Hunted (Reeve Leclaire 2) Page 3
He peers into the rain-smeared dusk, hoping for numbered streets. Instead, he’s in an area named after women: Dana Lane . . . Cassidy Lane . . . Barbara Lane . . . April! He brakes hard in the middle of the intersection, wrenches the wheel to the left, and speeds down the block, searching madly.
He sees nothing but ramshackle houses and defunct businesses before reaching a dead end. He makes a sharp U-turn, races back to the intersection where he started, then speeds in the opposite direction, nearly zooming past the storage facility at the corner of Church and April streets.
Church Street Storage. That’s gotta be it!
He slams on the brakes, slaps the car into reverse, cranks the wheel to the left, and wheels up to the gate. Above a keypad is a posted sign: Please enter your security code.
He studies the instructions, then looks around cautiously. Seeing no one, he turns back to the keypad, considers the numbers in April 5, 1968, and decides that a standard code would be a sequence of four. He tries entering one, nine, six, eight. Nothing happens.
An alarm sounds in the distance—a strange, deep-throated drone.
He spits out a curse and punches in zero, four, zero, five. Again, nothing. He groans in frustration, trying to recall what his mother had said.
He hears her laugh. “The fourth month, the fifth day. The fourth month, the fifth day.”
He punches in four, five, four, five.
The gate slowly rolls open as the siren scream of a police car starts nearby, then turns away, heading in the direction of the hospital.
Flint drives through the gate and realizes there are dozens of storage units here, and he hasn’t got a clue which way to turn. The gate slides shut behind him, and he has a sudden uneasiness at being locked inside, but shakes this off and drives forward.
The facility is laid out with one long building on the left and perpendicular buildings jutting out to the right. Which one? He cruises along slowly and tries to sift through all his mother’s nonsense for some clue. She’d been prattling about that wedding for months, becoming increasingly elaborate in her details. What else had she said?
He notices that the buildings are numbered in sequence: One, two, three . . . yes three! And now he recalls that she’d said, “I insisted on an afternoon wedding. Not morning, not evening, it had to be 3:15. The perfect time, don’t you think?”
He’d thought she was humoring him, but he turns and follows along building three, studying the numbered doors, starting at ten, eleven . . . He stops in front of unit fifteen and gets out of the car.
Another siren sounds in the distance while he steps close enough to notice two initials scratched in the paint: “D.W.” This has to be it.
A black combination lock hangs from the door. Thinking April 4, 1968, he tries various combinations before spinning the dial right to nineteen, left around twice to six, and right to eight. The lock pops open in his palm.
He barks a laugh, but then hears an engine rumbling toward him. He glances over his shoulder at a pickup truck, waits until it passes, then lifts the rolling door and hustles inside.
Smack in the middle is parked a motorbike with a helmet resting atop the seat. His fingers stroke the bike’s shiny fender. At his feet, a backpack sits atop a cardboard box. He moves these tight against the wall, then eases the motorbike off its kickstand and rolls it out of the storage unit, parking it beside the building.
There’s now enough room for the Honda. He noses it forward until the front bumper kisses the wall. The car door opens just wide enough for him to slide out.
Finding clothes inside the backpack, he quickly strips off the barber’s clothes and tosses them into a corner. He pulls on a black T-shirt, a black sweater, and black jeans, which are a tad too big.
Next, he opens the box and lifts out a black leather jacket and a pair of boots, which fit perfectly. Inside one jacket pocket is a Swiss Army knife; the other holds a wallet containing cash, which he doesn’t stop to count. Quickly, he plucks cash and credit cards from the barber’s wallet and adds these to the new one. He’s cramming the wallet into a pocket when—what’s this?—he feels something there and pulls out an envelope.
It smells faintly of perfume. Not his mother’s, surely, so it must be that blonde’s. He smiles at a memory of the short skirts she used to wear to the courthouse.
The envelope holds a map and a key. Excellent.
