The Hunt

There could be clues to the Butcher’s identity locked in her head. Her unconscious head.

JoBeth lay on a gently reclined hospital bed with a white blanket pulled almost to her neck. Machines beeped softly as her heart beat in her chest. Other devices monitored her breathing. Her brain activity. Her life.

She was alive and breathing on her own, an IV in her arm hydrating her. Miranda remembered too well spending a week in the same hospital. She couldn’t wait to leave then; she didn’t want to be here now.

“Wake up,” she whispered. If they were to have a real chance of saving Ashley, JoBeth had to regain consciousness soon.

A large section of her head was covered with a thick white bandage, stark against her limp red hair. Her pale skin seemed almost translucent and Miranda wondered how much of it was from the attack and how much was her natural pallor.

“JoBeth,” Miranda said, her voice thick with unshed tears. She sat in the chair next to the girl and swallowed. She didn’t want JoBeth to perceive, through the coma, her own fear and worry. She wanted the girl to take her strength.

“Jo,” she said, her voice stronger. “My name is Miranda Moore. I don’t think we’ve met before.”

What to say? She’d never faced a living victim before. Well, that wasn’t completely true. She’d counseled rape victims, eased the fear of those lost then found, dealt with hysterical parents and worried children.

But never a victim of the Butcher. Except when she looked into the mirror.

She could do this. She had to. If anything in JoBeth’s mind could lead them to the man who’d hurt her, Miranda had to find some way to get it out. To save Ashley.

“You survived, JoBeth. You are alive. I’ve heard that people in comas can hear what’s going on around them. Focus on me, JoBeth. Focus. If you want to save Ashley’s life, focus on my words.”

Was that the right approach? Should she even tell her Ashley was in danger? What if that made things worse? What if the guilt killed her?

I survived. Sharon died.

Miranda squeezed her eyes shut and took a deep breath.

“I don’t know why he didn’t take you, too,” Miranda said, looking at the unconscious girl. “But you’re the lucky one. You’re the survivor. You made it this far, and you’re going to make it back to us. You have to. For Ashley. Because somewhere in that sleeping mind of yours is the key to the identity of the man who kidnapped her.”

She hadn’t forgiven herself for not remembering more about her days in captivity. For not being able to identify her attacker. The man who killed Sharon. She could hear his voice, the few times he actually spoke.

Bitch.

How do you like this?

Stay.

Run. You have two minutes.

She’d repeated those words to the investigators. To the FBI profiler. To the shrink she was forced to see. The cruel words spoken in a dull, even monotone didn’t mean anything to her. Oh, the profiler made noise that her attacker had been sexually abused by a woman as a child and was “punishing” his tormentor, but what good did that do in the investigation? Miranda didn’t know. Certainly if they had a suspect it might help. But the police had nothing. The FBI had nothing.

She’d been no help.

But maybe JoBeth would be.

Miranda sucked in a ragged breath. “JoBeth, I was the one who got away,” she whispered. “The Bozeman Butcher. I escaped. But my best friend died. Her name was Sharon and I loved her. Like a sister. I shared everything with her. I never thought-well, I never thought anything bad would happen to us. But the Butcher took us.”

Why had the Butcher not taken JoBeth? Miranda didn’t know, and Quinn and Nick could only speculate. Perhaps he didn’t have time to get her into the truck. Maybe she’d seen his face. Maybe she knew him. Speculation that could be confirmed only by JoBeth Anderson.

“Jo, you need to come out of this daze you’re in. I know you’re in pain. I know it’ll hurt. But if you don’t wake up soon, the Butcher will kill Ashley.” Miranda swallowed. “None of this is your fault. Know that. But you need to wake up and help us. Help the police find whoever took Ashley. Before he hurts her. Before he hunts her.”

Nothing. No movement, nothing to tell Miranda that JoBeth had heard a word she’d said. Miranda squeezed her hand, rested her forehead on the bed, and took a deep breath.

She had a job to do. A woman to find. Before it was too late.

After a moment, she stood, stronger and with purpose. She touched JoBeth’s shoulder and said, “You get better, Jo. Promise me, get well. I’ll be back to talk to you. Maybe tonight, but definitely tomorrow morning, okay?”

She didn’t expect an answer. She didn’t get one.

Quinn couldn’t park in front of the Sheriff’s Department because of the dozens of media vehicles taking every available space. He frowned, parked around the corner, and approached on foot just in time to hear Nick, who stood at the top of the steps, say, “That’s all the questions I have time for. I have an investigation to run.”

Nick turned and went back into the building while the reporters hurled questions at his retreating back.

Quinn ducked down the alley to avoid the reporters and flashed his badge at the deputy guarding the back entrance. He walked straight to Nick’s office.

“What happened?” he asked as he poured himself a cup of coffee from the pot on Nick’s sideboard.

Nick grunted. “Hell if I know, but there’s someone from CNN calling up the public relations officer wanting an interview, and that guy from America’s Most Wanted wants to come out this weekend to film a segment on the Butcher.”

“It couldn’t hurt. Those shows get a lot of attention.” Though by the time the show aired in seven to ten days, Ashley would be dead.

Nick stared at him. “Have you seen the paper this morning?”

“No.”

Nick tossed him the front section.

The headline screamed: Butcher Strikes Again.

“How’d he get it in?”

“Stopped the presses? I don’t know. Most of the story could have been written before Ashley van Auden disappeared, though. Only the first and last paragraphs are related to her.” Nick paused, drummed his fingers on his desk. “Did you talk to Banks?”

Quinn skimmed the article. “No. Not really. I ran into him yesterday at MSU, where he was snooping around.”

“What did you tell him?”

“Nothing important.” Quinn glanced up. “Why?”

“Read on.”

Quinn continued reading. A recounting of Rebecca’s abduction and death… Ryan Parker finding the body… rehash rehash rehash… Banks also wrote about a specialist being called in from the FBI crime lab, and added the fact that Quinn had retrieved 189 files of male students from the MSU Dean. He noted: The files of suspects from Penny Thompson’s disappearance had been returned to MSU, an example of the incompetence and disorganization evident in the investigation.

Banks also blasted the Sheriff’s Department and Nick in particular: One anonymous source close to the investigation said, “The Sheriff’s Department has mishandled this case from the beginning. It’s about time someone competent steps up to the plate. We are living in a state of fear and it has to stop.”

It implied that Quinn had said Nick was incompetent without actually quoting him.

What a jerk!

“I didn’t tell him anything, about Olivia or the files,” Quinn said, tossing the paper back at Nick. “He’s just trying to rile you up. It’s an anonymous quote, Nick. Don’t take it personally.”

Nick’s expression told Quinn his friend had taken the criticism to heart.

“We’re doing everything we can,” Quinn said. “We have the best of the best looking at evidence. We’re searching all known shacks and cabins. We’re taking Ashley’s car apart and Rebecca’s as well. And I have the list