Hunted (Reeve Leclaire 2) Read online

  She jumps to her feet and begins to pace, telling herself to cool down. What have years of psychotherapy taught her?

  Breathe in and breathe out.

  She inhales, exhales . . . and wonders what time it is in Brazil.

  Two weeks ago, when Dr. Ezra Lerner had called to let her know that he was heading to Rio, she’d had to stop herself from teasing her psychiatrist about being overprotective.

  He’d explained that he was going to Brazil to help a family deal with a hostage situation. “I don’t know how long I’ll be, but if you need to reach me,” he said, “leave a message with my office and I promise to get back to you.”

  She had smiled into the phone, bemused that Dr. Lerner, an expert on captivity syndromes, was still so worried about her. She’d felt confident that her years of fuming and weeping on his couch were over.

  Of course, she never expected her kidnapper to walk the earth again, rising up like some undead creature in a bad horror flick.

  She tells herself to get a grip. Dr. Lerner is out of reach, and she needs to buck up and cope with Flint’s escape on her own.

  Do something. Go for a run.

  It’s the best she can come up with. But then she looks around and realizes she hasn’t brought a bag. No way she’s going running in those shoes from last night.

  After a few minutes of rummaging through the closet, she comes up with some old gym clothes and a pair of Nikes that she left behind when she moved out.

  She grabs the spare key, and minutes later she’s running along the Embarcadero, past the early risers and tourists streaming through the Ferry Building. Her muscles warm and loosen as she heads uphill.

  By the time she reaches the park, sweat has saturated her clothes. She slows to a walk and shakes out her muscles, then unzips her hoodie and pushes the sleeves up to her elbows, revealing pale forearms dotted with small, circular scars.

  The park smells fresh, and as the noise of the city falls away, she hears the parrots overhead and cranes her neck to watch. The birds’ distinctive green bodies and cherry-colored cheeks make them easy to spot. The wild parrots— made famous by a documentary film years ago—swoop and squawk and perch in pairs. She always takes pleasure in watching them flit from tree to tree, relishing the idea that so many South American parrots have escaped their cages to form this unlikely flock.

  Once she has cooled, Reeve heads back downhill. As she passes a woman who is unloading boxes from the trunk of a car, the woman turns aside and calls, “Honey, I need your help with this.”

  Reeve glances into the garage just as a man lifts his head from his task to call back, “Okay, one second.”

  How nice it must be to call a spouse so easily for help. She tries to imagine having someone like that in her life, but intimacy eludes her. And at this particular moment, the only person she really wants to talk to is far away in Brazil.

  And just like that, a realization looms.

  She stops and shuts her eyes, coaxing it closer, and the idea snaps into certainty: Daryl Wayne Flint will seek out Dr. Moody.

  She opens her eyes and stands up straight. “Dr. Ick,” she says aloud.

  She’s often skeptical of intuition, but this insight unfolds with perfect logic: If she wants to talk with her psychiatrist, then Flint must also want to talk to his. Of course. Because, just as Dr. Lerner is the one person who has worked to understand Reeve, Dr. Moody is the one person who has worked to understand Flint. Who else has spent so many hours listening to that madman? Flint’s twisted psyche has been Dr. Moody’s bread and butter for years. He even wrote a book about his infamous client.

  She absently touches the scar on the back of her neck, thinking that she and Flint are each bonded to their psychiatrists. They’ve likely been treated with some of the same drugs.

  With a sudden chill she sees that they are, and ever will be, linked by their shared past. They are two sides of the same crime—captor and captive—and that’s a tie that can never be broken. They define each other. She can still feel him breathing on her skin.

  EIGHT

  Because Reeve’s father works as a software consultant, his name and number are easily found on the Internet. After the second call from a news scout seeking an interview with his daughter, he mutes the phone and shuts it inside his home office. Then he steps to a front window and checks the street below.

  Thankfully, no one seems to have located this address. Not yet.

  He and Amanda have conspired to keep Reeve out of sight until Flint is caught. Her grades are good and she can afford to miss a few classes. Luckily, cooking is one of Amanda’s talents, and the house is well stocked with the kinds of foods that college students crave but can’t afford.

  Amanda is just setting out the makings of an elaborate breakfast when they hear Reeve come in from her morning run.

  Amanda meets his eyes and whispers, “It’s not going to be so easy keeping her indoors.”

  Reeve smells coffee brewing, but instead of heading toward the kitchen, creeps back to the guest room, where she kicks off her Nikes and snatches up her cell phone.

  She calls Otis Poe. When he answers, she blurts out, “Otis, I just realized something important.”

  “Um, Reeve? Is that you?” His voice sounds sleepy.

  She bites a lip, picturing Poe’s new bride pulling the covers over her head with a groan. “I’m sorry, did I wake you up?”

  “Um, no, we’re awake. What were you saying?”

  “I just realized where Flint is.”

  “You did? Where?” Poe sounds instantly awake. “His mother’s, right? Because—”

  “No, he won’t go to his mother’s. He’ll go to Dr. Ick’s.”

  “Who’s Dr. Ick?”

