Hunted (Reeve Leclaire 2) Read online

  “No, it’s not that. She doesn’t look like me. She looks like my sister.” She points a shaking finger at another girl’s photo. “And so does she.”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Rachel answers on the first ring, and after hearing repeated assurances that her sister is fine, Reeve’s galloping heart begins to slow.

  “Of course I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be? You’re the one we’re worried about,” Rachel says. “We saw you in that news clip when they found Flint’s getaway vehicle. You’re getting way too close to this, Reeve. Dad wants to know when you’re coming home.”

  Reeve offers vague reassurances, asks about the baby, and soon says good-bye.

  When she hangs up, she grips Agent Blankenship’s arm. “Promise me you’ll send an agent to watch my sister’s house.”

  “Right, we’ve got it handled.” He pries her hand free and turns to Keswick. “Nik, why don’t you and Reeve take a break?”

  Reeve hates being dismissed like this, but swallows her protests and follows Keswick out of the room. They take the elevator to the cafeteria, where Reeve chooses a seat near the back corner. Out of habit, she keeps an eye on the exits.

  While Keswick gets some lunch, Reeve sits alone, mulling the connection between her kidnapper and the missing girls. She can’t get their faces out of her mind. Could Flint have had a role in their kidnappings? Could any of them still be alive?

  “Okay, I’ve brought your hot chocolate,” Keswick says, setting down a fully loaded tray of food. “Help yourself to anything. I’ve brought more than I can eat.”

  Reeve barely glances at the food. “How many of those missing girls match up to days when Flint left me alone in the basement?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to find out. Don’t worry. Blankenship might lack social skills, but he’s a smart guy and a solid agent. And with what you’ve given us, we’ll be able to scour old cases for possible correlations.”

  Reeve hunches in her seat, saying nothing.

  After eating a few bites, Keswick says, “Tell me about your sister. What’s she like?”

  “You’re trying to calm me down, aren’t you?”

  “Tell me about her.”

  She sighs. “Okay, fair enough. Rachel is one of those beautiful, gifted, talented people who can do anything. Unlike me. She cooks, she sings, she plays piano, and she’s mad about dance, especially ballet. When we were kids, she always said she wanted to be an actress. She was in a lot of school plays, and she was really, really good, but . . . I guess my kidnapping messed her up. Plus the trial.” A pause before Reeve adds softly, “And then our mother died.”

  “Oh.” Keswick puts down her sandwich. “I’m so sorry.”

  Breathe in, breathe out.

  “Anyway, Rachel is married and has a son and seems exceptionally happy. But she’s less bubbly than she used to be. And when it comes to me, she over-compensates.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “She’s always trying to . . .” Reeve pushes her cup away. “I think she blamed herself when I was taken. As if she should have kept a closer eye on her kid sister. Of course, Flint is the one to blame. Flint and no one else. But it’s like she’s always trying to make it up to me, trying to fill my life with good cheer. Or that’s my two-cent analysis, anyway.”

  “The blame thing?” Keswick shakes her head. “I see that over and over. The criminal is the one to blame, but people are always either assuming blame, or assigning blame to someone else. It makes no sense, but it happens a lot.”

  Reeve frowns, recalling the faces of missing teens and young women. “If Flint went after older girls, does this mean he isn’t a pedophile?”

  “Maybe he’s a situational offender. Maybe it’s not the age of the victim so much as the opportunity to grab someone who’s vulnerable.”

  Reeve chews on this for a minute. “So what’s your theory about Flint’s accomplice?”

  “We’re looking at family past associates, the whole gamut. Plus anyone who might have had a grudge against Dr. Moody. His ex-wife, former girlfriends. Could be more than one person involved.”

  “But what would motivate anyone to help Flint escape?”

  “Like I said, we’re working on it, looking at disgruntled business associates, former patients. . . .” After a beat, she asks, “Did Flint ever bring anyone else down into the basement?”

  “Never. He seemed like a complete loner.” Reeve groans, rubbing her forehead. “I feel like there’s something we’re missing.”

