Allison Brennan - The Hunt

Had he killed her?

No, he wouldn’t do that. He needed the hunt. She’d probably passed out. He listened with bated breath until he was confident she was still breathing.

Nick wanted to comfort the girl but didn’t know how. What could he say to take away the pain and humiliation of what she’d just endured?

Instead, he mentally prepared for escape. Maybe the Butcher would find it a challenge to hunt the sheriff. Nick devised psychological manipulations to encourage the Butcher to let him go.

You shoot weak women in the back. Aren’t you good enough to hunt down a man?

Women are easy. They cry and stumble and beg for mercy. What’s the sport in that? You let me out, you won’t be able to catch me. See what you’re really made of.

If Nick could taunt the Butcher into pursuing him, it might give Ashley a real chance to escape. He had to convince her to run in the opposite direction.

And not look back.

The Bitch had told him not to use the cabin anymore in case the cop had told someone where he was headed. She thought she was still running the show.

He didn’t mind sleeping outdoors, though. He had a forty-below sleeping bag, a space blanket, and hot coffee he’d picked up at a gas station after leaving his girl.

It had been difficult to concentrate on her when the damn cop wouldn’t shut up. He’d considered just killing him and getting it over with-he’d kill him eventually, anyway-but the thought of hunting a cop excited him. He’d be a tough opponent. He might even try to attack.

But the cop would lose, of course.

I’m at the top of my game.

He’d been thinking for a while about tying up loose ends. The Bitch had told him he couldn’t have Miranda Moore. That would change. The Bitch was no longer in charge.

He’d kill the one who got away. She’d been difficult. Haunted him, even now. When he looked at her picture, it brought bad dreams. He couldn’t fully remember the nightmare, only that he’d awake soaking in sweat, with an image of her slicing open his heart and eating it while he watched.

She would then morph into his mother.

He found his hands pummeling his sleeping bag. He forced himself to calm down. Don’t think about her . She was dead. Gone. Good riddance. Why even think of his mother?

It was Miranda. She brought back the damn memories. The one who got away.

The Bitch wouldn’t let him kill her, but he didn’t care anymore. If she said anything about it, he’d slice her throat, too.

Maybe he’d do it anyway.

They rocked on her porch swing drinking a glass of wine, watching the shadows and listening to the sounds of night. It almost- almost -felt like before. Before she’d left for Quantico and lost her dream.

But had it really been her dream? Or had she been running away from something?

Miranda had been positive that being proactive, working in law enforcement-becoming an FBI agent specifically-would give her the strength she needed to conquer her demons. That if she had the badge, the courage would follow. And her nightmares would fade.

Weeks after her attack, Miranda feared the Butcher would come after her. Kill her in her sleep. Take her back to the middle of nowhere and hunt her again. She’d wake up, a scream caught in her throat, her feet kicking as if running.

That nightmare faded, but others replaced it. Calling out for the women who’d disappeared. Yelling until her voice was hoarse and her feet were weary. Then falling into a bottomless grave. Tumbling down, down… until she woke up in a cold sweat.

It wasn’t her physical safety she worried about. It was her state of mind. As long as the Butcher preyed on women, he would control her dreams.

“What if the Butcher isn’t Palmer or Larsen?” she asked Quinn.

“Then we broaden the search. Truck drivers, salesmen-maybe we missed someone in the stack of files from the University. We review every interview, every note, reinterview people. Olivia is working the evidence hard; they’re prioritizing every test. If there’s DNA in a rock, she’ll find it.”

“But we need a suspect’s DNA to compare.”

“I know how hard this is on you.”

“I feel like I should be out there right now. Looking for Ashley. And Nick.”

Her eyes burned and her head ached from staring at the maps and property records, trying to figure out what Nick had seen and where he had gone.

“Honey, I don’t want you getting your hopes up about Nick.” Quinn’s voice cracked; he was as torn up about Nick’s disappearance as she was.

“I can’t help but think he’s alive. Why else would the Butcher plant just his car? If Nick’s dead, why not leave his body, too?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he feared there was evidence that could be gathered from the body. If there was a struggle, some of the assailant’s skin or blood might be found on Nick. Best to dump the body where it can never be found.”

“Then why leave the truck by the side of the road?”

“To distract us. Split our resources. If we’re focusing on finding Nick, we’re not focusing on finding Ashley-and finding Ashley will lead us to the Butcher.” He ran a hand through his hair. “But I’m only guessing. Though the Butcher has never before taunted the police, maybe this is his way of saying he’s smarter than all of us. ‘Look at me, I can kill the sheriff and you can’t catch me.’ ”

Quinn’s phone rang and Miranda tensed. News this late was never good.

He squeezed her hand and didn’t let go. She squeezed back.

“Peterson.”

Miranda was sitting close enough to hear a woman’s voice on the other end.

“It’s Colleen. Toby and I just left Palmer’s place. I’d say there’s a next-to-zero probability that he’s our guy. He drinks his meals. He gets winded walking from the La-Z-Boy to the refrigerator.”

“Shit.”

“I have his employer’s contact info; Palmer says he hasn’t missed a day in weeks. He’s pretty bitter about what happened with his girlfriend, doesn’t like cops, but I think he’s harmless.”

“I trust your instincts. Where are you now?”

“We’re driving to Denver. About two hours to go. In the morning we’re all set to talk to Larsen’s department head. She called me directly, says Larsen is in the field but she can send someone to fetch him.”

“In the field? Doing what?”

“The guy is an expert in-” she paused-“um, falcons, I think. He tracks them, monitors breeding, that sort of thing. The research facility is based in Craig, but Larsen works near the Dinosaur National Monument.”

“Where’s that?”

“I know,” Miranda interrupted.

“Hold on, Colleen.” Quinn turned to her.

“It’s in the northwest corner of Colorado. Less than an eight-hour drive to Bozeman. And fully within the boundaries of Professor Austin’s map.”

Miranda couldn’t sleep. She tossed and turned for an hour.

“This is ridiculous,” she muttered to no one as she tossed off her comforter and pulled on her boots.

Quinn had left at midnight after getting a call from Olivia that the preliminary tests confirmed that the soil found in Nick’s truck matched the soil found in the shack where Rebecca had been held. In addition, they extracted a good shoe print-size eleven-from the truck’s floor mats. Nick wore a size twelve.

Quinn had told her to get some sleep. She needed it, and she wanted it, but her mind was spinning. Every time she closed her eyes, she remembered David Larsen’s small photograph from his University file.

It seemed unreal: putting a face to the Butcher. Could it be Larsen? She didn’t know. She’d now seen his face, but she couldn’t definitively say it was him .