Hunted (Reeve Leclaire 2) Page 22
It took all of two seconds for her to agree. It satisfied them both, didn’t it? And it wasn’t as if her sorry excuse for a husband had a regular job or a boss who would miss him.
The next day, Donald Flint was just a bad memory. And once all the evidence was tidied up and the authorities were convinced, she sent her boy off to live with his “Uncle Walter.”
What Wertz saw in the boy she couldn’t fathom. Maybe he just liked bossing him around. It was comic, the way the kid jumped to attention every time Walter showed up, ready to fetch and carry. So unlike his usual sullen self.
“My favorite helper,” Walter called him.
It was a nice arrangement. After being relieved of her abusive husband and her quarrelsome son, she’d been free to do exactly as she pleased. At least, until the money ran out. Then she’d had to scramble to make ends meet, until finding Pratt, a long-faced pharmacist whose profession was his primary virtue.
Over the years, it had seemed wise not to have much contact with Walter or her son, other than the odd transfer of required school forms. Their agreement was that there would be no official record of “Uncle Walter.” And once Daryl had grown to match Walter’s height, those two became so secretive— like twins speaking a shared language—that she’d made sure to keep her distance. They were a menacing pair.
She hadn’t seen Walter for ages until that day he showed up at her house months ago. It had never occurred to her that he even knew her address until she stepped out of the shower and smelled the smoke of his cigar.
She tied her robe tight around her and found him sitting in her living room, looking bigger, heavier, more intimidating than ever.
“Hey, Connie. Nice place you got here.” He sucked on his cigar and blew smoke in her direction, smiling.
Walter lost no time in reminding her that they had a shared interest in getting Daryl away from the prying questions and greedy ears at that loathsome psychiatric hospital. “Your part is simple,” he told her. “I’ve got everything set up. All you need to do is relay information back to Daryl.”
She wasn’t crazy about the risk of getting involved. But Walter wasn’t a man to cross.
He showed up at odd times—always unexpected—asking about Daryl’s progress. Each time, he seemed more threatening than the last.
She stepped up her visits to Olshaker, greasing the wheels of her son’s escape, but had no desire to know the full scope of whatever scheme those two males had concocted. She kept her role to a minimum, remaining scarcely more than a courier of information.
Once all the wheels were set in motion, Walter suddenly went quiet. Daryl seemed to have expected this. He responded to the news with a hungry gleam. But her son remained unreadable, so she made sure to remain alert for the stink of Walter’s cigar.
Of course, Walter’s plan had not included anything about Dr. Moody. That was something Daryl cooked up all on his own. When her son snagged on the idea that he needed a map and key to Moody’s house, she tried to warn him that it was reckless, but he wouldn’t listen. Anyway, he was correct about Cybil being more than happy to oblige.
Mrs. Pratt had simply given Cybil the security codes for getting into Church Street Storage and told her to leave an envelope inside the unit. She had no intention of stepping even one foot inside that place.
Who knows what motivated her son to kill Dr. Moody—something to do with his fixation on that ridiculous LeClaire girl, no doubt—but at least Daryl isn’t betraying any more secrets about his daddy.
Dead and buried and in the past.
Unfortunately, since she was Daryl’s sole visitor at Olshaker, she is the one under scrutiny. And there’s no way she’s going to yield to pressure and take a polygraph. She’s no fool. She puts out her cigarette, thinking that no matter how hard the FBI might press, they’ll find nothing linking her to her son’s escape, and not a scrap of paper connecting her with Walter Wertz. Nothing!
The problem now is that Cybil is sniffing around, trying to find out where Daryl is hiding, thanks to that fat reward. And Cybil may not be all that smart, but she could sure stir up trouble.
Mrs. Pratt checks the time, irked that she must rush off to meet with that meddlesome twat. As she’s slipping into her leopard-print heels, an idea blooms.
Cybil has served her purpose. Now that girl is a loose end, and loose ends must be eliminated.
