The Hunt (15 page)

“Yeah, well, Clark listened to him. They’re concerned about you. That you need a little more time.”

They both knew what he was referring to.
Time.
Time had become an enemy. “It’s been over two years, Quinn. What exactly did the fucking profile say?”

She stopped walking and looked at him. When he avoided her eyes she knew,
knew
she was screwed.

“That you have an obsessive personality, and it might cloud your judgment and jeopardize the lives of your fellow agents.”

“That’s
bullshit
! And you know it. They can’t—what?”

The worried look on his face ripped hope from her heart and she
knew.
Her life was over. Again. “What happened? Dammit, Quinn, what happened!”

His voice was flat. “Clark asked me what I thought. I told him you needed another year.”

She hated the tears that sprung to her eyes. She could do nothing to stop them from spilling down her cheeks. A lead weight pressed on her chest and her breathing faltered. “Wh-what?”

He tried to take her hands but she stepped away. “Randy—”

“Don’t call me that!” Angry at her weakness, she rubbed the tears away with the back of her hand, but more came in their place.

Quinn stepped back. “You have guaranteed admittance to Quantico next year. And you’ll pass with flying colors, you know that—”

“I
did
pass with flying colors!” She stared at him through her tears. “You—he asked you. Why didn’t you stand up for me?”

“You need more time.” His voice was quiet and he looked at her straight on. “Miranda, you rushed through college, your master’s, you didn’t do anything for yourself. You need to deal with the past so you can have a future. I don’t know if you want to be an FBI agent for the right reasons.”

“Spare me the fucking psychobabble. It’s you—you th-think I’m g-going to fall apart. Th-That I can’t do the job. Fuck you. I th-thought you of all people understood—”

She ran away.

Miranda shook her head and rubbed her left temple, forcing the memory back where it belonged. Buried. She hadn’t realized how close to the surface those feelings were until she felt the moisture behind her eyes, but how could she be surprised? As soon as she saw Quinn yesterday, the years had melted away.

For a year she fought herself about returning to Quantico. She ignored Quinn, certain he’d give her useless platitudes and explain ad nauseam why she needed time off. She didn’t want to listen to his reasons. He hadn’t stood up for her when it really mattered; he’d called into question her motives, then tried to tell her it wasn’t personal.

How could it be anything but personal?

She wanted to return to Quantico, but one thing held her back.

Fear. Deep, bone-numbing fear that the government shrink was right, that she was not only obsessed with the Butcher, but that if she ever found him, she really would have a nervous breakdown.

She never wanted Quinn to see her reduced to nothing.

The hunt for the Butcher kept her focused, sane. But when the hunt ended, where would she be? When the killer was caught and punished, what would she do? She had nothing else.

The emptiness of her life sucker-punched her.

She blinked, barely remembering the drive to the Lodge. Her Jeep was parked, but the engine was still running. She turned it off and drew in a deep breath, shaken.

She’d forgotten how much she once loved Quinn. She’d spent so much time dwelling on his betrayal that she’d forgotten she’d wanted—planned—to spend the rest of her life with him.

CHAPTER

12

Using Nick’s computer, Quinn e-mailed his report to his boss as Nick approached with a paper cup from the coffeehouse up the street.

“Black, with a shot.”

Quinn raised his eyebrow. “Shot?”

Nick cracked a smile. “Espresso. Added caffeine.”

He laughed and accepted the coffee, feeling some of the tension roll off his shoulders.

Nick sat in the visitor seat across from his desk, waving Quinn back into his chair. “I finished logging the evidence,” Nick said, “and Deputy Booker is going to take it to Helena first thing in the morning.”

“Good.” Quinn sipped the coffee. He noticed his index finger drumming the side of the cup and consciously had to stop the fidgeting. This case was difficult, but his frustration had more to do with Miranda than with the investigation.

He asked, “Did Doc Abrams confirm the blood was Rebecca’s?”

“Same blood type; he’s sending a sample to the lab to confirm DNA, but you and I both know it’s hers.” Nick paused. “Dammit, Quinn. The mildew and mold in that place is going to destroy any trace evidence.”

“Perhaps, or maybe we found it quickly enough.” The flat, filthy mattress flung on the cabin floor probably had nothing they could use, but the crime tech had vacuumed everything in the shack and each grain of dirt would be inspected by the lab. Quinn would see to it.

“I’m calling in a friend of mine to help,” Quinn continued.

“Another FBI superagent?” Nick said, trying to be lighthearted, but Quinn detected a hint of something else, a tad bitter. He hoped Nick wasn’t still angry about Eli Banks’s
Chronicle
article this morning. Banks had slighted Nick because he was mad that Nick hadn’t given him the quote he wanted, end of story. But the allusion that the FBI was coming in to clean up the investigation must have hit a sore spot.

Of course, knowing Eli Banks, this was the first of many negative articles.

“Not exactly. A lab tech, one of the best, and a personal friend. Olivia St. Martin.”

“That name’s familiar. Isn’t she a friend of Miranda’s?”

Quinn nodded. “They were roommates at Quantico.”

“Do you think it’ll help?”

“Olivia would do anything to help Miranda. She’ll come; I just have to ask. It was too late to call last night when I thought of the idea. There are few lab techs as dedicated as Olivia, and she specializes in trace evidence.”

“Whatever you think will help catch this bastard.”

“If there’s anything in the evidence, Olivia will find it. Then we just need a suspect.” It sounded so easy. But they had no suspects. Not even a hint of one.

Nine girls missing, seven dead. The missing girls were presumed to be victims of the Butcher because their cars had been found disabled two to four miles from their last stop.

