Quinn tapped his fingers on the dashboard of Nick’s police-issue SUV. He hated being in the passenger seat. It seemed to take twice as long to get anywhere.

“You didn’t give me a lot of details on the phone last week,” he said to Nick. “The Douglas girl was abducted on Friday night?”

“Her roommate called it in about one Saturday morning. She hadn’t come back to the dorm after her shift at the Pizza Shack, the one right off the interstate. The responding officer found her car in the lot, her keys on the passenger seat.”

“Her purse?”

“Missing.”

Few personal effects of the young women had ever been recovered, which made Quinn suspect the killer kept them as souvenirs. To remember his victims.

“We bypassed the standard missing persons wait time because I knew, in my gut, it was the Butcher.”

“Was her car disabled?”

“No.”

“That’s a change.” Quinn wondered why, when up to now every victim of the Butcher had been stranded by the side of the road. Evidence showed that each vehicle had been disabled with molasses in the gas tank. The molasses clogged the fuel filter, resulting in no gasoline reaching the engine. The car just died two or three miles after the victim’s last stop.

When Penny Thompson disappeared fifteen years ago, her car had been recovered down a steep ravine. There was blood on the steering wheel, but no definite sign of foul play; the investigators at the time felt she’d wandered off and gotten lost due to a head injury, but the case had been left open.

Three years later, when Miranda’s car was found by the side of the road halfway between Gallatin Gateway and her father’s lodge near Big Sky, the Sheriff’s Department quickly connected the dots and called in the FBI.

Quinn’s life had irrevocably changed from that day forward.

“Some people insisted it wasn’t the Butcher, but-”

“Your instincts were right on the money.”

“Unfortunately.”

“We have two distinct advantages,” Quinn said. “First, a change in M.O. He didn’t disable the car. Maybe he didn’t have time. Maybe he acted spontaneously. Or maybe Rebecca Douglas knew him, wasn’t scared of him when he came up to her.”

“I thought of that angle, but all of the interviews so far have yielded squat.”

“I’d like to go through your notes.”

“Whatever you need.” Nick paused. “What’s the other advantage?”

“We found her body so quickly. It doesn’t help that it rained last night, but maybe the coroner can find something to tie back to a suspect, a hair, a thread from his clothes, something.” After viewing the body earlier, Quinn didn’t hold out much hope there’d be any usable evidence found on the victim, but science constantly improved and if there was anything to be found, he was confident it would be.

“If we can find the shack where he kept her captive there’s a much better chance any evidence would still be helpful,” Nick said.

“Good point.” Even when they’d found the dilapidated structures where the Butcher had restrained his victims before releasing the women in the wilderness, any evidence had been tainted or destroyed. The dampness, mold, and rot of the shacks destroyed most biological samples. They had no DNA, no fingerprints except for a partial that came up blank in the AFIS database, and no suspects.

The profile Quinn had prepared twelve years before had been updated to reflect the older assailant. Then, he’d reasoned that the Butcher was a white male between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-five, but tack on another ten years and the youngest he could be was thirty-five, more likely forty. Physically strong, methodical-in fact, he was an obsessive planner, with patience and fortitude. He didn’t lack confidence, which was why he never doubted he could catch the women he released. Not that it was too difficult to track a naked, barefoot woman through the woods.

Quinn had been pulled off the investigation after two months because there were no leads and little evidence. When no other women disappeared, the powers that be didn’t feel scarce resources could be expended in the futile search for Sharon’s killer.

The Butcher had waited three years after that before abducting two other girls, but no bodies had ever been recovered. Few serial killers had the patience to wait so long between attacks, but there were no like crimes reported in the rest of the country.

The lack of continuity, the sporadic nature of the assailant, gave police next to nothing to go on.

Quinn pounded his fist against the dashboard. “I want to get this bastard.”

Nick didn’t say anything as he turned onto a gravel road under an arch that read Parker Ranch .

Quinn vaguely remembered Richard Parker from the time he spent on the Butcher case. Mover and shaker in the state, federal political connections, locally elected to some office. Supervisor, he thought.

Richard Parker had never been a suspect. Quinn remembered he’d been arrogant and something of a blowhard, but seemed sincere in wanting to find additional resources for the Sheriff’s Department at a time when tax dollars were especially tight.

The Parker residence reminded Quinn of the Ponderosa. He almost expected Ben Cartwright to answer the door.

“Sheriff,” Richard Parker said as he opened the large door. Parker had aged well, Quinn noted. About fifty, his blond hair hadn’t yet begun to gray and the wrinkles around his dark eyes were minimal. Six feet tall and lean, he had the broad shoulders and defined muscles of a man comfortable working a ranch.