He turns his attention back to the box. Packaged food and water. And, at the bottom, an assortment of license plates from three states, all with current registrations. This is Walter Wertz’s doing, no doubt.
A chorus of sirens commences just as he shoulders the backpack. The sirens grow louder as he slams down the rolling door and secures the lock.
He finds a pair of gloves tucked inside the helmet. He slips these on, mounts the bike, turns the key, and kicks it to life.
It coughs and dies.
He tries again, and the bike sputters and then roars.
A patrol car races past with its light bar flashing as Flint exits the storage facility. He turns the opposite direction, heading toward the freeway, closely watching his speed.
FIVE
Berkeley, California
The aging house has only one bathroom, which the four roommates manage on weekdays, thanks to their varying class schedules. But on weekends, a hot shower is less likely than a cold water dance, which is exactly what Reeve is doing now. She sucks air through her teeth and rinses off quickly.
Twenty minutes later, she’s dressed and wearing her good shoes, which sound loud as she comes down the stairs, causing David and Lana to look up from where they’re snuggled on the couch.
“Well, look at you,” Lana coos. “Makeup and everything. Who’s the hot date?”
“No hot date. My sister is having a dinner party is all.”
Reeve feels a telltale heat creeping up her neck and into her cheeks. She has met Brad only twice—first at her sister’s wedding, and then about a year ago—so there’s no reason to expect any spark between the two of them tonight. Still, she can’t help thinking about how he flirted with her and made her laugh.
Megan and Maria, the self-professed foodies of the student household, enter from the kitchen. The two couldn’t be more different—Megan is tall, freckled, and athletic, Maria is short, tawny, and plump—but they mirror one another as they check Reeve’s attire, raising their eyebrows in silent comment.
Megan pops the last bite of something into her mouth and dusts off her fingers, saying, “I can give you a lift if you need a ride. We’re just heading out.”
Reeve glances down at her shoes. “If you could drop me at the BART station, that would be great.”
Arriving at her sister’s neighborhood ahead of schedule, Reeve strolls past the neat, candy-colored houses, figuring she’ll have plenty of time to chat with her sister and calm herself before Brad arrives. There’s no reason to be stressing out, she thinks, unconsciously fingering the scar on the back of her neck. It’s true that she has problems with intimacy, but she is not unattractive. And what’s the worst that can happen? If she makes a fool of herself, the fact that Brad lives in Dallas makes it a nonissue, doesn’t it?
She climbs the front steps and presses the doorbell.
In a moment, Rachel flings open the door, wearing jeans and looking frantic. Her hair is mussed and she’s clutching a teddy bear.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” she says, grasping Reeve’s arm and pulling her inside. “Greg is taking the baby to his mother’s, and just look at me. And look at this mess!” She waves an arm at an obstacle course of scattered toys.
Reeve takes the teddy bear from her sister, saying, “Go get dressed. I’ll clean up.”
She carries armloads of toys into the baby’s room, stuffing as many as she can into the toy box and cramming the rest into some semblance of order. Next, she straightens the living room, plumps the pillows on the couch, and has just finished setting the dining room table when the first guests arrive.
Enticing aromas waft from the kitchen as Rachel takes over the role of hostess. Meanwhile, Reeve carries a glass of sparkling water over to the baby grand piano in the corner. She studies the framed photographs arranged on its glossy surface. Wedding photos, family portraits, baby pictures . . .
Here’s one she remembers: a photo of Rachel holding a bouquet of long-stemmed roses after a high school play. There’s one she does not: Rachel in a graduation cap, bracketed by their parents on a sunny day, when their mother was well and her honey-colored hair was still as thick and beautiful as Rachel’s.
Her mother’s image evokes a sigh of longing. Next month, she recalls, would have been her fifty-first birthday.
