The Hunt

learned her lesson. She wouldn’t give him any ammunition now that might be used against her later.

She kept her mouth shut. She hadn’t broken twelve years ago, and she damn well wasn’t going to break today.

“Very well, Agent Peterson,” she said formally. She started down the path, focusing on the ground and the shrubs, concentrating on Rebecca. She heard Quinn fall into step with her, taking the right. He muttered something, but she couldn’t make out the words.

She hoped she’d pissed him off.

They proceeded carefully. Miranda kept the map. They spoke only to point out potential evidence, and Quinn photographed and tagged anything even remotely relevant.

About a mile from the ridge where Rebecca had been found, Quinn pointed to four deep impressions in the mud. “She fell here,” he said as he photographed the spot.

Miranda stared at the holes, seeing Rebecca’s naked body shaking with cold and panic. And hope. Because without hope, she wouldn’t have run.

Miranda closed her eyes. If she were alone, she would have gone back in time and remembered the many times she had fallen. Each time she questioned her ability to get up. Each time, she rose because she hoped she could make it.

“Miranda,” Quinn said quietly.

She quickly opened her eyes. Quinn of all people couldn’t witness her reliving the past. He knew too much about her, what she’d gone through; ultimately, she felt that had been the reason he’d kicked her out of the FBI Academy. He feared she’d lose it when on a case and jeopardize the team, endangering herself and others, if she found herself stuck in her own waking nightmares.

She had to keep her fear to herself.

“It was raining,” she said, coughing to cover up any emotion that might creep into her voice. The overgrown path was even denser here, though it was obvious someone had run through. The moist branches didn’t break easily, but there were a few hanging at a forty-five-degree angle, and several small plants and saplings had been trampled.

“Because it was raining,” she continued before Quinn could interrupt her contemplation, “he had to follow her from behind. The noise of the storm would have made listening for her difficult, so he wouldn’t have strayed far from her path.” Unlike his pursuit of her and Sharon, she thought. He’d run parallel to them most of the time.

“You’re probably right,” Quinn said, looking at her with an odd expression.

She didn’t want to read anything into it, good or bad, so she turned to her map. She made a very small red mark where Rebecca had fallen. “Look at this terrain,” she said, her voice becoming excited in spite of the company.

Quinn looked over her shoulder and she tried not to breathe in his still-familiar, all-too-masculine scent. “This spot? This is a mountain.”

“Yes, but here,” she pointed, “is a clearing. This area was logged years ago, but they planted new growth. Maybe eight, ten years. These trees will still be relatively small. Because this trail goes to this clearing, I think she came from there. But she twisted around and around, not running straight. Too scared. Not thinking rationally.” She shook her head, tried to rid her mind of Rebecca’s fear. “But we can cut through here and get to the clearing in less than thirty minutes.”

“No,” Quinn said, shaking his head. “We stay on the path Rebecca took. We’re looking for evidence.”

She clenched her hands in frustration and turned to face him. “We can return along the path she took, but I just know she ran through the clearing. That’s how he kept her in sight. With the rain and poor visibility, he couldn’t risk giving her too much lead time. And the ground would have hampered Rebecca more than him because she was weak, barefoot.”

Miranda’s excitement grew as everything suddenly became clear to her. “She didn’t run long. She couldn’t have. He wouldn’t have risked it, not when it was getting dark and the rain was heavy. Which means the cabin is nearby. It has to be!”

Quinn stared at her for a long moment. Would he disagree with her? She couldn’t believe it. She knew this land like the back of her hand, understood how the Butcher thought. How he lived for the hunt more than the rape. Yet he’d never given any of them a lot of lead time. Two minutes. He’d told her and Sharon two minutes and then they were fair game.

She was about to demand that Quinn come up with a better plan, relying on her experience and training to argue her point, when he said, “All right.”

Before he could change his mind, she smiled and said, “Follow me.” She stepped off the narrow trail and cut through thicker trees and growth.

Quinn’s training told him Miranda was probably right. It was a good call and confirmed that-as least as far as the search was concerned-Miranda would be more help than hindrance.

The air was cooler, more humid, and darker in the middle of the forest. The dank smell from the recent storm made Quinn think of life and death, as if the forest had been reborn in the wash of the rain.

If they found the cabin Rebecca was kept in, they might find evidence to lead them to the Butcher. He’d been too elusive for years, no pattern to the abductions, except that he hit during spring. April. May. June.

Twelve years ago they hadn’t recognized a pattern. When Miranda and Sharon were abducted, the time of year didn’t seem to hold any significance. But when Quinn’s partner Colleen Thorne investigated the Denver sisters’ abduction three years ago, the spring pattern seemed obvious. Every known Butcher victim had disappeared in the spring.

They’d consulted with Hans Vigo, the FBI’s key profiler, who said either the season held special significance to the killer or something in his job or personal life prevented him from killing the rest of the year.

Or, it could simply be convenience. Montana’s hunting season was predominantly during the fall months. Accidental discovery would be less likely in the spring, when legitimate hunters weren’t out searching for game.

But the key to the psychology of this particular serial killer, Vigo said, was that he needed total control. When Quinn questioned why he gave up the control to give the women lead time to escape, Vigo reminded him that the women had no control. They were naked, injured, weak from minimal food and water, and the two-minute lead time was a ruse. He could easily catch up to them, staying back just far enough so they thought they could get away, and when he tired of the hunt, he’d move in for the kill.

“This is the only aspect of his life that he has control of,” Vigo said. “Remember that. When you find him, you’ll learn he has no control over his life or his job.”

For example, Vigo said, as a child the killer would have been subject to a domineering, abusive parent. The abuse was likely both physical and mental, and if he fought back, the punishment for his disobedience would have been severe. He likely was restrained in some manner as a child, either locked in a small room or tied up.

He’d have a job that didn’t necessitate a lot of contact with the public. On the surface he would be able to function normally and there wouldn’t be any indication of the evil that lurks in his soul, but he wouldn’t do well in situations where he had constant communication with people.

The Butcher wouldn’t have a lot of control over his career, but that was largely of his own making. He would be relegated to low-level employment because of his inability to associate with people on a day-to-day basis. He might have a rote position, such as in a factory where he repeats the same tasks, leading to frustration because he has above-average intelligence. He could very well work outdoors-in construction for example, moving from job site to job site and not developing any close relationships with fellow workers.

They’d never had a suspect. Every time an MSU woman disappeared, her boyfriends, ex-boyfriends, and college professors were interviewed and dismissed as viable suspects. The killer was someone of above-average physical strength, great patience, and superior knowledge of the wilderness between Bozeman and the northern boundary of Yellowstone National Park. He knew where every hunting shack was located, every abandoned cabin, all the places he could imprison one or two women for a week to torture and rape them at his leisure.

No one they’d interviewed fit that profile.

Quinn admired Miranda’s thought process. But of course, he’d never doubted her intelligence. She used a combination of common sense, knowledge, and instinct that guided her in the right direction most of the time.

He bit his tongue, loath to admit he still had feelings for Miranda. Hell, he thought about her all the time. In his weakest hours, the time between midnight and dawn, when his resolve to put her aside wavered and he