The Hunt (17 page)

“You been there?”

Gray shook his head. “Naw. Don’t even know if it really exists. Suspect it does; I’ve heard of the place since I was a boy. But my ma never knew where it was. We were always looking for it, though. Kept us out of trouble.” He paused. “Does this have to do something with the murder?”

Quinn shook his head. “Doubt it. Just checking the kids’ story.”

“Ryan’s a good boy,” Gray said.

“You close to the Parkers?”

“Not really. But I teach a gun safety class. Had Ryan last year with the older McClain boy. And like I said, they ride our trails around here, I want to make sure they know the rules.”

Bill stood. “You’re welcome to sit down here as long as you like, or take the bottle to your room. I need to be up early, so I’d best be hitting the sack.”

Quinn drained his glass and shook his head. “Thanks for the conversation.” He bid them farewell and went up to his room.

An hour later, he was still awake. His mind couldn’t stop thinking about why the Butcher never went after Miranda again. Somehow, he thought it was important, but for the life of him, he didn’t know why.

He turned on the lights and sat at the desk. He jotted cryptic notes to himself that only he could understand.

Vigo
.
Hans Vigo was a top profiler with the department, as well as a friend. Maybe he had some new insights.

Old cases.
He needed to review the case files of the victims again. Maybe there was a common thread—other than their gender and age—that tied them all together. Or maybe Miranda was unique. Why? Why was she spared? Yes, she escaped, but she’d have been considered a liability.

Wouldn’t she?

Penny Thompson.

First thing in the morning, Quinn planned to head over to the University and pull every string he knew to get those old records.

Olivia.

It was two in the morning in
Virginia
, far too late to call Olivia, though he knew she wouldn’t mind. He’d call her in the morning and ask if she had some time to help with trace evidence at the state laboratory in Helena. It would take diplomacy to bring a federal crime tech into the state lab, but Quinn was confident in both his ability to maneuver it and Olivia’s ability to keep the relationship cordial.

Finally, he realized why he couldn’t sleep. Hunger. He and Nick had grabbed a quick burger that he’d left half-eaten at the station.

Knowing Bill wouldn’t mind if he raided the kitchen, Quinn went downstairs to make himself a sandwich.

Sharon
slept and Miranda planned.

There had to be a way out. Some way. Any way.

Though blindfolded, she knew it was daytime. Not because of the light, but because of the lack of cold.

She didn’t think she’d ever be warm again. At night she feared she’d freeze to death. But it never got that cold. Just cold enough that she couldn’t stop shivering. Just cold enough that she couldn’t feel her fingers and toes.

She’d gotten past wishing for her down comforter or hot coffee. At this point, warmth was a luxury. Survival was the only thing on her mind.

Two things clawed at her.

Would he keep them here forever? Feeding them bread and water and making them lie in their own filth?

Or would he kill them when he tired of hurting them?

Freedom wasn’t an option. She sensed without him saying anything that he’d never release them. For the first three days she’d pleaded with him. But she knew. His lack of response told her he had no intention of ever letting them go.

She must have dozed off, because the sound of metal on metal startled her.

Click click.

He was unlocking the door of the room they lay in. She squirmed, her instincts demanding that she flee, but she was trapped on the floor, chained to the rough, cold wood.

Not again. Not again.

The rattle of chains woke Sharon. “No!” she screamed through her raw throat. “No, no! Please!” She started sobbing, but Miranda remained silent.

She had no more tears, no more pleas. He was coming to rape them or kill them. She was going to die.

Daddy, I love you. I love you and I’m so sorry. I hope you never know what happened to me. It would tear you apart.

She missed her father, longed to see him and have him hold her and stroke her hair, like he did when she was a little girl after her mother died.

“She’s in Heaven, darling,” he’d tell her, then murmur pretty words about what a wonderful, beautiful, painless place Heaven was.

Miranda didn’t know what awaited her. Would she see the mother she barely remembered? Was it a paradise like her father had told her?

Or was there nothing?

Nothing would be better than what she’d endured these last five days. Five? Six days? She’d tried to keep track, but she didn’t know. It may have been longer.

It was a small room. One step. Two steps. Sharon screamed.

“Don’t touch me! Don’t touch me!”

At the rattle of chains, Miranda swallowed her own terror. Hearing Sharon being hurt heightened her fear. Because what happened to Sharon happened to her next.

“What?” Sharon sounded confused.

Then Miranda felt her arms being lifted. The clank of metal on metal and suddenly she was untied.

A faint sliver of hope swelled in her chest.

He’d had them blindfolded, right? They couldn’t identify him. Would he let them go?

Were they free?

Her legs were next.

“Stand.”

A one-word command. She tried to stand, but stumbled and collapsed. “I—can’t.” She’d tried to keep her muscles strong through exercises, but she’d been flat on her back for so long her limbs no longer felt connected to her body. Sores ran up and down her back. Cuts had bled and dried.

“One hour. Use it well.”

One step, and the door shut. Locked. Five words, the most he’d ever said to them at one time. But the voice remained unfamiliar, a dry monotone. Hollow and empty.

“He’s going to let us go!” Sharon cried.

Miranda smelled something over the foul stench of her own body odor. She crawled over to the door, felt around.

Bread. Water.

“Sharon,” she said. “Food.”