Parker turned to Quinn. “Special Agent Peterson, right?”

Quinn nodded. “Good memory, Mr. Parker.”

Parker smiled weakly. “It’s Judge Parker now, but don’t mind the formalities. Call me Richard.”

Judge. Quinn glanced at Nick, irritated that his friend hadn’t clued him in to the politically sensitive situation. Quinn hated playing politics.

“Thank you.”

They followed Parker through the wide, dark-paneled foyer into the large living room, bright from east- and south-facing windows and two long, narrow skylights.

Everything was immaculate and perfectly placed, as if the Parkers were expecting a camera crew from House Beautiful . Hunting trophies and framed prints of outdoor scenes decorated the light-colored walls; oversized, heavy pine furniture was simple and functional. A hint of femininity showed in the floral throw pillows complementing the dark fabric couches and chairs. A gun cabinet was prominently displayed along one wall, above it a huge fish with a plaque that read White Sturgeon, 71 pounds, Kootenai River, June 10, 1991 .

“I sent the boys to the barn to tend to the horses,” Parker said. “Can I get you anything to drink? Coffee, soda? Probably too early for Scotch.” He motioned for them to sit.

“We can’t stay, Richard,” Nick said. “I’ve called in all my deputies, and we have a group of volunteers to work the area. It’s going to be a long day.”

“I understand. The boys were pretty shaken up. You’ll go easy on them?”

“Of course,” Nick said.

“Do you need horses? I can have Jed bring over six or seven. And I’ll give the hands the afternoon off if you need them.”

“Much obliged, Richard,” Nick said. “We’ll need to search on foot to avoid contaminating possible evidence.”

Parker nodded. “Yes, yes. Of course.” He closed his eyes and shook his head. “I thought-I guess I thought that it was over.”

I didn’t , Quinn thought. “Serial killers only stop when they are incarcerated or die.”

“But it’s been three years.”

Quinn shook his head. “There is every reason to believe Corinne Atwell was also a victim of the Butcher, and she went missing May first of last year. The wilderness is unforgiving. Animals, weather, terrain. We may never know how many girls he’s killed.”

“What’s the FBI’s interest this time?” Parker raised his eyebrow. “You weren’t here when the twins were found.”

“Actually,” Nick corrected him, “Special Agent Thorne was here after the Croft sisters were abducted, and again when Corinne Atwell turned up missing. I called Agent Peterson in last week because of his familiarity with the case. I don’t have to tell you that the resources of the federal government are far greater than our county’s.”

Quinn had no more time for small talk. Kids needed to be interviewed as soon as possible after witnessing a crime or finding evidence. If left too long to think about things, their minds tended to replace facts with fantasy, much of it from television. “Where are the boys, sir?”

“In the barn.” Parker motioned for Quinn to sit. “I’ll get them for you.”

“No need. I think they’ll be more comfortable if they’re doing something with their hands. Grooming horses sounds like a good task.”

“I’ll take you,” Parker said.

Nick held Quinn back several feet behind Parker to speak to him privately. “I want to see the horses’ hooves,” he said quietly. He couldn’t imagine that the boys would have any reason to lie, but he liked to confirm statements with solid evidence.

The stable stood several hundred feet behind the house and Quinn heard the low murmur of the boys within the stalls.

“Ryan! Sheriff Thomas is here to talk to you.”

Ryan Parker was almost eleven, the image of his father with blond hair and brown eyes. Unusually handsome for a young boy, he seemed older, almost worldly, compared to the McClain brothers.

“Ryan,” Nick began, “this is Special Agent Quincy Peterson. He’s with the FBI.”

Ryan’s eyes widened with excitement. “The FBI? Really? Can I see your badge?”

“Ryan,” his father said sternly.

Quinn ignored Parker and squatted down so he looked up at the boy. “Sure,” he said as he pulled his wallet out of his jacket pocket. He flipped it open and showed his badge and credentials to the wide-eyed kid.

Ryan didn’t touch, but looked with interest. “Do you have to go to a special school to be a special agent?”

“After four years of college, I spent sixteen weeks at a special training camp called Quantico. I also took an extra year to get a master’s degree in criminology.”

“Is it hard?”

“Parts of it. You want to be a federal agent?”

Ryan glanced at his father, and Quinn noticed a touch of fear in the boy’s eyes. Perhaps his father simply expected him to follow in his footsteps, Quinn thought. He could relate. The fact that he wasn’t “Doctor Peterson” still weighed heavily in his parents’ house. “Maybe,” Ryan said, noncommittal.