After Miranda and Sharon’s disappearance, the joint FBI–Sheriff’s investigation yielded a bare-bones M.O.: the assailant disabled the victims’ car by pouring molasses into the gas tank when they stopped for food, gas, or to use the rest room. He followed them until they broke down, and probably offered to help fix their car or give them a lift.

Quinn suspected that the assailant looked nonthreatening, was known to the victims, or caught them unaware when they got out of the car to flag down a motorist.

Even though Miranda was their only witness, Quinn didn’t think her story was typical of the other abductions. In fact, he suspected either the Butcher had thought Sharon was alone or didn’t think Miranda would return so quickly after trying to get help.

After Miranda led investigators to the shack, she told Quinn what had happened that night.

It still gave him chills thinking about it.

“Sharon and I went to Missoula to shop. A day trip. We decided to catch a movie.”

Miranda paused, and her father reached over with water. She sipped through a straw. “Dad, would you mind finding a soda for me? I’d love a Coke.”

“Of course.” Bill Moore touched his daughter on the cheek, then left the room.

When the door closed, Miranda looked at Quinn and said, “He’s hurting so much, I didn’t want him to hear this.”

Quinn kept his surprise to himself, but Miranda never ceased to impress him. After what she’d been through, that she’d think first of sparing her father’s feelings showed her solid character as much as, if not more than, her will to survive.

She lay on the hospital bed, her black hair limp but clean against the stark white sheets. Her face pale, bruised—a bandage circled her head, her eyes were swollen and purple. Across her entire body, small and large cuts were covered with bandages.

He knew from the doctor’s report that she’d been raped multiple times; that she’d needed dozens of stitches on her legs and stomach and breasts from cuts made by a sharp object; that she’d been tortured with a metal vise.

That she’d survived and escaped when everything was stacked against her amazed him.

That she was willing to discuss what had happened and help them find the bastard who did this to her and killed her best friend showed more character and spine than most of the agents Quinn had worked with possessed.

“The movie let out after nine,” she said, “and by the time we were on the road it was ten. We were in Sharon’s car, one of those Volkswagen bugs. I used to give her such a hard time about it.” Tears welled up in Miranda’s eyes, but she continued. “I mean, it was stuck for months in the winter because she couldn’t drive it in the snow or ice, the battery would be deader than a doornail when the snow melted . . .” Her voice trailed off and she swallowed. “But Sharon loved Herbie. You know, named after the Love Bug.”

Quinn didn’t push her, even when she closed her eyes. The trail of tears sliding down her face tore at him. He’d worked with many victims, in all states of hysteria, but something about Miranda’s grief hit him hard. He found himself wanting to console her with more than words.

She continued on her own and he focused on taking notes.

“We stopped in Three Forks because Herbie was running out of gas, and I didn’t think we’d make it to the Lodge, even though we were less than thirty miles away. Sharon was always doing that, running the car on fumes. Three times since I’ve known her she called me to bring her gas.” She smiled at the bittersweet memory.

“We were hungry, and there was a fast-food place there, so we popped in for fries and a Coke and ate inside, because Sharon didn’t like anyone eating in Herbie.”

Again, she paused, but her eyes were open, staring at the ceiling. What was she looking at? Remembering? Trying to forget?

“Then we left. About five minutes later, Herbie started jerking, and a mile out of Manhattan he just stopped. Sputtered and died.” She paused. “I should never have told her to stop. We might have had enough gas to get home. If only I’d—”

“Stop, Miranda,” Quinn said, then cleared his throat. “Excuse me, Ms. Moore.”

“That’s okay. My name is Miranda.”

“You can’t think about what you might have done differently. None of this was your fault. It was all
his
fault. You have to know that.”

“The press is calling him the Bozeman Butcher.”

Quinn grimaced. “I hate the press.”

“I’m beginning to,” she said quietly. He wondered if she’d seen the picture of her being lifelined out of the valley. He’d hoped the hospital staff would have kept her from seeing the papers or watching the news. He’d already yelled at the sheriff for some of the details that had been released, not only about Miranda’s condition but the investigation itself.

But now was not the time to think about that. He asked, “What happened after the car broke down?”

“I teased her. I teased her about Herbie and how she loved him too much.”

She took a deep breath and continued. “I know the area and remembered that there’s a pay phone at this little gas station that closes at dark. I was going to call my dad and have him pick us up.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I was headed there. I was just around the bend, two, three hundred yards away, when a car came up behind me. It was two old people and they offered to give me a lift. I told them what happened, and they had a car phone. I mean, I don’t know anyone who has a phone in their car, except the mayor. They let me use it to call my dad. He said he’d pick us up in twenty minutes.”

She looked at him with such agony. “Why didn’t I take the ride? Maybe they would have scared him off and Sharon would still be alive.” She stopped, her voice catching. “I told them my dad was coming, to go ahead and I’d wait with Sharon.”

“Miranda, you had every reason to feel safe.”

“Nothing bad happens here. I never thought—” She stopped, stifled a sob, then continued. “I went back and Sharon wasn’t there. I mean, she wasn’t in the car. I called for her and she screamed for help.”

“Where was she?”

“In the gully by the side of the road. I thought animal, bear, something—I didn’t have a gun, I mean I have one, but I don’t carry it around, you know? I yelled, tried to scare away whatever animal had terrified Sharon, and, and . . .” She stopped.

“And?”

“Nothing. I heard a sound behind me, I turned, and . . .” She paused, thinking. “I smelled something sweet. Sickly sweet. My head hurt, then nothing.”

She looked at him again, her eyes bright with emotional pain.