  Keswick studies her for a moment before asking, “With all you’ve been through, can I assume that you have a gun?”

  Reeve gapes at her. “What? Me? God, no.”

  “Well, maybe you should get one.”

  “I don’t think so.” Reeve looks away, trying to frame her response. “I’m no good with guns.”

  “Think about it. You could get some training, then you could sign up for a permit to carry. Really, you should be armed. As a precaution.”

  “But what if you don’t see the guy coming? What if he grabs you and you’re down before you know it? Flint used a stun gun.” Her stomach clenches as she recalls the searing jolt that came out of nowhere. “There was no time to react. Besides, I’m not a big person. I can’t rely on something that can be taken away.”

  Keswick raises an eyebrow. “How about self-defense? Aikido or judo or karate? Have you tried that?”

  A twitch of the shoulders. “I took a one-day class once.”

  “You know that eighty-one percent of foiled abductions are due to fighting back, right?”

  Reeve gives her a flat look. “I’m aware of the statistics.”

  “I hear that Bender’s son teaches self-defense. I guess he’s pretty good.”

  Reeve heaves a sigh, thinking about the missing girls of the past, the potential victims of the future. Halloween is just around the corner, and Flint is still on the loose, circling and stalking. She itches with frustration that there’s no way she can’t stop it.

  Just then, she sees Special Agent in Charge Stuart Cox entering the cafeteria accompanied by a tall, lanky woman with stylish glasses. The two talk briefly then scan the room until their eyes find Reeve.

  The woman seems to ask a question. Cox nods. All the while, they keep their eyes fixed on Reeve, as if taking her measure.

  “Who is that talking with Stuart Cox?”

  Keswick glances over. “Oh, that’s the bureau’s public information officer.”

  Cox and the woman continue conspiring together. Then Cox nods and is out the door, but the woman heads toward their table with purposeful strides.

  “She’s coming over here.”

  Keswick sets down her fork and looks up. “Well, shit. I’ll bet she’s going to ask you to make a statement.”

  Reeve blanches. “To the press?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Why? I’m not an agent.”

  “But you’re a sympathetic figure. They probably think you’d provide a fresh angle.”

  “A fresh angle? Meaning what, exactly?”

  “A fugitive at large gets to be a one-note story. Maybe they think you could warn the public in some new way.” Keswick starts to rise, adding, “Don’t worry, I know you hate facing cameras. I’ll tell her that—”

  Reeve grabs her sleeve. “No, I’ll do it,” she says, getting to her feet. “Let’s set it up.”

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Triangle Park Shopping Center

  While the FBI is preparing for tomorrow’s event, Daryl Wayne Flint is watching young girls come and go. He pulls the cellophane off a packet of cigarettes, places one between his lips, produces flame with a flick of his lighter, and inhales deeply.

  Isn’t it marvelous how easy it is to slip back into old habits?

  Flint has given up on Strawberry Lane and has returned to a place he remembers from his old prowls. Triangle Park was once a sleepy patch of grass with just a few benches and swings, but as Seattle grew, the park was sliced
up and paved and developed into a low-budget shopping center. The developers spared only a few trees. And Flint is leaning against one now, thinking that the nice thing about a triangle is that it’s so easy to view the whole area from one point, especially when the shopping center has no big chain to draw business, half the shops are vacant, and the parking lot is nearly empty.

  The three girls he’s been following emerge from a shop that sells girly things—cheap jewelry and cheery T-shirts—each carrying the same bag, as if they’ve made identical purchases.

  A trio of pretty girls. Leggy and smiling. They huddle together on the sidewalk, talking, and their giggles carry like music on the air.

  A minivan pulls in and a horn blares. The girls look up. Two hug their friend good-bye, hurry over to the waiting minivan, and wave as they get in. While the vehicle drives away, the third girl, intent on her cell phone, starts walking in his direction.

  It’s Hallo-week. Even Wertz would agree that it’s not too early to get started.