Reeve turns her back on the photos and perches on the piano bench to watch the room. Music and laughter fill the air. Now Greg has joined Rachel in greeting guests. And there is Brad, a little plumper than she remembered, but still good-looking, with a youthful face and puppy-dog eyes.
He grins and comes toward her.
She stands, smiling, as he takes her hand. His palm is warm and dry.
He steps aside and introduces her to an elegant young woman with black bangs and an Audrey Hepburn smile, saying, “. . . and this is my wife.”
Reeve doesn’t even hear the woman’s name. She just keeps smiling and nodding while the two talk. She feels ridiculous. Why on earth had she nursed such a stupid, one-sided crush? She excuses herself and heads toward the appetizers, where she loads a plate with food that she can hardly taste through her chagrin.
A minute later, Rachel startles her by clasping her arm and saying, “Come and sit down. There’s someone I want you to meet.”
The young man’s face seems bland and pleasant and forgettable. Reeve makes an effort to smile as she’s seated next to him.
Soon, the guests are toasting the chef. The arugula salad is delicious. The entrée is extraordinary. Everyone agrees that Rachel ought to write a cookbook. But while her sister beams, Reeve discreetly pushes her mushrooms aside and scrapes the dill sauce off her perfectly cooked salmon.
When she notices the young man beside her doing the same, they share a look.
He leans over and whispers in her ear, “Here we are in the fussy-eaters’ section.”
She grants him a dimpled smile as her cell phone rings. “Sorry,” she mumbles, fishing it out of her purse to shut it off.
She checks the display—Otis Poe—and tenses.
“Is something wrong?” he asks.
Reeve mutes her phone, saying, “No, nothing, sorry,” but thinking, Why would Otis Poe be calling me?
Probably nothing.
Poe is a reporter she met last year. He’d seemed intimidating at first—with his domed head and football-player physique—but he eventually gained her trust. The last time they’d spoken—was it in February?—he was writing a book about a series of abductions in Jefferson County. In order to shield a young survivor named Tilly from public scrutiny, Reeve and Poe had cut a deal: She agreed to provide exclusive information about her role in what had transpired in exchange for Poe’s promise never to disclose their new names or locations.
Maybe Otis Poe’s book is being published. Or maybe he wants to clarify one final detail.
Still, for the rest of the meal, Reeve itches to snatch up her phone and call him back. She scarcely responds to small talk and seizes the first opportunity to leave her sister’s table.
“Let me help you clear the dishes,” she says, slipping her phone into her pocket and scooting back her chair.
While her sister prepares dessert, Reeve steps onto the back deck, shuts the door, and checks her phone. She finds two messages: One from Otis Poe, simply asking her to call back; the other from the King County district attorney’s office.
She frowns at the phone and decides to call Poe first.
“Hey, Reeve,” he answers. “Have you heard the news about Daryl Wayne Flint?”
Something knots in her chest. This is what she’s feared all along. “They found the remains of another victim, didn’t they?”
“Uh—”
“I told them they would. I told them I wasn’t his first. I told them they’d find more girls if they just kept looking.”
“Reeve—”
“Who was she? Where’d they find her?”
“Would you please stop talking for two seconds and just listen?”
“Okay.” She forces herself to be still. “I’m listening.”
“Flint has escaped. He broke out of the psychiatric hospital just a couple of hours ago.”
She grips the phone. “No, that’s not possible.”
“I know it sounds crazy, but he killed someone.”
It’s as though Poe is speaking a foreign language. Struggling to understand, she parrots back, “He killed someone.”
“A barber. He took his clothes. The security camera shows him walking out the door wearing the guy’s beret.”
“He’s in disguise?” Her voice sounds thin.
“Yeah, and he sure looks different. He lost that wild hair of his. And the bushy beard is gone, too. He’s got a goatee now.”
“But . . . how . . .” The ground seems to shift underfoot and she leans heavily against the house.
“Anyway, I’m sorry to be calling with such awful news. I just thought you should know.”
