The Hunt (8 page)

At least, that’s what he’d told her.

“Let’s go,” she finally said, and stepped around him. She breathed easier.

Nick watched Miranda and Quinn leave, then turned back to Eli. “This is my investigation, Eli,” he said. “You’re trespassing on a crime scene. I’ll make a statement tonight.”

“Right. After the paper goes to bed. Good plan.” He pulled another notepad from his shoulder bag and flipped it open. “Why don’t you save me the trouble of writing how uncooperative you were and give me the information you know you’re going to have to share with me later?”

Nick bit the inside of his cheeks to refrain from saying something he most definitely didn’t want to see in print.

“I cannot confirm that the young adult female body found this morning is in fact Rebecca Douglas. The body has not been identified and is currently awaiting the coroner’s examination and family identification.”

“But it was the Butcher, correct?”

“The coroner’s report should be helpful in that determination.”

“Come on, Nick. Let’s get real here. You know the Butcher had Rebecca Douglas for the past week.”

“Don’t push me, Eli. I remember that the parents of the Croft sisters read about their daughters in the damn newspaper before they even knew they were dead.”

Eli had the good sense to look sheepish. “Okay, off the record. I promise I won’t print anything until the coroner confirms it.”

“You’re getting nothing, Eli. You know that old saying, ‘Fool me once.’ ” Nick had given him one tidbit three years ago when the Croft sisters had been found; he’d never trust the asshole again after seeing his off-record statement in print.

“Aw, come on, Nicky,” Eli said. “One quote. One quote for the paper and I’ll wait like a good little boy for your statement tonight.”

“Deputy.” He motioned to Booker. “Get this man off my crime scene.”

Elijah Banks had rubbed salt in every one of her wounds, starting by printing a picture of her being loaded into a Lifeline helicopter twelve years ago after she barely survived her jump into the icy Gallatin River. What had been a terrifying, humiliating, soul-shattering experience for her had won him some award in some stupid journalism contest. Worse, the photograph had been reprinted in major newspapers across the country.

She couldn’t stand him. But sometimes she suspected she didn’t despise him because he was doing his job in the most obnoxious way possible, but because seeing him reminded her of the worst day of her life, which he’d immortalized in a photograph.

The sun slipped behind
Gallatin
Peak
.

Miranda was numb, but the sudden dip in temperature reminded her she was cold. So cold.

Sharon
was dead. He’d shot her in the back. He was coming for her.

Run, Miranda, run!

She stumbled down the steep slope, grabbing a sapling to slow herself. The river was closer; the rush of the rapids a steady hum echoing against the mountainside.

Where was he? Was he close? Did he see her? Did he have her in the sights of his rifle?

She didn’t dare look back. If she saw him, she feared she’d freeze like a deer caught in headlights. And he wouldn’t care that she’d stopped. He’d kill her and leave her body to be eaten by scavengers, picked apart by vultures, her flesh a meal for the cougars . . .

No! Stop it!

Sharon
.

She hadn’t wanted to leave Sharon, but Sharon was dead and he would have killed her too if she’d stayed.

When he’d first unlocked the chains that pinned her to the floor she thought for sure he would kill her. She was so weak. He brought water and stale bread for them to eat, feeding them after he raped them. First Sharon.

Then her.

Stop it!

But she couldn’t. The flood of images hit her as she half ran, half stumbled down the mountain, the river calling to her.

If she survived, she would go back for Sharon. She had to. She couldn’t leave her exposed in the woods. Sharon deserved more.

She was her best friend.

Suddenly, the land dropped sharply. Miranda tried to stop her descent, but the momentum propelled her forward. She fell to her knees, then started to roll. The river—she felt the dampness, heard the roar—and then she was falling, falling . . .

Sheer luck plunged her into the water and not atop a rock. She thought she’d been cold as she ran down the mountain; nothing prepared her for the freezing river. She hit the rocks and silt on the bottom.

She was going to drown.

After all she’d been through, she was going to drown in the river, the river she’d told Sharon would save them.

Calling upon her remaining strength, she pushed off the bottom as the current propelled her violently forward, tossing her like a rag doll.

She sputtered to the surface and gasped for air. She spread her body out, allowed the water to transport her downstream, fighting the violent rapids from dragging her under.

Get to the bank. Just get to the other side, away from him, and grab something. Anything.

A bend in the river gave her an opportunity. She grabbed at tree roots that whipped her face. Her hands slipped, and they were gone.

She was so weak. Maybe dying here would be better. She didn’t want to remember. How long had he kept them captive? At least six days. Seven? Eight? She’d lost track of time, of the days and nights.

Who would take them to Sharon?

Her body slammed against a boulder and she cried out, but realized immediately that she’d stopped moving. The current kept fighting with her, to send her farther downstream. But she held on to the rock and finally saw where she was.

Three feet to her left was a dead cottonwood lying partially in the water, its branches a trap for debris, turning the bank into a natural dam.

Three feet.

She’d run miles over the mountain, down the slope, and had been dragged along in the river. She could make it three more feet.

She had to. For Sharon.

Miranda breathed deep, gathered her strength, and angled herself toward the dam. One. Two.

Three.

She kicked out, stifled the scream that rose in her throat as she thought she’d missed the branches.

