment at least we have a chance.”

She finally looked at him, a strange combination of relief and fear on her face. She swallowed and it was gone, her control firmly back in place. “You’re right,” she said sharply.

He called Nick to fill him in on what they’d discovered.

“It’s nearly five, Quinn,” Nick said over the walkie-talkie. “By the time a team gets to your location, it’ll be near dark. We can’t get bright enough lights into that area. Mark it. First thing in the morning we’ll be back.”

“Dammit!” Miranda pulled on her ponytail in frustration.

“He’s right,” Quinn told her.

“I know that,” she snapped, leaning against a tree. She sighed and her voice softened. “It doesn’t make the delay any less frustrating.”

They had several bullets, all extracted from the bodies of the Butcher’s victims. Quinn didn’t expect any stray bullet here to tell them much of anything—except to tie Rebecca’s murderer to the other girls.

“We have an hour before we need to head back,” Quinn said. “Let’s look around.”

In silence, broken only by the call of birds and scurrying of small animals or the occasional scamper of deer disturbed from their feeding, they tracked the killer’s trail. The clearing went on for miles, and it was nearly five thirty when Quinn said, “We have to get back.”

“Ten more minutes,” Miranda said without stopping, her eyes scanning the ground.

“Miranda, tomorrow.”

“But—”

“No.” He reached out but stopped short of contact, remembering the quickly concealed fear in her eyes when he’d surprised her before.

Miranda obviously wanted no part of him. No use even trying to rekindle their flame.

She faced him, an inner battle over whether to argue or comply evident in her expression. Quinn concealed a smile. He appreciated the passion she brought to her work.

Before she could argue, he reached for her shoulder and squeezed. She didn’t back off. The connection felt good.

“Miranda, I’m just as frustrated as you are. There is evidence out here, evidence that very well may lead us to Rebecca’s killer. But we can’t do her any good searching in the dark when we can’t see the clues. Tomorrow morning we’ll come back and start right here. We’ll have the forensics team searching for the bullet, more people fanning out.”

“We’re close,” she whispered. “I can feel it.”

Quinn didn’t say anything, and Miranda wondered if he thought she was crazy. Sometimes, when she was alone and feeling helpless, she questioned her own sanity. Every day she focused on the missing girls. And
him.

The Butcher.

She may have lived, but he’d stolen her life just the same.

“You’re right,” she reluctantly agreed. “Let’s go.”

Quinn dropped his hand and she felt colder, like she’d lost some important connection. She frowned. She’d been alone for a long time.
Any
physical human contact—even a gesture as innocuous as a pat on the back—would disturb her.

Especially from Quinn.

She led the way back to the ridge, grateful she didn’t have to look at Quinn any longer. Seeing him again brought up too many conflicted feelings, too many thoughts she had buried for the ten years since he had betrayed her and took from her what mattered most.

Not her career, but her trust.

Miranda lay awake after midnight, alone, physically drained and weary. She’d staggered into her cabin after eating a sparse dinner—to please her father, not because she was hungry—and turned the heat and bubbles on high in her indoor hot tub. She stepped in cautiously, the hot water almost burning her skin. As one foot grew accustomed to the temperature, she submerged the other one. Five minutes later, she eased back on the sloped seat of the tub and took a sip of wine.

She couldn’t get Quinn out of her mind.

“Go away,” she whispered to no one.

There was a time when she had counted the days until his next visit. When the sound of his voice over the phone made butterflies flutter in her stomach and brought a smile to her face.

When he started visiting her regularly after the Butcher investigation was put on hold for lack of evidence, she didn’t know what to think or feel or how to react. She had liked him, liked him a lot, but in the back of her mind she worried she’d never be able to care about a man, never be able to let a man touch her intimately. She was scarred, her body so permanently damaged that even surgery could do only so much. She would never be a normal woman, inside or out.

With Quinn, she felt like a princess.

They’d taken long walks and he’d held her hand.

They’d talked for hours about everything—his family, his career, his dreams. Her family, her past, what she wanted in the future. And they talked about the Butcher.

She found herself wanting him to kiss her, but he never made a move. She worried how she might react if he did kiss her.

One evening they had been sitting on her porch swing at sunset. “Quinn?” she said, looking at their entwined fingers.

“Hmm?”

She glanced at his handsome, almost chiseled profile. His eyes were closed and he seemed at peace, a half-smile on his face. The setting sun made his skin more ruddy than normal, and she realized she cared far more for Quinn than she’d admitted to herself.