A thousand noxious thoughts crowd into her head. She listens mutely, feeling ill while Poe recounts what he has learned so far. Each detail makes her feel worse.
When he falls silent, she moans, “How could this happen? How could they let him get away?”
“I know. You’d think forensic lockup would be secure, right? But I’m sure they’ll catch him pretty soon. I mean, it’s not like you have to worry about him coming after you.”
She stares out at the night and says nothing.
“I’ll let you know as soon as I hear anything new, but there’s no trace of him yet, according to these latest reports.” He pauses a moment and his tone changes. “Do you want to know what I think? I think someone on the outside is helping him.”
“Like an accomplice?”
“Exactly.”
She tries to picture this. Who would want to help a psychopath like Flint?
“His mother,” she says, jolting upright.
“Really? You think so?”
“It’s got to be her. She’s as bad as he is.” An image of Flint’s mother hardens in her mind. “She even petitioned the judge to lower his security status last year.”
“Is that right? Well now, this is getting interesting.”
Hearing the appetite in his voice, she says, “Oh crap, you’re going to write about this, aren’t you? I hate seeing my name in the paper.”
“Reeve, give me some credit. A promise is a promise. I won’t mention your new name or anything about what you’re doing. But Edgy Reggie is already part of the story. Your kidnapping, your rescue, the trial. Sorry, but that’s unavoidable.”
Reeve is shaking with emotion. She says good-bye to Poe and takes several deep breaths, trying to process this news. With effort, she regains her composure and returns the call from the district attorney’s office.
A man with a reedy voice tries to gently break it to her that Flint has escaped. She listens intently, hoping for something encouraging, but hears little more than what Poe has just told her.
She hangs up, grappling with this seismic shift, and realizes that she must get home, quickly, before she falls apart.
She steels herself and swings open the door to find herself face-to-face with her sister.
Rachel gasps at the sight of her. “Reeve, what’s the matter?”
“Don’t worry, I’m—”
“What is it?” Rachel grips her shoulders and peers into her eyes. “Look at me. Are you oka
y? God, you’re so pale. Tell me what’s wrong.”
There’s no denying her sister when she gets like this. The story pours out.
The moment Reeve stops talking, her sister steers her over to a deck chair, saying, “Sit down here and wait. I’ll be right back.”
Rachel turns on her heel. The door slams shut. And then Reeve overhears her sister announce to the dinner guests—in a pitch-perfect stage voice—that she is so very, very sorry, but her sister is ill, and unfortunately she must say goodnight and drive Reeve home.
An instant later, Rachel reappears with her keys, her purse, and a small bag. She hustles Reeve across the deck, down the steps, and around to the garage.
All the while, Reeve is protesting. “Please don’t make a fuss. Really, I’m okay. I can take the train home.”
Her sister gapes at her. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she says fiercely. “You cannot take the train. You’re in shock. Don’t argue with me. Get in.”
Reeve wordlessly climbs into her sister’s car.
“Buckle up.”
Once Reeve does so, Rachel sets the bag on her lap, saying, “We’ve got brandy, Ambien, and some aspirin. I’m taking you home and putting you to bed.”
Rachel starts the engine and backs out to the street, adding, “We need to tell Dad.”
“God no, this will only upset him.”
“Honestly, Reeve,” Rachel says, her voice going up a notch. “Do you want him to get the news from TV? Do you? Seriously?”
Reeve pictures the infamous footage of her teenage self swatting at news cameras and groans. Even if Flint is apprehended tonight, she’s sure to be all over the news. The celebrity victim, once again. She rubs her face, dreading the coming onslaught.
Rachel seems to read her mind. “Wouldn’t it be better to take you to Dad’s, rather than home to all those roommates? No explanations. No prying questions. Dad and Amanda won’t mind, and you can sleep in their guest room, at least for tonight.”
This makes perfect sense, of course. Her father and stepmother would offer the perfect refuge.