Hunted (Reeve Leclaire 2) Page 14

Questions spin through her mind as she sinks onto a low sofa facing the desk. She can picture Flint enjoying a snack while pawing through files with his greasy fingers.

  Bender is staring at her. “Are you okay?”

  “What time did Dr. Moody get home?”

  “He left the restaurant around ten, so he would’ve gotten home by ten-thirty or so.”

  “I think Flint was already here,” she says, looking at the desk, “waiting for him.”

  “That could fit.”

  “Did Flint take anything else from the office?”

  “The safe was open and anything of value was taken. Apparently, Dr. Moody had recently purchased several thousand dollars in gold coins, which may have been what Flint was after. Money is a pretty good motivator. Could be Dr. Moody was a victim of his own affluence.”

  Something nags at her. She gets to her feet and scans the room. “Where was Moody killed?”

  He hesitates, and she asks again, “Where?”

  “In the basement. You might not want to go down there.”

  She takes a breath. “I’ve had lots of therapy. I can handle basements.”

  “Are you sure?”

  She nods.

  “Okay, your call. But let’s finish up here first.”

  They head next to the garage, where Bender stops short, whistling a long note. “Now this is what I call a car. Look at these lines.” He circles the Audi R8, clearly resisting the temptation to touch it. “I’d say Dr. Moody was having one heckuva midlife crisis.”

  She frowns at the car. “Too bad Flint didn’t take this one instead of Moody’s SUV.”

  “Sure, the SUV is much less conspicuous.”

  “What else did he take?”

  Bender quickly runs through the list, pausing after he mentions fishing tackle.

  “You’re wondering if I remember anything more about a fishing cabin.” She rubs her eyes, trying to summon up an image, but any notion slips away like noodles off a spoon. “Sorry.”

  They leave the chilly garage and head back into the house. The moment they reach the kitchen, the front door bangs open, followed by the rapid clicking of a woman’s heels.

  A trim woman in black bursts in, shouting, “Who the hell are you? And what the hell are you doing in my house?”

  “Mrs. Moody?” Bender says. “We’re so sorry to intrude. We were told the house was vacant. We’re consulting with the FBI.” He rushes through introductions and shows Mrs. Moody the key with the case number attached. “Again, I apologize. We didn’t expect you.”

  “Well, you better not touch anything,” Mrs. Moody warns. “If anything’s missing, I . . . I . . .” She looks around and says angrily, “The house is mine now, you know. You really have to leave.”

  “Yes, of course.” Bender takes a step toward the door, but she blocks the way, standing with feet apart, and doesn’t move.

  “Can you believe he divorced me?” she demands. “But now I’m the one who has to deal with his mess. With the funeral, with his family, with all this bullshit. That lying bastard. I’m glad he’s dead.” She hiccups a laugh and starts to weep.

  Reeve watches, chewing a lip while Bender offers the woman a tissue.

  “Thank you,” she says, dabbing her eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m usually not like this.”

  “Of course,” he says in a sympathetic tone. “This is a difficult time for you.”

  “At least he left me the house. At least he didn’t change his will.” She stares blankly out the window a moment, then her red eyes find Bender’s. “Did you see that ridiculous car? I don’t want to even think about all the whores he had in that thing. I’ll sell it like that,” she says with a snap of her fingers.

  Reeve fidgets, shooting Bender a look.

  “I don’t mean to be rude,” Mrs. Moody says, straightening, “but you two really need to go.”

  “We were just about to head out. Again, we’re very sorry to intrude.”

  Still blocking the doorway, she says, “Shit, I forgot why I came.” She looks around as if lost, then blurts, “Oh, I remember! I need some kind of memorabilia, photographs or something for the funeral, but I don’t—” Her face crumples and tears slide down her cheeks.

  Again, Bender tries to soothe her, handing her another tissue.

  “I saw some trophies in the den,” Reeve suggests. “Maybe you’d like to take those?”

