There were no lights on in the cabin. It appeared deserted. He marginally relaxed.
He circled the cabin. It was the standard A-frame-a large room or rooms on the main floor supported by pillars; a loft of sorts in the V of the roof.
He walked up the rickety staircase that led to the wraparound deck. It was obvious no one was here. Dark. No vehicle. Empty. Still, his entire body tensed, his instincts on alert.
He looked through a window, the half moon allowing him to make out shadows. Sparse furnishings-a couch, a chair, a table. No luggage. No food on the table. No gun or knife or woman strapped to the floor.
Yes, it had been a waste of time coming down here.
He holstered his gun, looked around the deck. Two lounge chairs were pushed flush with the house. He crossed the deck and stared at a lake a hundred yards away, the moonlight reflecting off the still surface.
What am I going to do now?
Well, no one knew he’d ventured out this way. Go home, sleep a couple of hours, tell Quinn he’d gone through the property records on a hunch that didn’t pan out. Brush it off and focus on Quinn’s fifty-some-odd men from the University.
It’s what he should have done today rather than pursuing a long shot.
Nick turned away from the railing and saw a pair of boots sitting outside the side door.
Odd.
He reached for his gun.
Before he could draw his weapon, he was unconscious.
CHAPTER 22
Miranda glanced at her watch. It was already seven thirty in the morning; where was Quinn?
Because she’d left her truck at the University, she was dependent on Quinn for transportation back to town. Why had she agreed to ride with him last night?
You were exhausted. Yes, she had feared she would fall asleep at the wheel. Nearly two weeks of virtually sleepless nights had taken their toll.
She’d slept surprisingly well last night. No nightmares, no interruptions. But when she woke up in the morning, she remembered a conversation she’d had with Quinn a year before she was accepted into Quantico. Thinking about it now, she realized he had always had doubts, but not about her ability.
“I’m leaving tomorrow morning,” Quinn said as he tucked Miranda’s hair behind her ear.
“Tomorrow? I thought you had a week off.”
“I did, but something’s come up.”
His tone clued her to the truth. “A murder.”
“You don’t want to hear about it.”
“Yes I do.”
“Miranda, why do you do this to yourself?”
They were sitting on the front porch of the Lodge. It was late evening and most of the guests had retired, or were having a final drink before the bar closed at eleven.
“I’m going to be an FBI agent, Quinn. I can handle the details.” She’d signed up for psychology and criminology courses; she’d already received her bachelor’s degree by doubling up on her studies last year. She would have entered Quantico this year, except she wouldn’t be twenty-three for ten more months.
“You keep talking about it.”
“I told you my plans.”
“You did. I just thought you’d change your mind.”
“Why?” Had she given him the impression she was flaky? She hoped not.
He looked at her, his dark eyes holding so much emotion she felt wonderfully, completely drowned in him. “I’ve been amazed by you for a year, Miranda. You’ve inspired me when I was becoming jaded with the job. Not catching the bastard who hurt you-” He swallowed and glanced away, but not before she caught a glimmer of moisture in his eyes.
“That’s not your fault. He will be stopped. Someday we will find him.”
Quinn slowly turned back to her, holding her hands tight. She leaned into him, content and confident in herself and her own sexuality for the first time since last spring. “You’re so close to this. I-I think you’re smart enough and driven enough to make a damn good FBI agent. But I think the Butcher investigation is driving you more than wanting to be an agent.” He sighed and stroked her hair. “I don’t know if I’m making any sense.”
“I’ll prove to you I’m capable.” Did she sound panicked? No, just emphatic. “You said you’d give me a letter of recommendation. But if you don’t want to, I can get others.”
“I promised you a letter, and you’ll get it.”
“Besides, I won’t be entering the Academy for nearly a year.” She paused. “You didn’t tell me about your case.”
He held her close to his side and they watched the shadows. She’d bundled in four layers of clothing and had a blanket around her legs. Here, with Quinn at her side, she felt secure.
“The victim is a child,” he said softly. “They’re the worst cases.”
“Miranda?”
She jumped, startled. Quinn stood at the base of the stairs looking at her quizzically.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Let’s go.”
She should have read between the lines back then. Thinking back on that night, she realized that Quinn had reservations about her career choice from the beginning. He gave her the letter of recommendation because he had promised, but he’d never expected her to follow through. She didn’t know if she was more upset with him for his concerns or with herself for not picking up on them at the time.
She’d been so certain she’d wanted to be in the FBI. Listening to Quinn talk about the cases he’d worked and the murderers he’d put behind bars-it inspired her and gave her hope that she, too, could fight the bad guys and win.
But there was only one bad guy she really wanted-needed-to defeat. Not for the first time, she feared the shrink might have been right. Her determination to capture the Butcher drove her, had led her to the FBI. She wouldn’t have called it obsession, but she focused on little else. How could she give up when he still hunted women?
In the car, Quinn said, “Miranda?”
“What?”
“Is something wrong?”
“No.” Was it that obvious? She shot Quinn a smile. “I actually slept pretty well last night.”
“Glad to hear it. You needed it.” He turned onto the main highway. She glanced at the dashboard clock: 7:50. She started planning the search, mentally reviewing the grids they’d worked on yesterday and wondering if there was someplace else she should send her team. Anyplace she picked was a shot in the dark.
“Does it even help?” she said.
“Excuse me?”
She hadn’t realized she’d spoken out loud. “I was just thinking about the searches. Every time another woman is abducted, I pull out all the stops and scour thousands of acres. But does it help? We’ve never found one in time. We couldn’t save Rebecca. Why did I ever think we could?”
“Don’t second-guess yourself, Miranda. Nick was doing that yesterday because the press jumped all over him. You are an expert in search and rescue. I looked over your methods and routes and I would have done the exact same thing with the people and resources you had.”
“You would have?”
“Absolutely. And if it weren’t for your methodical searches, we’d never have found some of the bodies.”
“But it was too late.” They’d found the Croft sisters four weeks after they’d been killed. Rebecca less than a day. But it would have been weeks if Judge Parker’s son hadn’t stumbled across her body.
“I talked to Olivia last night.”
“And? Did she find out something? She wouldn’t have called if she didn’t have news. What is it?”
“I called her,” Quinn explained. “And she doesn’t have anything definitive. But she sent some unusual soil samples to the FBI lab in Virginia. Do you know of anyplace around here that has red clay or red soil?”