Sharon bumped against her and they ate on the ground, huddled over their solitary slice of bread, drinking a small cup of water.

Miranda reached up and touched her blindfold. She’d almost forgotten it was there, it had become such a part of her.

The knot was tight and she was weak, but she took it off. Sharon did the same thing.

She was blind.

No, it was dark.

It took several minutes for Miranda to make out faint streams of light coming through knots in the wood of the windowless shack they’d been tied in for days. Sharon grabbed a shirt in the corner. It wasn’t hers; it wasn’t Miranda’s.

Dear God, had there been someone before them?

Sharon
put it on. “I’m sorry, Randy, I’m sorry. I’m so cold.”

“It’s okay,” she said.

Miranda stretched her limbs as best she could, and like a baby learning to walk, pulled herself up using the wall in front of her.

Slowly, the feeling in her body returned. First tingles, then sharp pain.

“Work your muscles out, Sharon.”

“But he’s going to let us go.”

“We don’t know that. We need to be prepared.”

“But I can’t.”

Sharon huddled in the corner, her arms around her legs, rocking.

“Do it!” Miranda commanded. She didn’t want to yell at her friend, but she realized quickly that she had to be the strong one and take control of the situation. This was their chance to escape. She didn’t know why their captor had untied them, but she would fight to the death before being chained to the floor again.

Sharon looked mad, but slowly she, too, pulled herself up and walked around the room, which wasn’t more than ten feet by ten feet. Miranda tried the door, shook it with what little strength she had.

Locked. From the outside.

They used the hour well, stretching. Walking. And slowly, surprisingly, gathering back some strength.

Clink clink.

The door opened and light poured in.

“Come here.”

They obeyed, scrambled outside, and Miranda stumbled to the ground.

Freedom.

She heard the distinct sound of a round being chambered into a rifle.

“Run.”

Miranda looked over her shoulder. The man stood in the shadows, a mask over his face, late-afternoon light reflecting off the barrel of his gun.

The realization sucker-punched Miranda. He wanted to hunt them.

“Run. You have two minutes.” He paused. “Run!”

She ran.

Miranda awoke with a start.

Run.

She’d heard his voice.

Sweat poured from her body. She sat up and blinked, swallowing a scream, surprised to find her gun in her hand. When had she grabbed it? In her sleep?

His voice.

No, it was her nightmare. The damn nightmare. He was in her head, taunting her. She had escaped. She had lived. But Sharon was dead. Shot in the back. And Rebecca, hunted down and killed, her neck sliced open like game.

Miranda blinked again, her hands shaking as she forced herself to put down the gun. Moonlight cascaded through the skylights, casting blue-gray shadows across her room.

Her bed was in shambles, the sheets twisted and damp, blankets on the floor. Her flannel pajamas were drenched in her perspiration, the tangible scent of her memories on her skin.

It wasn’t even two in the morning. Four hours of sleep—she was surprised she’d collapsed so quickly after coming home. But she doubted she’d sleep another minute tonight.

She showered the sweat of fear off her skin, dressed in jeans, a turtleneck, and her heavy parka since the May nights were still cool, then left for the Lodge, Gray’s famous pecan pie beckoning her.

She walked in through the side door, which was illuminated by a spotlight. The door was locked, but she had a master key. She crossed the dining hall and was about to enter the kitchen when she heard something.

She paused, her heart beating almost as fast as it had after her nightmare.

Scrape. Scrape. Creak.
Then silence.

Tap tap tap.

Silence.

Someone was in the kitchen. Though the moonlight illuminated the Lodge through picture windows, no lights were on. If it were a guest, her father, or an employee, they’d have switched on the lights.

An intruder.

She reached for the gun she’d stuffed in her fanny pack. She hadn’t left home without a gun for twelve years. Cautious but determined, she approached the main kitchen door.

Tap tap scrape.

Bracing herself just inside the door, she reached for the light switch with her left hand while holding her right arm—the one with the gun—steady in front of her.

She mentally counted to three, then hit the switch and cocked her revolver.

A tall, half-naked man spun around, a fork toppling off his plate onto the floor.

“Shit, Miranda! Put the gun down.”

She did, as her mouth fell open. No words came out.

The last person she expected to see creeping around the kitchen was Quinn Peterson.

CHAPTER

14

Miranda stuffed the gun back into the waistband of her jeans and stared at Quinn. “What are you doing here?”

“I called your dad from the road and he had a room. I didn’t think we’d run into each other. I figured I’d maybe be here four, five hours sleeping.” He put his plate down on the table. Pecan pie.
Her
pecan pie.

“That had better not be the last piece of pie,” Miranda mumbled. Why had she said that? She’d meant to tell him to get the hell off her property.

He smiled, and Miranda blinked. She kept forgetting how good-looking Quinn really was. When she’d seen him the other day, she was so filled with rage and sadness and conflicting emotions she didn’t dwell on his appearance. But seeing him now, his lean, tanned chest bare, his muscles clearly defined even though he was at ease, the scar on his upper right shoulder from a gunshot wound early in his career—it brought back memories. Good memories. Of waking up with Quinn and kissing that hard chest. And his hands—he had the most incredible hands. Large hands, callused palms, with surprisingly elegant fingers. Very talented fingers . . .