  Mrs. Moody flashes a fierce smile. “Excellent idea.” Stepping quickly past them, she opens a cupboard and snatches out a shopping bag. “A couple of trophies, a few photos, and I’ll be out of this place. This damn house, I’ll sell it, too. I can’t live here.”

  She leads them into the foyer, saying, “All I need to do is keep it together for his family. All I need to do is make it through the funeral. All I need to do is make it through one day after another.”

  But she doesn’t open the door. Instead, she stands there with the empty shopping bag, staring at something they can’t see, whispering, “This is what happens, this is what happens.”

  Bender opens the door and they exit quietly, without any acknowledgment from Mrs. Moody.

  “Well now, wasn’t that interesting?” Bender says, climbing into the driver’s seat.

  “God, she seems unstable, doesn’t she? I can’t tell if she’s happy or sad that Moody’s dead.” She puts on her seat belt. “So, when did they get divorced?”

  “Why? You’ve got that pensive look.”

  “I’m guessing not long ago. Because the Audi is brand new, right? And look . . .” She gestures toward the Mercedes parked in the driveway. “His ex-wife took the luxury sedan.”

  “I see. She left him with the utilitarian SUV, so then he goes out and buys the car of his dreams. Sounds reasonable.”

  A beat of silence.

  “I wonder what Dr. Moody drove to the hospital.”

  Bender cocks an eyebrow. “Your point being . . .”

  “Flint made a habit of watching the parking lot. Suppose he always sees Dr. Moody driving a Mercedes, then he’s suddenly driving an ordinary SUV, and after that, he shows up driving that flashy Audi.”

  “So maybe Flint made a point of asking about the new car.”

  “Or Moody bragged about it.”

  “In any case, Flint figured out—”

  “—that Moody was living alone,” they say in unison.

  They share a conspiratorial look and then fall silent as Bender wheels away from the house.

  Reeve unconsciously massages the numb side of her left hand, a permanent reminder of her captivity. “But why did he kill Dr. Moody? Why not just tie him up, hit the road, and disappear?”

  “That’s what we’re all wondering. But think about risks versus rewards. What are the consequences of getting caught, from his point of view? He’d probably enjoy another trial, where he’d be in the limelight for a while. And then he’d be returned to forensic lockup.”

  This stops her. “You’re serious? He’d just go back to Olshaker?”

  “He’s mentally ill.”

  “Well, crap, then what difference would a couple of life sentences make?”

  Bender coughs a sound of disapproval. “Flint has had a lot of time to think about that.”

  “Yeah, spending years of being locked up, craving freedom.”

  He gives her a sad look. “As you know too well.”

  She tries to imagine what her kidnapper is up to, where he’s hiding, how he’s reinventing himself. “We still don’t have a clue where Flint could be.”

  “He can’t just go back and start over, but ordinarily, a fugitive will try to reclaim his old life, his old routines.”

  “But—” She bites off the sentence, unwilling to say aloud that she was his old life.

  The car slowly winds out of the neighborhood, and she stares glumly out the window at houses bedecked with Halloween decorations. One lawn is pocked with tombstones, skeletal hands reaching from mock graves. And the sudden sensation of Flint breathing on her neck makes her s
hiver.

  THIRTY

  Olympia, Washington

  Just as Daryl Wayne Flint is turning into Wertz’s driveway, a neighbor comes out onto his porch with an aging spaniel, does a double take, and gives a wave.

  Flint doesn’t curse. He doesn’t smile. He just nods his bushy wig and raises a palm off the steering wheel in a gesture midway between casual and contemptuous.

  The last thing he wants is to encourage nosy neighbors.

  Once inside, he stashes the groceries and supplies and his newly purchased pirate costume, then heads down the hallway toward the den. He pauses midway, noticing the framed map of the Pacific Northwest. He remembers how Wertz liked to point out his ancestors’ timberland, especially the high-profit areas, while griping about all the acreage bequeathed to national parks.

  “Gripe, gripe, gripe,” Flint says, heading into the den, where he ignores the glass eyes of the dead animals mounted on the walls.

