The Hunt

“You don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.” She wanted his approval. She needed his support.

“Miranda, I want you to do what you want to do. But I had no idea you were interested in law enforcement. You never said anything.”

“It was always just a thought in the back of my mind, but it developed fully as I sat here realizing that nothing is going to be the same and I need to take charge of my life.”

“You have to be twenty-three to be accepted into the Academy,” Quinn said.

“That’s only a year.”

“You have to finish your degree. A lot of agents get a master’s in another field, like criminology or psychology.”

“I’m a good student. I don’t mind another year of school.”

“The Academy isn’t easy. It’s physically and mentally grueling.”

“I can handle it. Don’t you agree?”

He paused. “Yes, I think you’d do well under pressure.”

“Quinn, I feel like I have to help people. I can’t explain it any better.” She frowned. She could barely explain it to herself, all these new ideas and thoughts swimming around. But one thing was clear: she now had a direction and she wasn’t going to lose her focus. Having a goal strengthened her resolve.

The Butcher was getting away with murder. She had to do something to stop another madman from doing the same.

“I’ll help you if I can,” Quinn said. “If it’s what you want.”

“It is,” she said, more confident now that she had his support.

He wrapped his arms around her and they stayed like that for some time. As the sun finished settling on the other side of the mountains, as the night turned cool, as the nocturnal creatures began to scurry, she and Quinn rocked on the swing, content in each other’s arms.

On that night, Miranda never would have believed Quinn could betray her.

An hour of hot water and jet action relieved most of the tension in her muscles, and when she stepped out her skin tingled, red and overheated and a little painful.

Rebecca was dead. Sharon was dead. But she was alive.

Guilt and confusion ate at her and she almost wished she believed in God like her father. Somehow, faith comforted her dad as it never had her. When she cursed whatever god had created the monster who had hunted her, who tortured women, she couldn’t imagine he was the kind and benevolent God her father praised. It was the kind God who had led her home, Daddy said. Who gave her the strength to survive, the will to live, the river to dive into.

But, Miranda countered, by that reasoning, He was the same God who’d created a man who took sick pleasure in killing women for sport. Of tormenting and raping and hurting them. Miranda couldn’t reconcile the two gods. It was much easier to believe in the devil.

Yes, evil was real. Alive. Burning.

She lay awake, body exhausted, mind too active to shut down. She pictured Rebecca running through the clearing, the rain beating down on her naked body, a madman chasing her. The loud report of his rifle firing, her body tensing, expecting to be hit. But the shot went wide and she was whole.

And she ran.

Ran down the path, stumbling, her feet aching. Trying not to cry out when a sharp rock pierced her foot. Getting up fast every time she fell, knowing he was coming. Knowing he would kill her. With deep pleasure, without remorse.

Running, running-and then she tripped and landed wrong, breaking her leg.

She crawled, tried to hide, but already it was too late.

He came upon her. Instead of shooting the wounded animal, he slit her throat.

And her blood drained into the earth.

Miranda’s hand flitted to her throat. She could feel the cold steel of the blade piercing the sensitive skin under her chin. Swallowing hard, she imagined Rebecca’s terrifying last moments of life.

She’d been so close. Now she was dead.

Miranda closed her eyes and rolled over, burying her head in soft down pillows. The tension she’d so recently purged in the hot water now flooded back into her body.

Would he ever stop? Would they ever catch him and make the bastard pay for the lives he stole?

It just wasn’t fair that this unknown, murderous predator was walking free while Rebecca Douglas lay in a cold box in the morgue.

It just wasn’t fair.

CHAPTER 8

The birds stopped singing.

A sudden stillness settled in the crevices and trees of the canyon, the silence heightening his instincts. He counted. One. Two. Three.

There, southwest of his camp, the peregrine falcon soared into view like a fighter jet, sleek and elegant, a solitary trace of life across the vivid blue sky.

He drew in a silent breath, and with it the tangible, pungent aroma of pinion and junipers. Home. He wished he could remain here forever, in this canyon, with his raptors.

Theron rode the air current, deep wing beats interspersed with glides. He curved around and landed on the ledge of the sheer cliff where his nest was hidden in a natural recess of the red sedimentary rock.

Seeing Theron three weeks ago had been a welcome homecoming, and he stayed longer than he should have to watch his bird.

Male peregrines defend their territory and engage in breathtaking aerial acrobatics to entice a female to mate. Lay a trap, so to speak. Once a male convinced the female that he was the finest peregrine she’d ever meet, she would remain on the cliff ledge, day in, day out, leaving only once a day to hunt for food.

Theron had a mate. They would be together until she died. A beautiful specimen, he had named her Aglaia. Splendor. There was nothing as magnificent as a female falcon sitting high on the cliff, chest out. She wanted to be there, embraced her prison. Theron defended the cliff; Aglaia came willingly, to be protected.

Peregrines were the fastest birds in the world. He never tired of watching them soar, had sat from dawn to dusk waiting to observe one of the majestic birds hunting. Head straight, the raptor watched its prey with one eye, then folded in its wings and dove. Just before he reached his prey, the peregrine would pull out of the dive and hit it with sharp claws. Wham! Dead on impact.

They could also pluck a bird from the sky, on a level flight path. All birds were fair game. No one could outmaneuver the raptor.

Kaaaaaak-kak-kak. Kaaaaaak-kak-kak.

Theron was truly free. Something he, himself, would never be. Trapped and alone, his need to possess the unattainable, to hunt the imposters, was far greater than his quest for liberty.

Still, he had a lot in common with the peregrine falcon. When he first began studying the peregrine sixteen years ago, they were all but extinct. Defeated, but not destroyed. Then they came back in their glory, and he was there every step of the way to chronicle their victory.

It always bothered him that few of his colleagues wanted to document the falcons’ lives. They put in their time, one required semester, so they could run off and work for some big corporation, or nonprofit environmental organization, or government agency. So they could say they tracked falcons, that they cared, but they really didn’t.

Words were cheap.