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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