Hunted (Reeve Leclaire 2) Page 25

  “No, it is not. He hung up his holster and started behaving like a normal adult. But now his holster is gone and why on earth would—oh!” Yvonne Bender gasps slightly. “It’s that damn Daryl Wayne Flint. That’s why Milo is acting so weird.”

  “Weird in what way?”

  “Like he did when he was an agent.”

  “Like how, exactly?

  “Restless. Prowling around the house like a trapped animal. I find him in his office at all hours of the night and morning, mumbling to himself, going through files.”

  Keswick purses her lips, saying nothing. This exactly describes her own behavior.

  “His desk is all covered with maps and papers,” Yvonne continues, “just like when he was investigating a case. I swear, Milo has an obsession with that criminal.”

  “Did you say maps?”

  “I’ve been trying to call him but he won’t answer. And when I saw that his holster was gone . . . Oh my god, if Milo has gone out and bought a gun, I’ll kill him.”

  Keswick questions Yvonne Bender briefly, then asks her to go into her husband’s office and describe what she sees.

  Keswick listens closely, and after hanging up, she cues up one search and then another on her computer. She double checks the timeline, makes a call, and sends several pages to the printer. Then she gathers up her notes, places them neatly in a folder, and tucks it under one arm, eager to carry this news to Blankenship.

  She raps smartly on his door and waits.

  “Keswick!” says a voice behind her.

  She wheels around and sees Special Agent in Charge Stuart Cox leaning out of his office door.

  “Have you got something?” he asks.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Come and tell us about it.”

  She enters his office to find Blankenship already inside.

  “Yvonne Bender just called,” she says.

  “So did Milo,” Cox says. “We’ve got to check out a guy named Walter Wertz.”

  SIXTY-TWO

  Tacoma, Washington

  Reeve insists there’s a pattern. When Otis Poe can’t follow, she cuts him short, saying, “Can you do this for me or not?”

  “Damn right I can do it,” the reporter says. “I’ve checked so many marriage records, death records, and property records, I could moonlight as a county clerk. But listen, Reeve, if this turns out to be something real, then you’re giving me an exclusive. Deal?”

  “Deal.”

  It doesn’t take long until he calls her back. “Daryl Wayne Flint’s father, named Donald P. Flint, disappeared in 1978, declared legally dead in 1985. Then his widow married this guy Pratt, a pharmacist in Tacoma, who has owned the same house since—”

  “Forget Pratt,” she interrupts. “What about that other guy, Walter Wertz? Where does he live? Anywhere near a lake?”

  “Hold on, Reeve. I’m telling you. Wertz has a house in Olympia.”

  “Olympia? Near a lake?”

  “It’s Washington, there are lakes everywhere. But no, it’s in a regular residential area.”

  She groans.

  “But hold on. The records show that Wertz owns some other acreage, too.”

  “Where?”

  “A couple of places. One parcel is up north by Anacortes, and here’s a larger one in the Cascade mountains, beyond Snoqualmie Pass, in the Granite Reach Wilderness Area.”

  She closes her eyes, recalls the photograph, and hazards a guess. “In the mountains. Is there a cabin by a lake or something?”

  “I’m pulling up the satellite image now,” Poe says. “I’m enlarging the image . . . No, it’s quite a ways north of Cle Elum Lake and looks to me like it’s just wilderness.”

  “But don’t you see a lake or a river or something?”

  “No, uh, wait . . . here’s Shadow Bark Creek, and, oh, here’s a body of water. Shadow Bark Lake.”

  “That’s gotta be it. I owe you, Otis. But now I need directions.”

  SIXTY-THREE

  Cascade Mountains

  Milo Bender drives slowly, studying the right side of the road. The weather is working to his disadvantage. It has been snowing lightly since he came through the pass, and once he passed Cle Elum, it started to stick.

  He eases off the gas and pulls over at Granite Reach Mini-Mart. He unfolds his map and adjusts his bifocals on his nose, but finds nothing distinctive, just narrow roads winding into rugged terrain. He puts the map away and continues driving. No traffic behind him; none up ahead.