  Flint takes three quick puffs, then crushes his cigarette underfoot and walks toward his vehicle. He pulls his baseball cap low over his wig of short, black curls and pretends he has no interest in the girl as he opens the driver’s side door. A gag, a knife, and the zip ties are ready. A set of handcuffs is already secured to the metal bar beneath the passenger seat. The stun gun waits in his pocket.

  He climbs into the Bronco, wishing he had a van, wishing he had Wertz there to drive so he could spring out from the back. That always worked well.

  He fits the key in the ignition, sparks the engine, and the girl doesn’t even look up.

  He shifts into drive, calculates her trajectory, and looks around. No headlights. No pedestrians. No witnesses. Just a few dim shops in a dying shopping center.

  Gently, he eases down on the accelerator and rolls forward until he pulls up beside her. He stops, opening the door while saying, “Excuse me, miss, you dropped something.”

  She looks up. The twilight shines on her face. Lovely, clear skin, so like his cricket at that age.

  She sings out, “Oh, thank you!” And as she steps back, making a half turn to look at the ground behind her, he jumps out and zaps her with the stun gun.

  Her body slumps and he catches her as her cell phone skitters across the asphalt. Drops of urine sprinkle her bright new purchase as his strong arms loop around her waist. He hauls her off her feet and they surge as one toward the vehicle.

  As he lifts the girl’s limp body, shoving her toward the yawning door, someone shouts, “Hey!”

  A figure comes barreling up behind him, shrieking, and hits him hard on the back of his head. He wheels around to face his attacker and finds a short, stout woman standing barefoot, brandishing a shoe in each fist.

  He laughs, releasing the girl with one hand and smacking the woman so hard that she falls sideways.

  He turns back to his task, lifting the girl, but the woman is on her feet, shouting, beating at him with the heels of her shoes. He grunts in pain, shoving her aside while awkwardly struggling with the girl’s weight. He muscles the girl onto the seat, but now the screaming woman has grabbed onto the girl’s ankle and is pulling hard.

  He wheels, backhanding the woman, who staggers but doesn’t let go. She pulls with both hands and the limp girl slides off the seat, landing hard on the asphalt.

  He stoops to grab the girl under her armpits, struggling to lift her dead weight, but now more shouting commences.

  Shit!

  Without turning to look, he drops the girl and scrambles into his Bronco. He slams the door, pops it into gear, and the Bronco lurches forward.

  Now another woman rushes out, waving her arms like crazy, trying to block him. He clips her hard as he accelerates out of the lot, then speeds away, keeping one eye on the rearview mirror as he races toward the freeway.

  THIRTY-NINE

  Flint zooms down the freeway in a state of disbelief. Everything had been going fine. How could things get out of hand so fast?

  This is bad, this is bad, this is bad.

  He left witnesses. They can ID his vehicle.

  He swerves to the off-ramp and exits the freeway, watching his speed.

  Minutes later, he’s wheeling into a shopping center near the University of Washington campus that he remembers from his years as a student. He drives into the parking structure and keeps cranking the wheel, climbing to higher and higher levels. At the top, he cruises slowly through the dark structure, keeping his eyes on the rearview mirror, until he finds a good spot. He parks between an old sedan and the back wall, but leaves the engine running. He retrieves the gun from beneath the seat and holds it ready.

  His breathing gradually slows. When he’s sure no one is following, he turns off the motor and listens.

  No one around. Marginal lighting. Perfect.

  He sets the gun on the seat where it will be handy and leaves the door cracked open while he goes around to the back. First things first.

  In a couple of minutes, a fresh license plate is in place. One down.

  He walks around to the front of Wertz’s Bronco and barks a curse. The front headlight is smashed.

  Footsteps.

  He squats between his front bumper and the concrete wall, listening.

  A woman’s heels click past. He’s tempted for half a second, but this is not the time to push his luck, which has already turned sour.

  A car door opens and closes. An engine turns over. A car rolls past, heading toward the exit. As it wheels away he stands, feeling stiff and sweaty. Now what?