  The door to the secret room rolls open. Inside, he adds his newly purchased wigs to the shelf, and then stands back to admire them. Wertz would not approve, but the colors are certainly a big improvement over that old selection.

  Now it’s time to focus on Plan B.

  Flint sits down with the computer, starting with their bank accounts. Wertz had been a master at setting up untraceable websites and offshore accounts. Wertz was the businessman, Flint was the artist. It worked well. Wertz managed all the technical stuff, but he had thoroughly schooled Flint about using only anonymized e-mail accounts. So now, no matter where his imagination takes him, Flint is certain the Tor program running in the background is cloaking the laptop’s IP address.

  He logs out of the bank account and peruses one of their websites, all of which are running on servers somewhere overseas, perhaps Norway, where strict privacy laws protect it from the reach of US authorities. He scrolls through the pictures and smiles. Specialty porn always draws a moneyed clientele.

  Recalling the instant of capturing each image, Flint admires the play of light and shadow on young skin. Then he leans back in his chair and glances up at the shelves of yearbooks.

  The school photography had been a stroke of genius.

  As a legitimate business, Walter Wertz Photography had given them access to literally thousands of children every year. Wertz spent his days behind the camera, smiling at all the pimply faced coeds. Later, the two of them would study the photos—catalogues of young faces—culling the ugly ones, selecting those with the most potential.

  After that, Flint went to work, scouting out their homes, identifying the ones worthy of serious attention. No dogs. Distant neighbors. Careless habits. He was stealthy by nature, good at surreptitious work, and spent long hours prone on hillsides, coiled in trees, crouched on balconies, aiming high-powered lenses through windows and capturing unguarded moments. The bedtimes. The evening baths. He especially loved the summers, when damp swimmers were always peeling off wet swimsuits.

  He scrolls through the websites featuring beautiful young flesh that never ages. But the unmarked skin seems strangely bland and uninteresting. Imagine how much better it would be after many long months of careful work, after it scabs and heals and blooms.

  He stops at a familiar torso. Her name is lost to him now, but he remembers her curves. She had been Wertz’s favorite that season. He now recalls that, after they’d smuggled her away to the cabin, Wertz had laid full claim and sent him away with scarcely a chance to photograph her.

  Wertz always preferred the chesty ones, but Flint followed his friend’s lead because there were often sisters more to his taste. Like Reggie.

  He savors a memory, then stands, faces the shelves of yearbooks, and runs his fingers along the colorful spines until he locates the middle school yearbook he seeks. He plucks it off the shelf, opens it, and the pages fall open to precisely the page he wishes. He retrieves the magnifying eye loupe and bends so close to the smiling photograph that he can count the freckles sprinkled across young Reggie LeClaire’s cheeks.

  He taps his toe three times, then boots up the laptop. He finds the news clip of the discovery of the storage unit, and stops the frame when he spots her, enlarging the image until her face begins to pixelate. The sight of her warms him.

  He replays the video, wondering how she ended up here when, according to Dr. Moody’s files, she’s supposedly living in San Francisco. He sits back in the chair, tapping his chin.

  If she’s here in Seattle, where would she be? Staying with an old friend, perhaps?

  An idea occurs to him that’s so tantalizing, he doesn’t know why he didn’t think of it before.

  He vividly recalls Reggie as a girl of twelve, coming home from school, roaming her neighborhood, visiting with the girl two doors down, the one with the charming gap between her front teeth. What was her name?

  Jenna.

  It’s a risk, but a few minutes later, he’s loading up his gear, humming a tune, eager to get started. He always enjoyed surveillance. The camera’s spotting scope brings details in so close—the hand on the hip, the curve of the spine—you can almost smell their skin.

  Just in case he gets lucky, he’ll bring the metal box loaded with his tools.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Seattle, Washington

  Sitting on an outcropping of granite, Daryl Wayne Flint squints through his binoculars, scanning Reggie LeClaire’s old neighborhood. He can be a patient man when he needs to be, and he has been waiting for the sun to dip below the horizon, as it does now. There’s no breeze as twilight creeps in, painting the clouds with streaks of gold.