  He passes a rickety bridge that crosses a creek. The road banks and climbs and then cuts into a rocky hillside. A bullet-riddled sign warns of falling rocks. He drives on, regretting that the tread on his tires isn’t the best, given these conditions.

  A weathered sign announces the Granite Reach Wilderness Area, and he turns off the asphalt onto what can only be a forest service road. It’s snowing steadily now. The light bounces off the flakes, so he turns off his headlights. Soon the landscape will become a pure blankness, obscuring everything, and he’ll be out of luck.

  He maneuvers his minivan through the remains of a huge tree that must have fallen across the road years ago. A section large enough to drive through has been cut away, and the bisected trunk still brackets the road like rotting bookends.

  He peers out the windshield, looking for anything distinctive—for markers, a trail, or some evidence of recent habitation, if that’s not too much to wish for, because there’s apparently no residence up on this acreage. He rolls down the passenger-side window to get a better look, trying to think like Flint. The cold air rushes in, but he pays no attention.

  He spots a moss-covered boulder and a gap in the trees. Could that be a trail? He drives past, craning his neck, trying to judge the opening. It’s worth a look. He continues several yards before he finds an opening in the trees where he can park off the road.

  He shrugs on his weatherproof jacket, zips it up tight, and climbs out. The moment his boots hit the ground, he smells smoke. He lifts his nose, studying the skyline, but sees only treetops disappearing into a low, gray sky.

  He climbs back into the minivan to retrieve the Glock from the glove box. Once it’s secure in his shoulder holster, he feels like an agent again.

  His boots leave tracks in the freshly fallen snow as he studies the terrain. Now he’s sure that the gap between the trees is wide enough for a vehicle. He studies the ground, walking down the middle of what might be a road. It banks to the left, so that trees obscure it from anyone driving past.

  Deeper in the trees, where the snow barely filters through the pines, the ground betrays tire tracks, recent and distinct. He hesitates, his breath hanging in the air while he considers whether to go back and place another call to Stuart Cox. Still, what does he have to report? Not much.

  He trudges along, the cold stinging his cheeks and numbing his hands. He regrets leaving his gloves in the car, but he’ll just take a quick look around, then head back down the mountain out of this damned snow. There’s no longer any question that this is a road. It hugs the trees, turning, climbing, and descending in a way that would make it hard to spot from even those high-powered satellite cameras. The snow dusts his hair and shoulders as he crunches along, and his body warms from the effort of climbing.

  The smell of smoke intensifies. He’s got to be close.

  He feels invigorated, alert. The trail becomes slippery and uneven as he hurries on. Something catches his eye in the trees ahead. Freshly broken branches.

  He slows, approaching cautiously, and peers through the trees to see a black Toyota Highlander, parked with its nose sticking out from beneath a canopy of pine boughs. Dr. Moody’s stolen SUV.

  He moves up beside it and places a hand on the hood. Cold.

  He knows he needs backup. He needs the bureau to scramble a team and rush up here. But in the meantime it’s snowing, and if the roads close . . . what about the girl?

  Bender unholsters his gun and his heart begins to race.

  SIX
TY-FOUR

  The ground is so cold and hard that Flint is getting blisters. Even after all this digging, he has only managed about two feet. Not deep enough. Three would be better. Three is always best.

  He’d thought about making the girl walk out here and help him dig, but then reconsidered. She’d be whining and crying and trying to get away the whole time. Not worth the trouble.

  What’s that sound?

  He looks up, scans the trees, the lake, the shoreline, the flat water. Nothing.

  It’s snowing harder now. Big flakes dust his hair, fall under his collar, and melt on the back his neck. He hates this part, but his muscles are strong and warm and he’ll be done soon enough if he just keeps at it.

  He wields a pickax to break up the hard earth, then uses the shovel. He always hated digging. For grunt labor, it was always better to have two men. Wertz had prided himself on his ruggedness, whereas Daryl was more artistic. By nature, he was much better suited to slipping into the night for rendezvous with his targets, camera in hand. But over the years, Wertz had made a point of toughening him up.