  He doesn’t dare drive down the freeway with one headlight broken. He’d be asking to be stopped.

  Steal a car? No, another red flag.

  Be logical, he tells himself.

  He scoots around to the front of his vehicle, wondering if he can make repairs. After a quick inspection, he decides he can switch the bulb from left to right, at least that. He’s worked on this vehicle before, when he was in college. And in that instant, he recalls visiting an auto supply store located near here. This is why he was drawn to this parking structure. Of course. They can’t drug the smarts out of you completely.

  He climbs back into the driver’s seat, wedges the pistol back into its hiding place, and grabs his wallet. He removes the baseball cap, replaces the wig, and fits on his horn-rimmed glasses. Just like that, he becomes Walter Wertz.

  He locks up the vehicle and descends the stairs, looking utterly bland and nonthreatening.

  First, he must fix the headlight. After that, he’ll go get something to eat. Best to kill some time and not drive until it’s well past dark. He strides toward the auto supply store, which he finds situated exactly where he remembers.

  FORTY

  Milo Bender tries to keep the conversation light through dinner, steering it away from Reeve’s ordeal in the basement, the cases of missing girls, and the news of an attempted kidnapping at Triangle Park, a place not far from where Reeve grew up. But he can’t help noticing that Reeve barely speaks.

  After the dishes are done, Yvonne says, “Let’s watch a movie, a comedy or something, help take your mind off things.”

  But Reeve doesn’t sit with them to watch the movie, saying she has to prepare her remarks for tomorrow’s press conference.

  Just as well, he thinks. The eleven o’clock news comes as a crescendo to the day’s events. Every station airs the sensational reports of the attempted kidnapping of a fourteen-year-old girl at Triangle Park. The attack culminated with the girl’s mother, thirty-nine-year-old Molly Sullivan, being hit by the suspect’s vehicle, which is described as a large SUV, probably brown or maroon.

  The man’s description doesn’t match Flint’s, but each time the kidnapping attempt is recounted, the newscast segues to his escape. Flint’s image fills the screen while viewers are reminded of the reward offered for information leading to his arrest. And every newscast seizes the opportunity to include a picture of sixteen-year-old “Edgy Reggie,” along with the news tha
t she’s expected to make a her first public statement tomorrow morning.

  Shortly before midnight, Reeve sticks her head in the door to bid them good night. The minute she leaves, Yvonne pulls her husband’s sleeve, saying, “Now, would you please fill me in on what really happened today?”

  Then she listens, clasping and unclasping her hands, murmuring, “My god. Going back to that basement must’ve been awful for her.”

  Milo Bender removes his glasses, rubs his eyes. “She said it would jog her memory. It sure did.”

  “And now she wants to make a statement to the media? That’s not going to be easy for her.”

  He agrees, but doesn’t share more details. Yvonne would not approve of Reeve’s plan to use herself as “bait”—her word—to lure Flint.

  Would he come circling? Would the surveillance team be able to spot him? What if it’s an accomplice who shows up? He doesn’t mention these concerns. Nor does he tell Yvonne that he felt compelled to call Reeve’s father, who has made it clear that he wants his daughter back on a plane and home again as soon as possible.

  “It would be hard on anyone,” Yvonne is saying. “She seems stoic, but the poor girl surely has post-traumatic stress. Did you hear her scream last night?”

  “Nightmares. Yeah, she woke me up, too.” He strokes his chin, worrying that Reeve’s mental state seems more fragile now than when she first arrived. “She’s so preoccupied, like she’s brooding about something.”

  His wife gives him a sympathetic look. “I know you’re concerned about her. But she’s going to JD’s gym tomorrow, right? That can’t be bad.”

  He raises his eyebrows.

  “He likes her,” she says with an impish smile. “And do you know why?”

  “He was always fascinated with her. Plus the usual reasons, I suppose. She’s pretty. She’s smart.”

  “No, there are plenty of those girls at the gym. What JD likes about her is what makes her different. She lacks vanity, she’s genuine, and she doesn’t giggle or pretend.”