Allison Brennan - The Hunt

Her courage was there, he knew. He hoped she realized it. Facing Groggins was the first step.

The police in St. George, Utah, called his cell phone when they were halfway to the Lodge. They’d spoken to the construction company owner, Younger, and he was belligerent. But the fact he was in southern Utah at present put him at the bottom of the list, if not completely off it. He claimed he was at his office all day, and the local police were following up on his alibi.

The only way Younger could have made it back to Utah from Montana in the seven hours since Nick’s truck had been discovered would be to fly. Quinn called the Bureau and had someone work on flights in and out of Las Vegas, the closest major airport to St. George, as well as the private airports in the area.

He checked in with Colleen Thorne, his on-again, off-again partner, who was already in Grand Junction on her way to see Palmer, Penny Thompson’s boyfriend at the time of her disappearance.

“Palmer’s now at the top of the list,” he said when she picked up her phone. He filled her in on Groggins and Younger. “Proceed with caution.”

“Will do, but don’t you think if he’s the Butcher he won’t be home?”

“It’s not that far from Grand Junction to Bozeman. Ten hours, maybe. He could return to throw suspicion off. But if he’s not there, we’ll put an APB out on him for questioning.”

“I’ll let you know. We’re almost to his house. I also spoke to the president at the university in Denver,” she said.

“And?”

“He’s more than happy to help. He’s contacting the head of the wildlife biology department to find out what projects Larsen is assigned to, and we should be able to talk to both the director and Larsen tomorrow morning. It was after hours, so it took a little time to track them down. But I have Larsen’s address-he has a small apartment near the university-and an updated photo from his employee ID. Do you want me to send it to you?”

“Now?”

“I have it on my Blackberry.”

Quinn smiled and shook his head. “Modern technology. Sure, shoot it through to my e-mail. I’ll download it when I get to the Lodge.”

He hung up and turned down the Lodge driveway. He glanced at Miranda. She appeared to be sleeping, but he knew she wasn’t.

He’d meant every word he said back at the Sheriff’s Department, but he knew she didn’t believe him. Frankly, he couldn’t blame her. She’d had ten years to create worst-case scenarios in her head about why he did what he did. He’d tried to explain then, but he should have continued. He loved her and shouldn’t have given up on her, thinking she’d come to her senses on her own.

She’d been scared and worried and angry. Even if she had seen the truth then, she was too stubborn to admit it.

But part of her strength was her tenacity. Her stubborn determination helped her survive; it formed her character and gave her the motivation to continue moving forward against almost insurmountable odds.

He loved that about her.

But she was also insecure. About her own strengths and fears. That the fear would win. How could he convince her that she would persevere? How could he explain that being an FBI agent wouldn’t have made her fearless?

Quinn pulled up behind the Lodge and shut off the ignition. “Miranda.”

“Yeah?” Her voice was low, quiet.

“You heard my conversation with Colleen.”

“Yeah.”

“You want to talk about it? Do you have any questions?”

“No questions.” She paused, opened her eyes. “I hope it’s one of them, Quinn. If it’s not, we’re right back where we started.”

“It’s one of them.”

“Is that your experience talking?” She gave him a half-smile.

“No, it’s my gut instinct. Listen to yours.”

“Okay.” She reached for her door handle.

“Let me walk you to your cabin,” Quinn said.

She nodded and kissed him lightly on the cheek. “Thank you.”

Dear God, when would it end?

Long after the sun took the minimal warmth it had offered in the dank, dark cabin and retreated for the night; long after the first howl of a coyote pierced the quiet stillness; long after Ashley had cried herself to sleep, Nick lay awake waiting.

The Butcher would return. And Nick could do nothing to protect Ashley.

He couldn’t have imagined how unbearable the night would be.

Each struggle against his ropes pulled them tighter, binding his hands to his feet behind his back. While he was pushed against the wall, Ashley was restrained in the middle of the small room. Finally asleep, finally with some peace after a day of mounting fear.

When his head had cleared somewhat, he’d encouraged Ashley to try to scoot over to him, see if she could untie his binds. But she was chained to the floor, unable to move. And every time he tried to roll over, his bonds tightened.

Nick tried to assure her they’d find a way out. Tried to convince her that his people, and the FBI, were close to learning the identity of the killer.

But how would they know where to look? Nick didn’t know who the Butcher was, only that he’d been hanging around the Parker place. He could have been a friend, an employee, a tenant of Richard Parker’s. Or he might be a squatter. Or Richard Parker himself.

Would Quinn follow his trail? Would he see what Nick had seen? Probably not. On his way up to Parker’s Nick had thought the whole trip was a wild-goose chase. Being born and bred in southwest Montana had shed light on the parcel and property records through the lens of history and experience more than by following hard evidence.

Having the right instincts didn’t make him feel any better. He was going to die. And Ashley would be hurt, hunted, and slaughtered.

Nick had to find a way out.

The night creatures suddenly quieted, as if a larger, more dangerous predator was on the move. Nick’s ears pricked. Someone approached the cabin.

A moment later, the chain on the door shifted, then rattled. Nick felt Ashley startle awake.

“No,” she whimpered. “No, not again.”

“It’s okay,” he said, his voice rough.

“No, it’s not! It’s never going to be okay!”

The cabin was already chillingly cold, but when the door opened the night wind touched his body with an icy finger and he shivered. For the first time, he realized how frigid Ashley must be.

The door closed. The Butcher said nothing.

Nick heard the clinking of something metal, then Ashley screamed in pain.

“Stop! Don’t hurt her!”

Nick pleaded with the rapist as he struggled against the ropes. Ashley’s cries were continuous, falling off to sobbing, then a sudden scream pierced the cabin walls.

The rapist spoke little, just as Miranda had said. An occasional word- mine, forever -with grunts and sounds of exertion.

Tears sprang to Nick’s eyes. Of pure hatred. Of anger. Of helplessness. He heard the sick slapping of flesh on flesh as the Butcher raped Ashley and used something metallic to mar her flesh. Her breasts.

He’d seen Miranda’s scars. Now he knew how they got there.

How had she survived such brutal torture? How had she grown into the incredible, strong, fearless woman she was? His blinders were gone; he saw that Miranda was more than a victim, more than a survivor.

She was the victor.

Ashley screamed again and sobbed. The Butcher’s virtual silence was more disconcerting than had he shouted obscenities. As if being silent was to prove something to himself.

Nick didn’t know how long the Butcher stayed to torture Ashley. It was as if he didn’t know Nick was there-he ignored every plea, every curse, every accusation. But he finally left, chaining the door behind him. Ashley was silent.