It had been a year since the attack. Her life had been on hold. She’d gone back to the University, but it wasn’t the same. She found no interest in her major, business administration, or even in her minor, English lit.

She was tired of treading water. She wanted, needed, to move forward.

And she wanted Quinn with her every step of the way.

“Do you want to kiss me?”

She felt his body tense. Had she overstepped her bounds?

“I’m sorry,” she whispered and looked away.

He lifted her chin with his finger and turned her to face him again. His brown eyes seemed black, his expression serious, and her breath almost stopped at the sheer
beauty
of his face. “I’ve wanted to kiss you since last September when I came back to see you. I’ve wanted to kiss you every day we’ve spent together, and every day we’ve been apart.”

Warmth, deep, satisfying affection, spread through her body as the sincerity of his words stroked her soul. She leaned forward a bit and whispered, “Kiss me.”

The light touch of his lips on hers made her shiver. Slowly, she put her arms around his neck. He kissed her with more urgency and she leaned into him. His arms wrapped around her and he pulled her close, his hands fisting in her hair at the base of her head, holding her tight but not too tight. To every shift she made, he yielded, every tentative touch on his face, his arms, his chest, he accepted.

She wanted more than a kiss.

“Stay with me tonight,” she whispered in his ear.

He moved so she could see his eyes. “Miranda, I want to. I want to make love to you. But not tonight. Don’t rush it.”

She blinked, coldness washing over her.

For two minutes, she’d forgotten about the Butcher. For two glorious minutes he’d been erased from her mind.

“It’s been a year,” she said, her voice flat. She turned away from him. “I haven’t rushed into anything.”

“I know. Honey, don’t be angry. I want to make sure you want the same thing I do.”

She bit her lip to stop herself from crying. Not because of Quinn, but because her life was so different from what she’d planned. She’d wanted to open her own business, something outdoorsy and recreational. She’d wanted to give river rafting tours in the summer and teach kids how to ski in the winter and help her dad run the Lodge.

“Nothing’s ever going to be the same,” she whispered.

He caressed her cheek until she faced him. The emotion in his eyes mimicked her internal turmoil. “No, nothing is going to be the same. But you’re the strongest woman I’ve ever met. Your will to survive, not just what happened a year ago, but also reclaiming your life, humbles me.”

She shook her head. “I’m nothing special.”

He almost laughed. “Miranda, you’re incredible.” He lightly kissed her.

“I know that having Sharon’s killer still out there is like a festering sore. It just doesn’t go away. I wish I could have done more.” He ran a hand through his hair, his voice rough with frustration.

“You did everything you could.” She’d been impressed with the FBI and the police during the investigation. But now her case was cold. Unless the Butcher attacked another woman, he’d never be caught. It wasn’t fair that another woman would have to be hurt—and possibly die—to find Sharon’s killer.

She wished there was something more she could do. Not only to stop the Butcher, but to help find other killers. Men who preyed on women, who hurt them for their own sick, twisted reasons.

Why couldn’t she? Why couldn’t she be proactive? She’d been sitting around the Lodge for a year—doing what? Going to college? Helping her dad with the guests? But really, what she was doing was feeling sorry for herself and doing nothing productive with her life.

That had to change if she were truly going to learn to live with what had happened to her.

“What would you think if I wanted to go into law enforcement? I could join the Sheriff’s Department.” She continued on before Quinn said anything, becoming more excited as the ideas came to her. “Or maybe I could become an FBI agent! I’m smart, I’m almost done with my degree, I’m back in shape, and don’t mind working hard. I can finally do something proactive for a change, not just sitting around here doing nothing. I’m tired of being a victim.”

He didn’t say anything.

“You don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.” She wanted his approval. She
needed
his support.

“Miranda, I want you to do what you want to do. But I had no idea you were interested in law enforcement. You never said anything.”

“It was always just a thought in the back of my mind, but it developed fully as I sat here realizing that nothing is going to be the same and I need to take charge of my life.”

“You have to be twenty-three to be accepted into the Academy,” Quinn said.

“That’s only a year.”

“You have to finish your degree. A lot of agents get a master’s in another field, like criminology or psychology.”

“I’m a good student. I don’t mind another year of school.”

“The Academy isn’t easy. It’s physically and mentally grueling.”

“I can handle it. Don’t you agree?”

He paused. “Yes, I think you’d do well under pressure.”

“Quinn, I feel like I have to help people. I can’t explain it any better.” She frowned. She could barely explain it to herself, all these new ideas and thoughts swimming around. But one thing was clear: she now had a direction and she wasn’t going to lose her focus. Having a goal strengthened her resolve.