  “Sorry. Dr. Ick is just a nickname. I mean he’ll go to Dr. Moody’s, his psychiatrist.”

  “Dr. Moody? Wasn’t he an expert witness at Flint’s trial?”

  “Right. And I figure that’s the first place Flint will go.”

  “Interesting. So, did you call the cops?”

  “No, I don’t want to get even more involved than I already am. Would you do it?”

  “I could, but it’s your theory. And you’re the one with the cred.”

  She grimaces. “I’d ask Dr. Lerner to call, but he’s in Brazil, working with those hostages who were just rescued.”

  “Really? I didn’t see anything about that in the news.”

  “No, you wouldn’t. The family paid a huge ransom. It’s very hush-hush.”

  Poe starts to speak, but Reeve quickly says, “Oh, crap, here I am blabbing to a reporter. Forget I said anything, okay?”

  “Okay.” He chuckles. “Unless, of course, it turns out there’s a link to Jefferson County.”

  Each shuffles through their thoughts for a moment, then Poe says, “Do you want the sheriff’s number? He gave a statement yesterday. I’ve got his name right here.”

  She suddenly has an idea. “No, never mind. I think I know someone,” she says, and hangs up.

  It takes no effort to conjure the name of the FBI agent who was so kind to her during Flint’s trial. “Special Agent Milo Bender,” she says aloud.

  It’s been years since she’s thought much about Bender. He was the case agent who stayed with her almost from the moment she was lifted from the trunk of her captor’s wrecked car.

  She remembers the crash, the spinning car, the abrupt stillness. She remembers being lifted onto a gurney, lights flashing all around. She remembers lying in a hospital bed, where Milo Bender’s lined face appeared even before her own parents’.

  “What’s your name, young lady?” he’d asked, bending over her.

  She swallowed hard and told him.

  “Glad to finally meet you, Reggie. We’ve been looking for you. But you’re safe now, okay?” he said, patting her hand. “Your parents are on their way. You’re going to be fixed up good as new, and then you can go home.”

  And when she looked into his pacific blue eyes, she knew it was t
rue.

  Later, Agent Bender had been the one to escort her family into the courthouse. He’d taken them via the back entrance to a private elevator used by the judges. She balked at entering that tight, windowless box, but being with Agent Bender and her family made it tolerable.

  Once the trial was over, her family moved to San Francisco, leaving the ugliness of what happened in Seattle behind. And so the FBI agent, who had been so kind to her family, so patient with her, and so stony with the media, also faded into the past.

  She remembers that Agent Bender had programmed his number into her first cell phone. Seven years and several phones later, his number is still there. So, after mentally rehearsing what to say, she keys it up and calls.

  An electronic voice promptly announces that the number has been disconnected.

  She swears under her breath, wondering if something has happened to him, wondering if she should have stayed in touch. What’s the etiquette for crime victims and federal agents? Here’s another type of problem that normal people don’t have.

  A quick search yields the number for the FBI’s Seattle office. Figuring she can reach Agent Bender through them, she punches in the number.

  A recording says, “If this is an emergency please hang up and call 911.”

  She paces while the voice continues listing numbered options. But she does not want to report a crime, she does not know her party’s extension, and so she disconnects, mocking, “If you’d like to report a wild-ass guess, please hang up and get a life.”

  NINE

  West Seattle, Washington

  For the first time in many years, Daryl Wayne Flint sleeps late, awaking in a comfortable, king-sized bed. A momentary disorientation dissolves as he stretches, enjoying the luxurious sheets. Then he sits up and looks around, taking in the elegance of Dr. Terrance Moody’s master bedroom in the soft morning light.

  He hums three notes of approval in quick succession and climbs out of bed. He goes first to the window and peeks through the drapes to admire the view: a stretch of blue water dashed with white boats. He watches the clouds smudge across a green island in the misty distance.

  “Well, yes, Terrance, your home will do just fine, thank you very much,” he says aloud.

  The master bathroom is larger than Flint’s entire room at the hospital. Every surface gleams. Flint urinates, puts on a plush terrycloth robe, and heads downstairs to the kitchen, where he manages to figure out the coffee machine.

  While the coffee is brewing, he rummages through the pantry, examines the contents of the fridge, and helps himself to a large glass of orange juice. Next, he makes a simple ham-and-egg sandwich on a toasted poppy seed bagel. It is by far the best meal he’s had in seven years, so he fixes himself a second bagel sandwich, this one with cream cheese and lox, which he eats while roaming around the house, leaving a trail of seeds and crumbs.

  He turns on the television in the living room and finds a news station, but there’s nothing interesting at the moment, so he leaves it blaring while he heads back upstairs.

  The robe falls to the floor. The oversized shower draws a flicker of interest, but after sniffing the fancy soaps, Flint decides he prefers his own scent. He enters Moody’s walk-in closet. The choices make him smile. Ignoring the wool suits and crisp shirts, he selects a pair of jeans. He is not as tall and long-limbed as Moody, but the fit isn’t bad, so he grabs several more items and piles them onto the bed.

