He shook his head, his anger building.
He trained his binoculars on the ledge where Theron and Aglaia had made their home. When he’d left them ten days ago, they had finished the mating game, but he didn’t know if there were eggs.
So he watched. For hours. The sun spread its rays across the landscape, turning the dark morning woods into a glorious array of color. It became warm, and he removed his coat and ate his tasteless sandwich out of habit more than hunger.
As the sun dipped on the other side of noon, Aglaia peeked her head out. Theron followed and they stood on the edge of the cliff, the king and his queen, surveying their kingdom.
His heart swelled as he listened to the raptors communicating. If Aglaia left, there were eggs. He waited and watched, patient, perfectly still among the trees and brush.
With her mighty wings, Aglaia burst from the ledge and swooped down, down into the river rock canyon below, before curving up and around and over the cliff. Silence fell again. The hunt was on.
Theron watched his mate disappear, then went back into the crevice. Incubation exchange. Theron was protecting the eggs while his bride hunted.
Nothing could have pleased him more. He longed to scale the cliff and see Theron up close. He’d done it many times before-the physically demanding job of tracking, documenting, and logging peregrines culminated when he took their eggs for captive breeding.
But he hadn’t spent all night trekking through the cold river bottom, fighting overgrowth, stomping through the red clay that coated northwest Colorado, in order to bring eggs back to the University for incubation. He’d come back to watch and log and resist the urge to hunt again.
Fifteen years ago he had only wanted to find his own mate, find the perfect woman for him.
But there were no perfect women.
They all lied, they all manipulated. Even sweet, sweet Penny… Why had she told him she wasn’t seeing the jock? Why had she told him she didn’t even like the guy?
He
Penny was a liar like all the other women in the world. They said one thing and did something completely different. They told you they loved you, promised they wouldn’t hurt you, but they didn’t love anyone and always hurt.
Like his mother.
His mother, with words of honey that stung like a wasp. The way she touched him, made him do things to her.
If he didn’t do what she wanted, the punishment was far worse.
She’d clamp his penis until he cried. He’d beg to be let free; he would do anything she wanted, just to stop the hurt.
Then his sister, constantly riding him, telling him she would help. And she did, for a while. She helped him until he trusted her, then the hurting started all over again…
It started when he was six. When his father left without a word. He used to think his mother had killed him, but the truth was even worse.
His own father hadn’t wanted him.
Didn’t his father know how his mother hurt him? Didn’t he see the truth? Didn’t he care?
His fists clenched around his falcon journal, a sob of bitter anger escaped his throat. What did it matter?
He leaned against the pinion closest to his post and closed his eyes, breathing in the rich pine fragrance, the sticky bittersweet sap, the undercurrent of moist earth, rotting leaves, decaying plants.
He relived the hunt.
His prey was good, but he was better. She ran, but he never lost sight of her.
He watched her fall, heard the snap of her leg through the pounding rain, and decided at the last minute to use the knife.
It was no fun to shoot fallen prey. What was the sport in that?
It had been dark, near midnight, but her blue-white skin stood out against the blackness.
He pulled back her wet hair with his left hand and brought the knife down without hesitation across her white throat. The warmth of her blood surprised him; he tasted it on his lips.
He dropped her where she’d fallen and stood.
The hunt was over, but the urge to find other prey clawed at him. His heart pounded in his chest, blood rushing throughout his body, as he remembered. The intoxicating power when he had her to himself. The feeling of victory that unfortunately diminished with each passing day until there was no choice but to hunt again. The thrill of the hunt was a brief high, and already he missed it. Longed for the power in his hands.
But he had an important job to do. Here, with Theron and Aglaia and their eggs. Watching, waiting, writing.
His birds needed him.
CHAPTER 9
Long before the sun rose over the mountains, Quinn woke, restless, his thoughts still trapped in dreams of Miranda.
The pundits repeat the mantra:
It was a lie. Some wounds could never be fixed, especially when the wounded continued to peel the scabs.
Miranda lived and breathed for the Butcher. For justice. She’d spent the last ten years in limbo, between heaven and hell, waiting. Waiting for the Butcher to make a mistake. Searching the woods for remains of his victims. As penance or punishment for surviving.
Quinn had seen too many of his colleagues become so absorbed in a particularly difficult, agonizing case that everything else in their life suffered: their marriages often ended in divorce; they often neglected and lost friends. Seeking justice for the living and the dead could consume even the most emotionally stable professionals; with Miranda being a victim as well as an advocate, no one could be closer to the Butcher investigation.
She was a time bomb ready to implode. How she’d survived this long without a nervous breakdown, he didn’t know.
That wasn’t completely true, he thought as he dragged himself from bed. Miranda was indisputably the strongest woman he’d ever met. She’d withstood torture that would break most anyone, man or woman. She’d watched her best friend fall dead, shot in the back, and had the wherewithal to continue running. She’d taken investigators back to the body, led them to the shack where it all began.
Quinn loved and admired Miranda for her inner core, a spine that was hard as steel.
But what about Miranda’s needs? Who was watching out for her, making sure she didn’t push herself too far? Taking the time to pull her away from the depressing environment so she could regroup and regain her focus? He feared that unchecked, Miranda had become all-consumed by the investigation, sacrificing her personal happiness and inner peace for justice.
Looking at his own career, he couldn’t completely fault her. He’d been an FBI agent for nearly seventeen years. The only time he took a vacation was when his boss insisted. Except for the two years he and Miranda were involved. Only then had he voluntarily taken time off.
He stripped and stepped into the shower, turning on the faucet. The icy spray hit him hard before it warmed, but he needed the cold. When he had first learned what Miranda had gone through, he’d stood under ice-cold water as long as he could tolerate it. He’d wanted to experience a small part of her pain.
Nineteen minutes was his record. But the river was colder than the shower, and she’d survived.