She made it. Her body slammed against the dam, and she held on. Slowly, she pulled herself out of the river. So slowly she thought she’d die of hypothermia. In the diminishing light her body looked blue. Maybe it
was
blue.

How long it took her to drag herself from the river, she didn’t know.

But she made it. And collapsed on the bank.

Two hours later the search team found her.

Miranda swiped at her tear-stained face, hating herself for letting the callous reporter get to her, for making her remember the day she lived and Sharon died.

“Miranda, do you want to talk?” Quinn said.

She’d almost forgot he was behind her.

“No.”

For Rebecca, Miranda could tolerate being within ten feet of Quinn; the dead deserved justice and she begrudgingly admitted that Quinn was damn good at his job.

“You okay?” he asked, sounding concerned.

“I’m fine.” He didn’t care, she reminded herself.

Once upon a time he’d cared. Or she thought he had.

She didn’t remember when her respect and appreciation for his determination turned to love. It hadn’t happened right away.

He’d listened to her without placating her. He’d encouraged her, and even when the days slipped away and they didn’t catch Sharon’s murderer, she felt that she’d accomplished something.

It wasn’t until a month after Quinn was pulled from the investigation, when there were no leads and nothing more he could do, that Miranda suspected she had romantic feelings toward the FBI agent. In fact, she hadn’t known she’d missed him until he showed up at the Lodge one Saturday morning, three months after the attack.

“Hi.”

She couldn’t have been more surprised when Quinn Peterson walked into the dining room where she sat, alone, staring out the plate glass window at the vast canyon below.

“Agent Peterson—I mean, Quinn. I didn’t know you were coming.” Her heart beat rapidly. “Do you have information? Did you find him?”

He shook his head. “No news. We didn’t have a lot to go on.”

“I know. I just hoped—” She sighed. “Then why are you here?”

He fidgeted as he stood in front of her, looking slightly less confident than usual. “I—I wanted to see you.”

Her heart beat rapidly. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. It pounded in her ears and she thought for sure she’d misunderstood him. “Me?”

“I haven’t stopped thinking about you.”

“Oh.” That sounded stupid.

“I know it’s inappropriate. Just tell me to leave, and I won’t bother you again.”

“I don’t want you to leave.”

She didn’t know what she was doing, but at that moment she knew that if Quinn Peterson walked out of her life, she would regret it forever.

“I’m not going to rush you, Miranda.” He sat down across from her and reached for her hand, but didn’t take it.

“I’m not scared of you,” she said, staring at his hand. Maybe she was scared. Just a little.

Then she looked into his eyes and saw empathy, concern, and affection, but not pity.

Never pity.

She took his hand and squeezed it.

“One day at a time,” he told her.

“Okay.”

For the first time since the attack she believed she’d be okay. In time, she would make it.

And she had made it, in spite of Quinn Peterson.

She focused now on what was important: tracking Rebecca Douglas’s last steps. Her past with Quinn Peterson was just that, in the past.

The job demanded that she focus on the environment around her, look for freshly broken plants, torn clothing, anything that would help re-create Rebecca’s escape. Anything that could lead to the man who had hunted her like an animal and slit her throat.

Though last night’s rain and the rough terrain almost guaranteed they would fail today, hope was one thing that never deserted her. Hope kept her moving forward, each day, each year, after every abduction and every murder. Hope that they would find the Butcher and justice would win in the end.

If she lost hope, she would also lose her mind. Quinn would then shake his head smugly and say, “I was right.”

“I’ll take the left,” she told him, breaking free of her introspection. “You go that way.” She motioned to the far side of the narrow trail.

“Stop,” he commanded.

She turned to face him. They were far enough across the ridge that they could see no other teams, voices fading behind them.

Damn, he was handsome with his windswept dark blond hair and solid, square jaw. Even the slightly uneven angle of his nose was sexy. But she would not let his good looks shake her resolve.

“What?” she asked through clenched teeth.

“You’re not calling the shots, Miranda. I’m here—officially—to help the sheriff with his investigation. I can’t allow you to start giving orders.”

“Let’s get one thing straight,
Agent
Peterson,” she said, keeping her face blank. “You may be the hotshot federal agent in to rescue the bumbling country idiots, but don’t make the mistake of thinking you have any real power here. I’ve lived here, worked here, made a
home
here. These people will listen to me. They trust me. Don’t pull rank or I’ll make your life hell.”

Anger flashed across his face and the familiar tic pulsated in his jaw. But she saw the realization in his eyes that she was right. Good. She started to turn back to the task at hand when he reached out and spun her around.

Her arm swung up and broke his hold on her. “Don’t touch me,” she said, her voice low. Her heart beat too fast. She remembered Quinn’s touch. His probing caresses, his lingering kisses. She burned with the memory of how combustible they were together. How much she had loved him. How he had shattered her confidence, her hope, her heart.

It had taken her a long time to learn to be touched by anyone. She’d become comfortable with physical contact again. Still, twelve years after the attack, if someone touched her when she didn’t expect it, her fear was almost palpable.

She hated the Butcher. He’d stolen so much from her.

Quinn looked momentarily surprised and took a step back. “Don’t make threats you have no intention of acting on,” he said, his voice matching her tone. “You won’t interfere with me because you want justice as much as I do. Maybe even more.”