  Stepping down inside the grave, Flint takes a wide stance, trying to work the shovel deeper, but flings out only a cupful of dirt. He spits out a curse, jabs the blade in, shifts his grip on the handle for maximum leverage, and heaves. The handle snaps and he cries out as the momentum dumps him on his backside in the freshly turned earth.

  He flings the broken shovel aside, his curses carrying though the wintry air.

  Milo Bender freezes, locating the sound. He peers all around. Up ahead, a trail of smoke scribbles low across the cloud ceiling. He rushes forward, tripping over rocks, slipping on icy pine needles. He spies a chimney between the trees . . . a rooftop . . . a cabin. He veers between the pines, his heart jumping in his throat.

  If Jenna Dutton is still alive, this could be his only chance.

  Cautiously, he circles the cabin, staying in the trees, watching for movement. Snow moistens his eyeglasses, blurring his vision. He stops and listens but hears only the whisper of snow. The gun is cold as ice, and he blows warm air on his frozen fingers.

  Seeing no one, he creeps out of the trees and crosses the clearing toward the front door, conscious of every footprint he leaves behind.

  Flint takes the shortcut back to the shed, straight up from the lake. He’s not happy about having to fetch the other shovel, which has a wider, flatter blade. Better for snow, not as good for digging. If he has to, he can switch handles. Or, if need be, he can drive into town, buy a new shovel, plus a six-pack and some beef jerky for his trouble.

  Just as he’s edging past Moody’s SUV, he sees footprints and stops short.

  Shit!

  He drops into a crouch and looks around. Nobody.

  Quietly, he opens the door of the SUV, and for a moment considers climbing in and driving off. He has the vehicle packed and ready to go.

  Think, Daryl. Think, think, think!

  He studies the direction that the footprints lead through the freshly fallen snow. Just one man? He looks around, listens.

  He needs to handle this. The pistol is loaded. He retrieves it from beneath the seat, gently shuts the door, and starts following the tracks toward the cabin.

  Bender creeps closer, watchful and alert. The smoke drifting upward remains the only movement.

  Maybe the cabin is empty or maybe the girl is inside. What are the odds? Fifty-fifty. She might be dead, but if there’s any chance she’s breathing, Bender has no choice but to enter through the front door.

  Hard or soft entry?

  The man’s curses seemed to come from farther off, to the left. If the man is off in the woods, his accomplice might be inside with the girl, perhaps armed. But a hard entry is a loud entry. Has to be soft.

  He creeps up to the door, aware of every shudder of sound. Gun ready, he places his hand on the knob, turns, and the door swings wide.

  Darkness greets him. He steps inside and sweeps his gun through the shadows.

  Nothing but furniture, heat wafting from a woodstove.

  He closes the door and moves deeper into the cabin with slow, cautious steps. At the far end, he finds a bed with sheets, a sleeping bag, and a jumble of frilly clothes.

  Bender’s mouth goes dry.

  He looks for blood, for gun shells, then sees the padlocked door. He steps up close and whispers, “Jenna? Jenna are you there?”

  A tremulous voice answers, “Who is that?”

  “FBI,” he says, knowing the lie will calm her. “Stay quiet, okay? I don’t know where he is. Let me find a way to get you out of here.”

  Movement inside. “Oh, thank god. Hurry!”

  Knowing Flint is right-handed, Bender searches to the right and finds the key on the windowsill. A moment later, the padlock clicks open and the girl tumbles out. She’s small and naked and pale, except for her many tattoos.

  “Are you okay?”

  Her eyes are frantic. “Get me out of here!”

  Bender pulls the sleeping bag from the bed and wraps her in it, noting her bare feet. “Where are your shoes? It’s snowing. Can you make it?”

  She nods fiercely as she clutches the sleeping bag around her.

  “Stay close. I’m parked about a mile away.”

  Bender holds his gun steady and his chest tightens as they move toward the door.

  Flint, crouched low in the trees, watches the cabin door swing open, sees a man and the girl scurry out. The man carries his pistol and scans the trees like he knows what he’s doing.