Mrs. Pratt opens a drawer and rummages through her private collection of pill vials, one of the perks of being a pharmacist’s wife. She finds a bottle of zolpidem, a generic sleeping aid, and another of fentanyl tablets, a narcotic more potent than morphine. She slips on a pair of latex gloves, wipes her fingerprints off the bottles, and carefully exchanges the contents.
FIFTY-THREE
Seattle, Washington
Daryl Wayne Flint is getting antsy. The windows of Milo Bender’s split-level home have stayed dark, and his little cricket has not appeared. Meanwhile, this is the one night of the year, as Wertz always said, that provides cover and opportunity—the hunter’s necessities—and the clock is ticking.
Halloween, Hallo-week, Hallo-Wertz.
He checks his reflection in the rearview mirror, tilting his head from side to side. His beard has grown to stubble. He has darkened his eyes with black eyeliner. And with the bandanna covering his hair, and the black patch over one eye, he looks just like a pirate.
Johnny Depp, eat your heart out.
He stubs out his cigarette in the overflowing ashtray, turns the key in the ignition, and pulls away from the curb. Driving the Ford Bronco is a risk, but he’s decided that, with the changed license plate and repaired headlight, it’s a risk worth taking. This is a solid vehicle for the task at hand. And there must be thousands of brown or maroon SUVs like the one reported at Triangle Park.
A few minutes later, he’s cruising slowly through a familiar neighborhood, scanning the sidewalks of what used to be prime hunting territory. Dusk has settled in and the streets should be streaming with trick-or-treaters, going door-to-door, filling up their bags with candy. But it’s dead here tonight. Where are all the kids?
With a grunt, he decides it’s time to relocate. As he’s accelerating out of the neighborhood, a porch light comes on up ahead. He lifts his foot off the gas and slows to watch. The front door opens and children in costumes come spilling out. Two young boys and two older girls dressed in tights and tutus, one pink, one green.
He drives slowly past, watching the ballerinas come directly toward him, stepping with the delicacy of fawns.
Just beyond the house, he parks in the shadows where he can watch them in his rearview mirror. He cranes his neck—where did they go?—and hears car doors slamming.
An engine turns over. Headlights come on in the driveway of the children’s home. A red sedan backs out. As it drives past, he glimpses the girls giggling in the backseat.
Perhaps they’re headed to a neighborhood with denser homes and a reputation for better candy. He pulls away from the curb, following at a distance.
The sedan winds downhill and turns onto a busy street where Flint is caught behind a slow-moving van. He curses, afraid he’s going to lose them, but sees the flash of red as the sedan turns right. He speeds up to catch them, following the car downhill and into the village, where the streets are well lit and the main street is blocked off for pedestrians only.
It’s hard to find a place to park. He cruises the side streets, searching, until an SUV pulls out and he claims the spot.
He checks his reflection. A perfect pirate grins back at him. Then he opens a box and checks the items inside: the gag, the handcuffs, the blindfold, and the stun gun. He pockets the stun gun, closes the box, and heads out to have a look around.
Costumed children and adults stream along the sidewalks as he finds himself in the midst of some kind of Halloween festival. He scans past the cowboys, robots, and superheros, past the angels and fairies, searching.
Up ahead, the pink and green tutus wink at him. He jostles throu
gh the crowd, following as the pair turns left into a shop. He heads toward the same doorway.
The moment he steps inside, he hears: “Ahoy, pirate! How about some cider?”
A tall man in a fake beard and a stovepipe hat offers Flint a brimming paper cup.
Flint accepts the beverage, muttering his thanks, and turns away, scanning the store for the girls. The aisles are packed.
“Just call me Honest Abe.” The man in the stovepipe hat hovers at his elbow.
“Abraham Lincoln. Got it.” Flint gives him a tight smile and sidles away, sipping the cider, blending in. He spots the girls at the checkout counter, where a woman in a witch outfit is handing out candy.
“Thank you!” the girls chime in unison.
“It’s not like when you and I were kids, is it?” The man in the stovepipe hat is again at his elbow.
