But she felt the barrel of his rifle at her fingertips.
She swung it and the stock hit him in the head as he loomed above her. He collapsed to the ground, shaken. Scrambling up, she aimed the rifle at him. “How do you like being the hunted?”
Her breath came in sharp gasps, adrenaline pouring through her. His life was in her hands. One shot to the head and it was over. She aimed. Pressed the trigger.
Click.
She looked down. She hadn’t chambered the round.
He didn’t hesitate and grabbed the end of the rifle. She fought for it, but he yanked it from her hands. Then he slipped, losing his grip on the gun, and it slid down the slope out of reach.
She saw the glimmer of a knife in his belt. This was it. She’d never be able to defeat him in hand-to-hand combat. He was skinny, but tall and much stronger than he looked.
He glared at her, his crystal blue eyes cold with hate. Then he smiled slyly.
“You will die today.”
He jumped on her.
Quinn heard gunshots. They were so close, but what if it was too late?
He ran as fast as he could, stumbling over rocks and splashing through the rising creek.
He heard a startled cry. Miranda. He couldn’t see her, but she wasn’t far off. He added speed, desperate to call her name but not wanting to alert Larsen.
He burst into a clearing, stopping just in time to avoid sliding down a boulder. Right below him, Larsen had Miranda pinned to the ground. In Larsen’s hand was a knife.
Quinn reached for his gun.
Her heart raced, adrenaline pumped through her veins. It was as if her eyesight had become sharper, her hearing better.
Larsen’s body pinned her down, his left arm pressed hard across her throat. The knife in his right hand shimmered, rainwater dripping from the blade onto her face.
Her greatest fear was she would be paralyzed. That she’d never be able to defend herself when her life was on the line. That the years of self-defense classes she took, the ones she taught, the exercise, the determination, was all for naught.
That he would win in the end.
This is it. The day I die.
No. NO!
She reached up with her left hand and gouged his eyes as deeply as she could. He roared in pain and leaned away from her, raising his right arm high above his head, the sharp blade of the double-edged hunting knife coming down, down.
She arched her back and used his precarious balance to throw him off.
She didn’t wait to see how he landed. She jumped up, but he grabbed her foot and pulled her down again. She was on her stomach, the worst possible position. A hot burn seared the back of her calf. Warmth oozed out of her body, molding her jeans to her leg.
He’d stabbed her.
Miranda heard someone shout and the Butcher paused, his weight easing off her.
It was just enough.
Using her arms, she pushed herself up and back-kicked him with her damaged leg. Pain radiated through her body and she wobbled with vertigo. She shook it off.
Larsen stumbled, fell, and dropped the knife. They lunged for it at the same time.
Miranda felt her hand clasp warm, sticky metal. Sticky with her blood.
She stared at him and their eyes locked.
Larsen’s soulless eyes told her everything she needed to know about him.
He killed because he could. It was the hunt that thrilled him.
The hunt was over.
He lunged for the knife. Without hesitating she shoved the blade into David Larsen’s chest. His blood spilled over her hands and he reached for her. She cringed, but didn’t let go of the knife.
His mouth worked, but only gasps came out. He was trying to say something.
It sounded like Theron.
She didn’t understand the reference to the Greek god, if that’s what it was.
She watched him die, looking at his face clearly for the first time.
He didn’t look evil.
This man had raped her. Brutalized her body and scarred her breasts. This man had killed her best friend in cold blood, and at least six other women. He’d terrorized the women of southwest Montana for twelve years, making them scared to be alone. To drive alone. Or even in pairs.
Even though he was dying, no one would ever forget his reign of terror.
But he didn’t look like a monster. He looked like a scared kid. Blood dribbled from his mouth and his eyes looked skyward.
“Ther-on.”
She released the knife and staggered backward. He crumbled in front of her, his hands clutching the knife that still protruded from his chest.
She sank to the ground, her leg aching, her heart racing, her mind numb.
She had killed someone. Not just anyone. The Butcher.
Tears flowed down her face and she breathed as if she’d been without oxygen for hours. She stared at David Larsen, at his blood seeping into the ground. At his eyes glazing over.
She watched him die.
“My God, Miranda.”
“Quinn?” Her voice sounded odd, distant. She had trouble gaining her focus. Shock as the adrenaline wore off.
Arms wrapped around her. Strong arms, pulling her close. “Miranda, I thought-” He didn’t finish his sentence.
She turned into his warm chest, breathed in his comforting scent, and never wanted him to leave. She clutched at him as if she were drowning, her sobs buried in his body. And he held her. Just held her.
His deep, quiet reassurance soothed her. “It’s over, sweetheart. It’s finally over.”
CHAPTER 35
By the time Quinn brought Miranda back to the Lodge, it was well after midnight. Miranda was unusually quiet. He wasn’t surprised: she’d gone through a second horrendous experience in the woods.
It had taken nearly two hours for the medics to transport Nick, Lance, and Ashley from the canyon to the Parker Ranch, where ambulances waited. A medic bandaged Miranda’s leg while she sat in a temporary shelter. She was fixed to a board and brought slowly up the mountain after the others.
Miranda had wanted to go straight home, but Quinn drove her to the hospital to get stitches. He wasn’t about to let her out of his sight, and held her hand the entire visit.
Though David Larsen was dead, all Quinn could think about was how he’d almost lost Miranda again.
Bill and Gray were waiting in the bar. Bill rushed to his daughter as soon as she limped in with Quinn’s help. “Randy,” he said, his voice thick with emotion.
“I’m okay.”
She was more than okay. She was a survivor. Quinn had always known it, and she had proven her courage in the face of evil.
He hoped she believed in herself now. No self-doubts, no what-ifs. She had grown into the woman he knew she could become.
“Sit,” Gray said, pulling out a couple chairs.
They sank into them, and Bill poured them both doubles of his best Scotch. “Oh, wait, you can’t drink on pain medication,” he said, holding back her glass.
“Give it to me, Dad,” Miranda said, holding out her hand. “I didn’t take the pills. You know how I hate taking drugs.”
He handed her the glass and sat down at her side. “It’s over. You’re safe.”
Quinn didn’t trust himself to say anything. He hadn’t gotten over the shock of seeing Larsen’s knife puncture Miranda’s leg.
Most people hadn’t had a serial killer touch their lives. Twice.
Quinn filled Bill in on the abbreviated version of what happened.
“I can’t believe Delilah Parker’s brother-poor Ryan, to find out like that,” Bill said, shaking his head.
Miranda spoke up for the first time. “Ryan is brave. I don’t know why Larsen didn’t kill him. He must have sensed Ryan knew.”
“From what I know about serial killers,” Quinn said, “they have their own set of morals.”
Bill guffawed. “Morals!”
Quinn explained. “Perhaps ‘rules’ is a better word. Some killers won’t touch animals, for example. Larsen was a wildlife biologist, and according to everyone my partner talked to in Denver, he loved the birds he cared for. He even named them.”