He was wrong. The only way to deal with Miranda was face-to-face.
“Hello? Quinn, is that you?” The voice on the other end of the phone startled him.
He shook his head to clear it. “Sorry, Liv. I was daydreaming.”
“Day? It’s eleven o’clock at night.”
“Did I wake you?”
“No. What can I do for you?”
Olivia was always serious, by the book. He admired her steadfast devotion to her job as a lab technician. No forensic detail escaped her.
“Did you learn anything?”
“I’ve only been here one day. Laboratory tests take time.” She said this like he should know it, which he did. But, dammit, he wanted all the information
“Sorry,” he mumbled.
“Right.”
“Sarcasm from you?” he teased.
“I’m tired. It’s one in the morning in Virginia.”
“I forgot. I’ll let you go.”
“There is one thing.”
He stopped pacing. “What?”
“There’s some dirt that seems-I don’t know, different.”
“Dirt? From where?”
“Hold on… “ In the background, Quinn could hear Olivia ruffling through papers. “Okay. There were ten soil samples taken from the shack where Rebecca was held, each from a different area of the shack and immediate surrounding area. Two of the inside samples were different than the soil collected from outside the shack.”
“Different? How?”
“Distinctive. First of all, it’s red. I don’t recall from my studies the soil in Montana being red. And the fact that it doesn’t match the outdoor soil set off my internal alarms. But this isn’t my area of expertise. I overnighted a sample to Quantico for analysis.”
“Red? As in, blood? Fire-engine red?”
“No, more like brick red.”
“Brick?”
“But lighter than soil.”
“You’ve lost me, Liv.”
She laughed and Quinn smiled. Olivia didn’t laugh much, but when she did it warmed anyone within earshot. “The color of brick, but with a texture more like clay than soil. Clay is very fine, but when it gets wet, the particles bind together.”
“Like pottery?” He frowned, trying to picture what Olivia was explaining.
“Same principle, but this is a different type of clay.”
“When will you know? Can you pinpoint where it might have come from?” He was about to ask a dozen other questions when Olivia cut him off.
“I’m rushing the analysis, Quinn, but the sample is still with Federal Express and my people can’t do anything until they receive it.”
“I’m sorry. But this sounds like the best lead we have.”
“I know, I’ve been reading the case files you left with me.” She paused. “How is Miranda?”
“Okay.”
“And?”
“You know Miranda. She’s working too hard, not eating enough. But she’s good at what she does. I just wish it didn’t hurt her so much.” He sank onto the bed, staring at his own feet, but seeing only Miranda’s dark blue eyes fill with the pain of the world.
“Quinn?”
“Yeah.”
“You still love her.”
“I know.”
“Have you told her?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“She doesn’t care. I hurt her, Liv. I didn’t want to, but I had to.”
“Can you explain that to her?”
“I tried.” He sounded defensive.
“Yes, I remember you tried back then, when she was raw and emotional. What about now?”
“Nothing’s changed, Liv. I’ve tried twice to talk to her, but she walks away. She doesn’t want to listen.”
“Make her listen.”
“Dammit, I’ve
“Try harder.”
Even though he’d meticulously plotted out his map, Nick almost missed the turnoff to Judge Parker’s cabin in Big Sky.
Thick trees dipped low and scratched the roof of his SUV as he started up the steep slope. His headlights brightened the area directly in front of him, but the narrow gravel road was lined with a tangle of thick bushes and vines, brushing against his truck on both sides.
An hour ago, he’d been sitting at his kitchen table eating takeout and staring at the maps and property records he’d copied from the Recorder’s Office when he plotted the deed to this particular cabin on the map. It jumped out at him: This property stood in the center of a fifteen-mile circle like a bull’s-eye. This cabin was the only building accessible on foot from every crime scene they had discovered. While some of the terrain was treacherous and could take hours, a skilled hiker could handle it.
The Butcher was physically fit enough to make it.
Nick was treading on dangerous ground: the cabin was owned by Judge Richard Parker.
Even if his gut instincts were correct and the cabin was a stopping point for the Butcher, that didn’t mean Judge Parker knew anything about it. The man owned ten thousand acres. He couldn’t possibly police all of them.
Nick couldn’t afford to have one of the most powerful men in Montana turn against him or the Sheriff’s Department. It was best to investigate the cabin under wraps, then call it in if he learned anything.
It wasn’t like he was going to confront anyone. All he wanted to do was confirm its existence and look around. If there was evidence of a break-in or recent inhabitation, Nick would bring in a team of investigators and talk to Parker about the place.
Parker hadn’t claimed the property as rental income, but that didn’t mean much. He could have leased it to friends for a weekend, or just used it himself. The judge had inherited it from his father, according to estate records. This particular dwelling was in the middle of nowhere, like many vacation homes in southwest Montana.
If Nick hadn’t spent five hours at the Clerk and Recorder’s Office reviewing every property record within a ten-mile radius of each known victim, he’d never have noticed this cabin.
He’d called Quinn as he neared the turnoff to Gallatin Lodge to see if he wanted to join him. But his voice mail picked up and Nick didn’t leave a message. Driving down to Big Sky was a whim; his hunch would probably lead nowhere. After spending the last few days being beaten up in the press, he’d rather keep this theory low-key until he had some proof.
Pushing all doubt from his mind, Nick drove the two winding miles up the narrow, overgrown gravel driveway.
A sharp turn led right to the cabin’s carport, and even though he was expecting the building it seemed to jump out at him. He slammed on his brakes, cutting his lights at the same time.