  This was not in the original plan—Wertz would certainly not approve— but he’s now free to improvise. And he’d be a fool to overlook this opportunity.

  It makes sense that his cricket might have returned to this neighborhood on Strawberry Lane, where she has old ties. Her family has moved to California, but perhaps she’s visiting old friends, perhaps even staying in this Tudor-style house, where she and that coltish, gap-toothed girl used to play.

  Jenna. How old would she be? Early twenties, like Reggie, so perhaps she’s moved out. But she might still be living here. Nowadays, kids fail at natural independence, hanging onto their mother’s tits as long as possible. Not like when he was a boy. Once his father was dead and buried, his mother’s plans didn’t include him, so at thirteen it was time to man up. He’d shot into adulthood, and after a short apprenticeship, Wertz invited him into a partnership. None of this lifelong coddling and indulgence, like today’s youth.

  The sun disappears below the horizon. He adjusts the camouflage hat on his head and peers through the binoculars, watching as the lights come on in the houses, just as he did years ago. But now, instead of focusing a camera lens and following Wertz’s dictates, he carries a stun gun in his pocket and follows his own interests.

  What’s this? A car pulls up to the curb and out hops a girl. He gets to his feet for a better look.

  She’s young, perhaps only fourteen, with short bangs and honey-colored hair. He focuses on her perfect skin as she waves goodbye to her friends in the car, then he watches her lithe form mount the steps.

  Might this be Jenna’s little sister, all grown up?

  She unlocks the door, and a moment after she enters, the lights come on.

  He smiles, pleased that no one is waiting for her at home, and gets to his feet. He creeps down the slope, inhaling the woodsy aromas, and pauses at the road. When all is quiet, he slips across unseen to crouch in the shadows, then follows the hedge along the side of the house.

  A light shines from a bathroom window. He hears a toilet flush and rises up on his toes, but the frosted glass obscures what’s inside. He moves to the back of the house, where he finds a wide, flagstone patio. He checks the neighbor’s windows, careful to stay out of their line of sight, and creeps along the perimeter.

  Sounds of movement. A cupboard closes, a dish clinks. He locates a kitchen window and gets a glimpse of the girl—lovely up close. He can almost fe
el her skin beneath his fingertips.

  He moves across the flagstones, tiptoeing through the potted plants, and approaches the sliding glass door. From here, he can view the entire living room, a staircase, and all the way through to the front door. Light glows from the kitchen, but the rest of the house falls darker by the minute. He approaches the patio door, eyeing the locking mechanism. Sliders can be iffy. Some lock securely, others are easy to—

  The front door suddenly swings open. He freezes as two adults enter with shopping bags. He holds his breath and watches their eyes, but they turn immediately toward the kitchen with a call of greeting, and neither parent glances his direction.

  He eases away from the door to retrace his steps through the potted plants and along the hedge. He pauses before crossing Strawberry Lane, then hurries back up the slope.

  A few minutes later, he’s behind the wheel of his vehicle, feeling both frustrated and exhilarated at having come so close.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Seattle, Washington

  In her dream, Reeve is late for a trip. She barely has time to throw a few clothes into a suitcase and run. The suitcase is heavy and she misses her plane, so she has to take a train.

  The train is dark and crowded and grim.

  She disembarks in a strange country where the looming trees are huge, gnarled, black things, completely bare of leaves. They have learned to talk, and they mutter nasty things at her as she rushes past.

  She makes it into town but discovers that a long funeral procession is blocking the street. She must wait in the crowd for it to pass. She stops, trying to be respectful, craning her neck to see. She is expecting a hearse to appear, but realizes there are no cars. Instead, throngs of people come marching toward her with their arms raised above their heads.

  She strains to see what’s happening.

  Thin, naked bodies are being passed overhead.

  She turns to run away but stumbles, falls, and is horrified to realize that she has tripped over a skinny girl sitting on the ground. Reeve blurts an apology, and as she starts to rise, sees that the girl’s legs are scarred and broken like twigs.