The Hunt (24 page)

“Quinn, I don’t know how we can ever go back.”

He blinked, a wave of hurt crossing his face. She didn’t want to hurt him. She didn’t know what to do.

Quinn tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. The gesture was so intimate she had to glance down. He used to do the exact same thing all the time when they were together before. One simple touch and memories of how much she had loved him flooded back, filling her first with warmth, then apprehension.

They couldn’t go back. She was a different person today than ten years ago when she was a naÏve wannabe FBI agent.

His light caress gave her an electric connection she hadn’t had in a long, long time. It was as if he could read her mind, as if he knew that she ached inside and couldn’t say the words. That she longed to be held by him again, to just be held without talking or explanations or awkwardness.

She stared at him, wanting so much to share her feelings, to be held, to make love. Slowly, tenderly, the way he’d made love to her the first time.

She turned her lips to his hand and kissed his palm. It was all she could do not to fall into his arms.

But she had to think about these feelings. Think about the repercussions. Could she trust him? Did he trust her?

It hurt that she didn’t have an answer to these questions.

“Good night,” she whispered, and jumped out of the car before she changed her mind.

She heard Quinn’s door open and close.

“I’ll walk you to your cabin,” he said.

She shook her head. “Dad waited up for me.” She nodded toward the lights in the Lodge.

She walked through the brisk evening air the few feet to the rear door. She felt Quinn’s gaze at her back and wondered what would happen if she turned back and asked him to come with her. She wanted to. God, she wanted to.

But what if he used her emotional vulnerability against her? Took her off the search, took her away from the case? Even as she thought it, she realized he’d been nothing but supportive after the first day. If he had any doubts about her, he was keeping them to himself.

But
she
had doubts. For ten years she’d been certain that Quinn had taken what she’d shared in confidence about her feelings, her fears, her damaged psyche, and used them against her to have her kicked out of Quantico. Yet it had as much to do with her own insecurities and fear as it did with anything Quinn may or may not have done.

It was better to put a little distance between herself and Quinn. Better to forget their past. Forget the kiss in the kitchen. Forget how he touched her with fingers that seared her skin and made her feel like a woman again.

She still felt his touch on her cheek, and she longed for so much more.

She closed the cabin door, shutting Quinn behind her. Her emotions were too raw, too close to the surface. She had to keep her distance. Because he could so easily break her heart all over again.

Quinn dialed Olivia as soon as he stepped into his room at the Lodge. Still, he couldn’t get his mind off Miranda.

She was driving him crazy. He couldn’t stop thinking about her, didn’t want to stop. He wanted to sit her down in a chair and talk it out. But Miranda wasn’t the type of woman to have a reasoned conversation. She acted on instinct, reacted on emotion.

He’d explained his actions at Quantico in painstaking detail in a letter she’d returned unopened. He’d tried to talk to her then; he had to find a way to make her listen now. If he could just find the right words, he knew she’d understand and forgive him. But both his decision and her subsequent actions had snowballed into a huge web of complex feelings he didn’t know how to untangle.

He was so proud of what she’d accomplished this last decade, both professionally and personally. But the Butcher still haunted her and she wouldn’t let anyone in to help.

He ran a hand through his hair as he paced the large bedroom.

Damn the woman. Didn’t he just tell her he’d never stopped loving her? Yet she still walked away.

Hadn’t she believed him? He’d never lied to her, but given their past, maybe she questioned his sincerity. How could he convince her?

He’d made a huge mistake ten years ago when he gave her space. He had given her too much. He should have visited in person, explained his reasons clearly, and told her he loved her. As many times as it took for her to believe him. When she hadn’t returned his phone calls, he thought the letter was the best approach.

He was wrong. The only way to deal with Miranda was face-to-face.

“Hello? Quinn, is that you?” The voice on the other end of the phone startled him.

He shook his head to clear it. “Sorry, Liv. I was daydreaming.”

“Day? It’s eleven o’clock at night.”

“Did I wake you?”

“No. What can I do for you?”

Olivia was always serious, by the book. He admired her steadfast devotion to her job as a lab technician. No forensic detail escaped her.

“Did you learn anything?”

“I’ve only been here one day. Laboratory tests take time.” She said this like he should know it, which he did. But, dammit, he wanted all the information
now.
What was the use of being in a position to pull strings if those strings didn’t yield immediate results?

“Sorry,” he mumbled.

“Right.”

“Sarcasm from you?” he teased.

“I’m tired. It’s one in the morning in
Virginia
.”

“I forgot. I’ll let you go.”

“There is one thing.”

He stopped pacing. “What?”

“There’s some dirt that seems—I don’t know, different.”

“Dirt? From where?”

“Hold on . . . “ In the background, Quinn could hear Olivia ruffling through papers. “Okay. There were ten soil samples taken from the shack where Rebecca was held, each from a different area of the shack and immediate surrounding area. Two of the inside samples were different than the soil collected from outside the shack.”

“Different? How?”

“Distinctive. First of all, it’s red. I don’t recall from my studies the soil in
Montana
being red. And the fact that it doesn’t match the outdoor soil set off my internal alarms. But this isn’t my area of expertise. I overnighted a sample to Quantico for analysis.”

“Red? As in, blood? Fire-engine red?”

“No, more like brick red.”

“Brick?”

“But lighter than soil.”

“You’ve lost me, Liv.”

