Allison Brennan - The Hunt

“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.

“Nothing until I woke up chained to a floor. I didn’t know why I was so cold until I realized I had no clothes on.”

Nick’s office doubled as the task force room for the Butcher investigation. A map of the region south of the interstate all the way to West Yellowstone filled a good part of one wall. Colored pins marked where women had disappeared, where their bodies were found, and where they were held captive. A fine line traced the most likely route of their escape based on the evidence.