“Uh, no, things have sure changed.”
“I kinda miss the old days, with the trick-or-treaters going door-to-door.”
“Uh-huh,” Flint says distractedly. The girls are coming down the brightly lit aisle toward him.
“But this is great for our downtown businesses,” the man continues.
The girls pass so close that their tutus brush Flint’s thighs, sparking heat in his groin. He watches with longing as they disappear out the door.
The man in the hat says, “Plus, it’s safer for the kids, you know?”
Flint swallows the last of his drink, crushes the cup, and heads out to resume the hunt.
As he’s walking back to his car, he spots a bar and decides he needs to quench his frustration with a real drink. It’s too crowded for his tastes. But while he’s finishing his drink, eyeing all the young bodies in their tight costumes, he decides to check out the trick-or-treaters in Reggie’s old neighborhood.
Strawberry Lane has grown quiet by the time he arrives, but lights are on at the Tudor-style house. As luck would have it, the door opens and out steps a petite girl in a curly wig and short skirt. She hurries to her Pontiac and starts up the car. He easily follows behind, guessing that this must be Reggie’s cute friend, the one with honey-colored hair and the little gap between her front teeth.
FIFTY-FOUR
Three Bucks Bar
Years ago, Three Bucks Bar used to host an annual Hallow-whiskey drinking contest, but in a rare moment of sobriety, the owner realized that posed a serious risk of lawsuit. Now the Halloween celebration is more low-key, with the bartenders instructed to pour and smile for patrons right up until last call, but then to offer coffee to the heavy drinkers and stop serving alcohol at midnight.
Adding a festive atmosphere, lights are strung through the antlers of the three bucks mounted above the bar. Plastic jack-o’-lanterns glow atop the tables. And the bartenders are encouraged to dress in silly costumes.
Gunther, whose only nod to the holiday is a top hat and a tuxedo-printed T-shirt, is chagrined to realize that he has been tending bar here for six years. For six Halloweens, he’s been wiping up spills, cleaning up vomit, and sweeping up broken glass.
How did he end up living on tips? He did pretty well in school. He’s reasonably good-looking and has a better-than-average singing voice. He’s great with cars, kids, and dogs. But women, unfortunately, are a lot more complicated. Especially the pretty ones. And here comes Jenna to remind him of this fact.
Jenna has been coming in pretty regularly since she turned twenty-one. But she’s a single mother with a two-year-old son. Young. Divorced. Mother. Now, that’s the trifecta of complicated.
Plus, she’s living with her parents. That’s worse. That’s complicated squared.
Tonight she’s wearing a wig of extravagant yellow curls and is poured into a tight, short costume of ruffles. Gunther can scarcely look at her without wondering how a hot little package like Jenna could be walking into this dive of a bar.
“Hey, Gunther,” she says, climbing onto a bar stool. “Isn’t that the same costume you wore last year?”
“Yeah, I’m dressed as a bartender. What about you, Jenna?”
“Guess,” she says, grinning at him while playing with her necklace.
“Gee, I don’t know. You look so young. A hot schoolgirl?”
“No.” She shakes her curls.
“A living doll?”
She chirps a laugh. “Do you want a hint? Look at my necklace.” She leans forward, holding out the plastic figures affixed to her cheap jewelry.
Trying not to stare at her cleavage, he says, “What? Are those bears?”
“Yeeeeahhs,” she says, drawing out the word meaningfully.
“Oh, I get it. Goldilocks and the three bears, right?”
“There you go.”
“Nice,” he says. “You look great. So what would you like, Goldie? What would be juuuuust right?”
She rewards him with a wonderful little laugh that sounds downright musical. “I don’t know. Something different. I’m bored with beer and wine.”
“How about a margarita?”
“No, too sour.”
“Or a daiquiri?”
“Too sweet.”
They share a laugh, and Gunther is just about to suggest his own special concoction, called the “Tree Slammer,” when some jerk wearing a pirate costume butts in, saying, “Have you ever tried Jägermeister?”
