Allison Brennan - The Hunt

The deputy stood straighter. “I won the county competition, sir, but-”

Nick cut him off. “Deputy, go down to that flag over there,” he gestured to the spot a hundred feet down-slope, “and position yourself as if you were shooting a high-caliber rifle at a moving target the size of a five-foot-two-inch woman entering the path there.” He pointed to another flag about twenty feet away.

Booker swallowed, adjusted his hat, and glanced uneasily at Miranda. “Uh, yes, Sheriff,” he said.

“Then you tell Ranger Knudson the trajectory and find the damn bullets.” Nick turned to the rest of his men. “Fan out. You know what you’re looking for. And if you find anything at all, call out for Agent Peterson or myself. No chatter on the com, just be thorough. The rain really hurt our chances at preserving evidence, but we might get lucky.”

God knows we could use a little luck right now . Quinn glanced at the clear sky.

He walked to where Nick and Miranda stood at the opening of the path. “… the cabin,” Miranda was saying as he approached.

“What?”

She barely acknowledged him. “I’m going over there to find the cabin.” She gestured down the slope, past the flags where Deputy Booker worked with the ranger.

“Not without me,” Quinn said. What was she thinking?

“Nick and I can handle it just fine.”

“I’m staying here,” Nick said. “I need to be accessible.”

Quinn watched Miranda struggle with the prospect of being partnered with him again. Tough shit. She wasn’t going out there by herself. And if she was right about the cabin being near the clearing, he had to go with her. For safety, as well as to gather evidence.

“Fine.” Her voice was clipped and weary. She probably hadn’t gotten much more sleep last night than any other night since Rebecca went missing.

Quinn sure as hell hadn’t slept worth a damn, thinking about what Miranda had been doing for the past ten years. How her life had changed-and not changed. Wondering if he had done the right thing at the Academy. No, he had been right. But he’d done it all wrong.

He couldn’t figure out how to fix it then, and now the divide between them seemed so much deeper. He’d given her time and space; he’d attempted to contact her, tried to talk to her, to explain. Hoped she’d come to realize leaving the Academy was the right thing to do at that time. But she never returned his calls and marked his one letter return to sender , unopened.

That hurt.

He pushed the memories aside and pulled out his canteen again. He took a long drink, then said, “Let’s go.”

They walked in silence, searching the ground for evidence. The occasional freshly broken branch or unusually deep impression proved they were on the right path. At one spot Rebecca had obviously fallen; a clump of long blonde hair was snagged on a bush, torn from her scalp. Quinn silently placed a bright orange flag at the spot, photographed it, and cut the branch, putting it with the hair into an evidence bag.

When he stood after completing his task, he noticed that Miranda had stopped as well and was staring at him. No, not at him. Beyond him. Seeing something that wasn’t there.

His heart beat faster. It tore him up inside watching Miranda put herself in these situations where she relived what had happened to her; her anguish was tangible. He remembered Miranda finding Sharon’s body, her grief, her pain undeniable. She was strong, but not indestructible.

He wanted to reach out, touch her and hold her.

“Miranda,” he said softly. “Are you okay?”

She snapped her attention to him. “I’m thinking,” she said. “She fell here. Why? No limbs to trip over. She’s in the clear. He shot at her.”

“You don’t know-” he stopped. Could be. He followed her line of sight as she turned in a slow circle. “Maybe,” he continued, “but where’s the evidence?”

“She changed direction here,” she mumbled, as if talking to herself.

“What?”

“She wouldn’t have gone in a straight line after he shot at her, she would have detoured, turned, done something different to throw him off her trail.” Miranda started walking in an arc, back and forth, until she stopped, fifty feet away and downslope, at a forty-degree angle from the path they had been traveling.

“Here!” Her voice was tinged with excitement.

Quinn met her down the slope. Two more casings. He flagged the spot. “We need to go down,” she said, pointing down a precipitous slope.

“It’s steep,” Quinn said.

“Yeah, but this is the way they came.”

She was right. A sapling had been stepped on and broken twenty feet in the direction Miranda led him. The edge of the clearing ended abruptly another fifty feet away. He stopped Miranda when they reached the perimeter.

Twelve years ago they had walked a similar slope together to the shack where Miranda and Sharon had been imprisoned. Quinn would never forget Miranda’s courage that day.

“Are you ready for what we might find?” he asked quietly.

“Of course,” she said. But when he caught her eye it wasn’t anger brightening her dark eyes, it was memories.

Was she thinking of that day, too?

He reached out, wanting to connect with her, but she shook her head almost imperceptibly. He dropped his arm, angry with himself for trying, but wishing Miranda didn’t insist on carrying the weight of Rebecca’s pain solely on her shoulders.

They walked along the edge of the clearing, then stopped a moment later when something out of place caught his eye.

“Here,” he said. He squatted to examine trampled undergrowth.

“Let’s go.”

He pulled out his firearm and nodded when Miranda did the same, holding a smaller nine-millimeter Beretta. He’d never forget her coming in third in the Academy shoot-off. Third was damn good in a class of one hundred.

But she’d been upset with herself that she hadn’t come in first. Competition was tough at the Academy, but no one put more pressure on Miranda than she did.

Miranda breathed deeply, gathering every ounce of strength as she inched deeper into the descending woods. The forest became thicker when they left the sun-dotted clearing, the air cool and damp. The chill kept her adrenaline high, her eyes discreetly scanning for any sign of movement.

For the Butcher.

Scurrying animals, the call of birds, and their boots squishing the soft, wet, leaf-covered ground were the only sounds as they tracked farther into the woods. The air was fresh, clean from the rain, renewing the earth. But at the same time, an underlying, unpleasant scent of rotting mulch assaulted her. Reminding her of falling, of being filthy and cold and in pain.

Quinn paused to examine the path. This mountainside had a gentle slope, far from the higher, rocky terrain on which Miranda had escaped. Rebecca had been kept relatively close to civilization, only five miles as the crow flies.

Miranda closed her eyes and took a deep, calming breath. When she opened them a minute later, everything appeared brighter, more vibrant. The greens were greener, the browns browner. Shimmering sunbeams cut through the trees, flooding the ground with streaks of light. Miranda loved days like this best, after a cleansing spring rain, when everything was fresh and new, and her guilt at being alive faded.

A sparkle caught her eye.

A slight reflection off a rusting tin roof. She stared, so focused on her discovery that the sounds of the forest faded and she heard nothing but her own beating heart. The worn, sagging wood that held up the flimsy roof didn’t look like it could have withstood the recent storm, but looks were deceptive. The cabin had survived harsh Montana winters, pounded by hard rain, half buried in cold snow.