Allison Brennan - The Hunt

She continued. “You know, it’s not my fault. Davy took that first girl without telling me. Can you believe that? He just kidnapped her and raped her. He thought that if she knew how much he loved her,” Delilah said, eyes rolling, “she’d stay with him.”

“Penny,” Miranda said, almost to herself.

“He wasn’t supposed to touch another woman without my permission. But I knew, like a wife knows her husband is cheating, I knew he had another woman. I followed him. And there she was, tied on the stinking floor of some abandoned cabin. I watched Davy through the window. Begging her to say she loved him, blah, blah, blah.

“Davy left an hour later and I let her go. I told her how to get down from the mountain. She begged me to take her with me. Like I wanted to help her? I sent her further into the canyon and caught up with Davy before he got to his truck.” She laughed, a surprisingly light and airy sound considering her words.

“I told him he had to kill her. She would turn him in to the police if he didn’t.” She shook her head. “I waited for him. It didn’t take long.”

She pushed Miranda forward. Miranda stumbled over a tree root and fell to her knees. Her stitches pulled and a thin trickle of blood slid down her leg. Delilah kicked her. “Get up!”

Miranda pushed herself up with her calves, legs spread for balance, her anger rising. She was terrified of what Delilah was capable of doing. She showed a complete and total indifference to the pain and suffering of others.

“You’re sick, Delilah. You. Getting a thrill out of watching your brother rape women.”

Miranda braced for an attack that didn’t come. Delilah remained silent, and Miranda realized then where they were headed. Her field. Her special meadow where she went to think, to relax, to celebrate life.

Had Delilah watched her sit in the middle of the wide, open space? Followed her? Stalked her? What about her sick brother? Had he?

At the far edge of the clearing, Delilah pushed Miranda down. She stumbled and couldn’t avoid her face hitting the ground. Tears sprang to her eyes, more from indignation and fear than pain.

Delilah looked delicate, but she was strong. She pushed Miranda up against a tree and sat her down, the rocks and sharp pine needles stabbing her butt and legs, but Miranda resisted the urge to cry out. She wouldn’t give the bitch the satisfaction. Delilah untied Miranda’s hands.

This was her opportunity.

Miranda swung her arms together toward Delilah. Anticipating the move, Delilah used the grip of her gun against the side of Miranda’s head. Miranda fell to the ground, her breath coming harsh and deep. She ground her teeth against the pain and nausea. Delilah pushed her up against the tree, binding her hands around it. Delilah pulled hard on her arms and Miranda cried out.

“What are you doing?” Miranda managed to ask.

“Waiting.”

“For what?”

“For your lover to show himself.”

“You’ll never get away with this.” That sounded so stupid! Worse, she feared Delilah was desperate enough to do anything.

Miranda ran scenarios through her head. She could scream, but Delilah would simply render her unconscious. She could kick out, hope to loosen the gun from her grip, but tied to the tree Miranda had no opportunity to seize the gun. The best chance she had was to warn Quinn when he came close enough. Warn him that it was a trap. She could only hope he would figure it out before it was too late.

“I watched you and that cop,” Delilah continued. “Screwing each other last night.”

She was there? She’d been so close and they hadn’t known. Miranda felt tainted that her most intimate moment with Quinn, their reunion, had been observed by such a twisted, sick individual.

“When I was little I never understood what was so wonderful about sex. It seemed so messy. Sweating bodies and all that. I used to watch my mother, after my daddy left us. Watch her with men. Watch her with Davy.”

Miranda’s ears perked up. Her mother had molested her own son? The whole family was deranged. A faint spark of pity shot through Miranda’s soul, but she suppressed it. We all have choices. They chose to be evil .

Delilah said nothing for a long moment. Then, “I used to hate Davy. Mama loved him more. Cuddled him. Hugged him. I was the unwanted daughter. Daddy had loved me, but he left and never came back. Never, not even once. Just walked out the door.” She took a deep breath and shook the childlike tone from her voice. “But Mama loved Davy more and took him to her bed. Did everything for him. And I hated him. Of course, once I realized she was fucking him I sort of felt sorry for the kid. He’d lie there and cry. So pathetic. Why didn’t he fight back? Why didn’t he just leave?” She shook her head.

“I didn’t let him kill you,” Delilah told her.

Miranda stifled a response. Now was not the time to challenge Delilah.

“After you got away, he wanted to kill you, but you fought back. I admired that. And look how you repaid me. I gave you your life and you killed my brother!” She hit Miranda in the face and her head slammed into the tree. Miranda literally saw stars and shouted in pain.

“You sick bitch!”

“None of that,” Delilah said. She pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and stuffed it in Miranda’s mouth, then tied a length of rope around her face to keep the gag in place.

Miranda was now helpless to warn Quinn. Her stomach lurched. Please, please stay away.

I can’t bear to watch you die.

Officer Dick Walters was dead. Shot in the back of the head. And Miranda was missing.

Quinn turned from the cop’s faceless body on Miranda’s small porch and gave orders to the half-dozen sheriff’s deputies already there. More were on their way, plus additional FBI agents, but time was of the essence. Quinn couldn’t wait for more help.

Delilah hadn’t even attempted to cover her tracks. She expected them to follow. Wanted them to follow.

What was her goal? She had Miranda, presumably alive-there was no blood inside the cabin-but why keep her alive?

Delilah wanted someone or something, and taking a hostage would give her leverage.

Quinn hated hostage negotiations. The intense stress of being responsible for the lives of innocent people had destroyed some of the best agents he had worked with. But it was worse when the hostage was someone you knew.

Or someone you loved.

“Proceed with caution,” he told the deputies, directing two to the right, two to the left, and two with him directly up the trail Delilah had taken.

They hastened, staying as close to the tree line as possible in case of an ambush. They didn’t go far, not even two hundred yards, before the trail opened into a meadow, camouflaged by a thick growth of trees.

Quinn couldn’t miss her. Miranda’s white robe practically glowed in the green and brown of the tree-lined meadow, like a beacon advertising her location. She sat up against a tree. He pulled out his field binoculars and stared.

She was tied to the tree and gagged. Her hair was wet and she wore only a thin robe. But the cold was the least of her problems.

Quinn couldn’t see Delilah anywhere. He smelled a trap.

He ached to run to Miranda, but took a step back. It would do neither of them any good if he was gunned down.

He spoke quietly into the radio. “It feels like a trap. Do not, I repeat, do not walk into the clearing.”

He turned to Jorgensen. “Bullhorn.”

The cop handed it to him.

Quinn took a deep breath. This was it.

“Delilah Parker,” he said into the bullhorn, his voice loud and tinny-sounding.

“Delilah, I’m Special Agent Quincy Peterson of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. You might remember me. You graciously served me lemonade and banana bread when I first came to town.”