Jenna turns to the guy, giving him a big smile. “No, what is that?”
“It’s something different, like you said.”
“Really different?”
“Totally, completely different, with some special recipe with herbs and ginger and stuff like that. Trust me, you’ll like it.” The guy holds up two fingers and nods at Gunther, then turns back to Jenna, adding, “And if you don’t like it, we’ll just keep trying until we find something that’s juuuust right.”
And damned if Jenna doesn’t reward the guy in that stupid getup with her same delightful laugh.
Jenna’s mother was right: It’s dumb to try to flirt with a bartender, even if he seems nice. Jenna has been trying to get Gunther’s attention for over a year, but he sets her drink in front of her with hardly a smile.
If this costume isn’t working, then it’s just not going to happen. . . . Unless he’s jealous of this pirate guy?
Liking the idea, she laughs at something stupid the pirate says. Then she takes a sip of the drink.
“It’s an acquired taste, isn’t it?” she says, wrinkling her nose. “It tastes kinda like medicine.”
She takes another sip, thinking: Face it Jenna, you’ve totally screwed up your life.
“Not totally,” she can almost hear her mother say. “You’re still young. Once the baby is in preschool, you can finish your education, get a degree.”
“So, Goldilocks, what do you do?” the pirate is asking.
“I’m a student,” she lies. No way is she telling anybody tonight that she’s got a two-year-old at home. She knows how that conversation goes: A baby? Really? And then before she can stop herself, she’ll start showing off pictures on her phone, and then she’ll begin ranting about her loser ex-husband. Better not go there.
“I’m studying to become a medical assistant,” she tells the pirate. “What do you do?”
“I’ve just finished building a home near here. It’s a showpiece, but it needs a woman’s touch.” He leers at her.
There’s something about this guy she doesn’t like.
“That’s a great costume. Three bears, ha, ha, ha,” he says.
She manages a weak smile, wishing Gunther would rescue her, but he’s busy with other customers.
Forget it, girl. He’s just not that into you.
Next year, Halloween will be a lot more fun. Next year, her baby boy will be big enough to enjoy it. She can dress him up like Spider-Man and introduce him to trick-or-treating. But she won’t let him have too much candy. Ought to take that slow for as long as possible. Avoid the sugar high.
“I like your freckles. You look good enough to eat,” the pirate guy says.
“Thanks for the drink,” she tells him, getting her heels under her and sliding off the bar stool. “But I’ve got to get going. I promised my mom I’d be home in an hour.”
She grabs her purse and tries to catch Gunther’s eye, but he’s at the other end of the bar, talking to a tall blonde in a tight devil outfit. Great.
She’s out the door and halfway to her car before she realizes that the pirate guy is following her. “Good night, thanks again for the drink,” she calls a little too brightly while hurrying to her Pontiac.
She’s just opening the door when the pirate rushes over saying, “Hey, Goldie, don’t run off so fast. Wouldn’t you like to see my place?”
Is he joking? He didn’t even bother to ask her name. She’s just about to make a smart remark when she’s hit by a searing pain that jolts her off her feet.
It’s nearly one o’clock before Gunther manages to shoo the last of the patrons out of the bar. He’s been steadily cleaning tables and straightening up since he stopped pouring at midnight, so there’s not much left to do other than sweep the floor and take out the trash.
He gathers the jack-o’-lanterns and puts them in a crate in the back. Tomorrow, he’ll add the rest of the Halloween decorations. Then Thanksgiving and Christmas and New Year’s Eve are right around the corner. Crap, he can hardly believe he’s wasted another year here. He’s got to find another job. Maybe next spring he’ll move to Alaska. Yeah, they say there’s good work up there.
It doesn’t take long to sweep the floor. No messes tonight. Luckily, nobody puked.
When he’s finished, Gunther pours himself one quick shot of Grey Goose—he doesn’t get paid enough to go home without some kind of perk— and sips it while counting his tips. Then he shuts off the lights, locks the door, and heads out toward his pickup truck.