She laughed and Quinn smiled. Olivia didn’t laugh much, but when she did it warmed anyone within earshot. “The color of brick, but with a texture more like clay than soil. Clay is very fine, but when it gets wet, the particles bind together.”

“Like pottery?” He frowned, trying to picture what Olivia was explaining.

“Same principle, but this is a different type of clay.”

“When will you know? Can you pinpoint where it might have come from?” He was about to ask a dozen other questions when Olivia cut him off.

“I’m rushing the analysis, Quinn, but the sample is still with Federal Express and my people can’t do anything until they receive it.”

“I’m sorry. But this sounds like the best lead we have.”

“I know, I’ve been reading the case files you left with me.” She paused. “How is Miranda?”

“Okay.”

“And?”

“You know Miranda. She’s working too hard, not eating enough. But she’s good at what she does. I just wish it didn’t hurt her so much.” He sank onto the bed, staring at his own feet, but seeing only Miranda’s dark blue eyes fill with the pain of the world.

“Quinn?”

“Yeah.”

“You still love her.”

“I know.”

“Have you told her?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“She doesn’t care. I hurt her, Liv. I didn’t want to, but I had to.”

“Can you explain that to her?”

“I tried.” He sounded defensive.

“Yes, I remember you tried back then, when she was raw and emotional. What about now?”

“Nothing’s changed, Liv. I’ve tried twice to talk to her, but she walks away. She doesn’t want to listen.”

“Make her listen.”

“Dammit, I’ve
tried.
”

“Try harder.”

Even though he’d meticulously plotted out his map, Nick almost missed the turnoff to Judge Parker’s cabin in Big Sky.

Thick trees dipped low and scratched the roof of his SUV as he started up the steep slope. His headlights brightened the area directly in front of him, but the narrow gravel road was lined with a tangle of thick bushes and vines, brushing against his truck on both sides.

An hour ago, he’d been sitting at his kitchen table eating takeout and staring at the maps and property records he’d copied from the Recorder’s Office when he plotted the deed to this particular cabin on the map. It jumped out at him: This property stood in the center of a fifteen-mile circle like a bull’s-eye. This cabin was the only building accessible on foot from every crime scene they had discovered. While some of the terrain was treacherous and could take hours, a skilled hiker could handle it.

The Butcher was physically fit enough to make it.

Nick was treading on dangerous ground: the cabin was owned by Judge Richard Parker.

Even if his gut instincts were correct and the cabin was a stopping point for the Butcher, that didn’t mean Judge Parker knew anything about it. The man owned ten thousand acres. He couldn’t possibly police all of them.

Nick couldn’t afford to have one of the most powerful men in
Montana
turn against him or the Sheriff’s Department. It was best to investigate the cabin under wraps, then call it in if he learned anything.

It wasn’t like he was going to confront anyone. All he wanted to do was confirm its existence and look around. If there was evidence of a break-in or recent inhabitation, Nick would bring in a team of investigators and talk to Parker about the place.

Parker hadn’t claimed the property as rental income, but that didn’t mean much. He could have leased it to friends for a weekend, or just used it himself. The judge had inherited it from his father, according to estate records. This particular dwelling was in the middle of nowhere, like many vacation homes in southwest
Montana
.

If Nick hadn’t spent five hours at the Clerk and Recorder’s Office reviewing every property record within a ten-mile radius of each known victim, he’d never have noticed this cabin.

He’d called Quinn as he neared the turnoff to Gallatin Lodge to see if he wanted to join him. But his voice mail picked up and Nick didn’t leave a message. Driving down to Big Sky was a whim; his hunch would probably lead nowhere. After spending the last few days being beaten up in the press, he’d rather keep this theory low-key until he had some proof.

Pushing all doubt from his mind, Nick drove the two winding miles up the narrow, overgrown gravel driveway.

A sharp turn led right to the cabin’s carport, and even though he was expecting the building it seemed to jump out at him. He slammed on his brakes, cutting his lights at the same time.

He turned off the ignition and got out of the truck. He shivered and zipped up his jacket. Now that the sun had disappeared, it was hovering around fifty degrees. The weather predicted a low of forty-two. He cringed thinking about Ashley van Auden.

When he’d dated Miranda, he noticed she had a thing for heat. Her showers were scalding. She bundled up in temperate weather. She had blankets and hot coffee in her car at all times. He’d thought it peculiar for the longest time. He never connected it to the Butcher’s attack until one night, shortly before they broke up.

“Hey, Randy, let’s head out to Meyer’s Lake.”

It was summer and still eighty degrees even though the sun was low. The night promised to be beautiful.

“I don’t feel like it.”

Nick frowned. He was used to Miranda’s mood swings, but she was usually spontaneous. She loved to ski, loved to river raft, was the only woman he knew who relished being in the outdoors. It was one of the reasons he’d fallen in love with her.

Meyer’s Lake was
the
place for couples to hang out and skinny dip.

Oh shit, he’d put his foot in it.

“I’m sorry. I should have thought—”

She cut him off. “I don’t care who sees my body, Nick.”

He frowned. “I wasn’t thinking.”

“It’s going to be sixty degrees tonight.”

He didn’t get it. “I promise, we’ll come home before it gets that cold.”

She looked at him, disillusion in her eyes. “I’m not going swimming anywhere at night.”

They’d ended up staying at Nick’s place and watching a movie. Nick thought Miranda simply didn’t want her scarred body to be seen naked, and he felt bad for suggesting it.