  Flint doesn’t move. The man’s gaze skips past. His face looks familiar.

  They dart for the trees. The girl is barefoot and the man shepherds her forward. It would be easy to follow as they stagger along, but Flint concocts a better plan. He eases back and cuts through the trees, heading for a bend farther down the path. He moves quickly through the pines, silent as a fox.

  When he’s sure he’s far enough ahead, he finds a good spot to wait in ambush and steadies himself against a tree trunk. He hears them coming. His pulse quickens. He watches the road, raises his gun, and braces it with both hands.

  Steady . . . steady now as they appear . . . first the girl . . . now the man. He sights along the barrel, aiming for the man’s chest, tightening his finger, squeezing the trigger.

  The blast rips through the air and the girl screams and runs as the man spins, raising his weapon. Flint squeezes the trigger again and another gunshot explodes, punching the man off his feet.

  Gun smoke hangs in the silence, then Flint dashes out to kick the man’s gun away.

  When he gets up close, he sees that he needn’t have bothered. The man’s face has gone slack. He lies still while blood pools, melting a pattern in the snow. Flint marvels at the oozing redness, then pulls his eyes away.

  He studies the man for a moment and recognizes that face. “Agent Bender,” he mutters.

  He quickly straightens, looking around. The girl has vanished. He could chase her, but if other agents are nearby they’ll have heard the shots. He inhales sharply and dashes back through the trees.

  Jenna Dutton drops the sleeping bag and runs naked, oblivious of the cold. She runs blindly and fast and scorched with panic.

  Where to go? Where?

  She races on, her ears ringing, terror thudding in her chest. Her feet fly across rocks and snow. She slips on the icy pine needles and abruptly halts in a patch sheltered by dense conifers. For a crazy instant she imagines climbing a tree, but all the branches are much too high. She spins around, searching for someplace to hide, but sees only trees and more trees. She chooses a direction and rushes on in a panic, gasping. She must hide, but—

  There! A rotted stump with a gaping hole in its side catches her eye. She rushes over and drops down on her knees. The hole is a black, toothless maw, just large enough to hold her. She pushes herself into it butt first, the wood scraping and jabbing her skin.

  She hears something and struggles to push herself deeper into the cavity, trying
to disappear. The sound draws closer. A car engine. She tucks in tight, squeezing her knees to her chest, praying that she’ll be spared for the sake of her son. Dear lord, please!

  A black SUV flashes through the trees, and then it’s gone.

  She holds still and listens as the engine noise grows fainter, gradually diminishing in the distance until all she can hear is the hush of falling snow.

  Aching with cold, she inches forward, unfolds from the tree stump, and crouches there, shivering, wondering what to do.

  The man had said his car was parked nearby. She stumbles forward, hunched over and shivering. Her feet have turned numb and clumsy, but she forces herself to keep moving.

  She staggers along, and after what seems like miles, at last finds the narrow road. She follows the tire tracks downhill, splashing through icy puddles, expecting to see a car but seeing nothing. A sob catches in her throat. She spins, searching, and glimpses something uphill. A vehicle there in the trees?

  She lurches up to the minivan, shaking with fear and cold. Her frozen hands won’t obey, but at last her thumb connects and the door opens. She climbs in, pulls the door shut and collapses, so numb that the cold seat barely registers on her backside. Her teeth are chattering and her thoughts are slow, but she rouses herself to search for keys.

  No keys.

  She continues searching and finds a cell phone in the glove box that she manages to turn on with trembling hands, but her hope disappears when she sees there’s no service. She slumps down on the seat and moans a low, pitiful sound, thinking of the man shot in the woods. Dead, surely dead. She moans again, slumps lower and tucks her legs in close, so cold she can’t think.

  SIXTY-FIVE

  The windshield wipers beat aside the wet snow as Flint speeds away from the cabin behind the wheel of Dr. Moody’s SUV. The snow-covered roads are slick as he winds down out of the wilderness, but soon after he reaches black-top, the snow turns to sleet and then to rain.