  What else?

  Back in the closet, Flint eyes Dr. Moody’s collection of hats. He tries on a few, laughing at his reflection, and adds two to the pile. Halloween is coming, after all.

  Next, he runs his fingers along a selection of leather belts and lifts out three, each of which he snaps in the air. One does not snap to his satisfaction, so he replaces it and finds another.

  He leaves the closet and approaches a large chest of drawers, where he finds underwear and socks, plus a Rolex watch, a diamond ring, and a wallet containing six crisp hundred-dollar bills. He tosses these onto the bed as well, then stands there with his hands on his hips, realizing that there’s no way he can fit all this into the backpack he brought with him.

  He finds a black rolling suitcase in a closet, sets it on a chair, opens it, and discovers a neat toiletry bag that contains an assortment of stuff, including vials of pills. He reads the labels with a smile. Viagra! He doesn’t anticipate any problems in that department, but, hey, it might be fun.

  Flint returns to the bathroom and searches the medicine cabinet, which yields a few more medications worth bringing. After adding them to the suitcase, he checks out Moody’s shoes. Most are too big, too fancy, but the sneakers will be okay. And these soft, woolly slippers? Why not?

  He tosses everything into the suitcase, zips it closed, and carries it downstairs to the den.

  Files, notebooks, and papers are still strewn across the desktop where he left them. He hurries over to gaze at the evidentiary photographs of the girl’s back. His fingertips hover over the small, careful whorls and intricate lines. The long slashes, beautiful as impressionistic art. He hungers over them for several long moments before gently slipping the photographs into a protective sleeve.

  Next, he turns his attention to the files. She has moved to California, which will require—what?—a twelve-hour drive? It will take some planning, of course, but later, once Plan B is rolling . . .

  He sucks his teeth.

  He’ll want to spend more time reading through all this before destroying what he doesn’t want, so he shuffles pages back into their files, amazed at how much Dr. Moody has accumulated over the years, and chastened by how much he blabbed. Why had he ever talked about his father’s burial? And how could he have been so stupid as to mention Walter Wertz?

  “Risky behavior, Daryl. Risky, risky, risky,” he says, mimicking Wertz’s voice.

  Truth was, he’d been showing off for his shrink, watching the color spread up Moody’s neck. The old goat was turned on by it all, scribbling away in his notebook while his forehead glistened with that telltale sheen.

  Flint locates a briefcase and fills it with Moody’s papers and notebooks.

  What else? He looks around. The door to the safe is still wide open.

  He smirks, recalling how Moody’s cranky behavior last night had turned quite reasonable once he’d revealed the gun. With a moment’s encouragement, Moody had shown him the safe, which was hidden behind a false front in the closet, just like in the movies.

  After spinning the combination and opening the door, Dr. Moody had said, “You can just take the money and go. There’s nearly ten thousand dollars here. How’s that?”

  “Are you sure? That’s a lot of money, Terrance,” Flint said, looking over Moody’s shoulder while stroking the man’s ear with the gun barrel’s tip.

  “You can count it,” Moody said, his voice going up a notch. “I was planning on . . . never mind. Take it. It’s yours.”

  “That’s generous of you. How about we leave it right there for the moment, and I’ll count it later.”

  “And you can take my car,” Moody continued, speaking rapidly. “You could be over the border into Canada before dawn. The car has GPS, and I know a way you can get across without even a passport, no border guards, nothing but open road. You can simply disappear and no one will even know you were here.”

  “That’s a fine idea,” Flint said, playing along. “And I sure appreciate your generosity.” He stepped back and lowered the handgun, grinning. “In fact, I think that kind of plan deserves a toast, don’t you?”

  “Uh, sure. What’s your drink of choice? Vodka? Gin? I have a full bar, and I’d be happy to serve whatever you’d like.”

  “Well, I’m not really in the mood for hard liquor.”

  “Beer then? I’ve got some good pilsner.”

  Flint began to stroke his beard, forgetting it had been cut off, so he rubbed his chin. “Don’t you have a wine cellar?”

  Dr. Moody’s expression dimmed. He swallowed and said
softly, “Yes, I do.”

  “Let’s go down there and get a nice bottle,” Flint said, gesturing toward the door with the gun. “You pick it out.”

  Dr. Moody then led him downstairs, through the basement, to a door at the back. It was a cold room with a musty smell.

  Flint stood back and whistled. “That’s a nice selection of wine, Terrance. How many bottles have you got there?”

  “Nearly four hundred, I believe.” Dr. Moody faced the racks, lifted a hand, and asked, “What would you prefer? Red or white?”

  Flint shot him in reply.

  Then he stood there for a long moment, letting his ears recover, studying the way the light reflected on the rows and rows of bottles. The pattern was pleasing to the eye.

  Flint had tilted his head from side to side, interested in how the gleam on the bottles changed as he did so. Then he stepped back, watching Moody’s blood spill across the floor, appreciating how its ruby color contrasted with the stark whiteness of the shirt stretched across the man’s back.

  Now Flint smiles at the recollection and turns his attention back to the safe.

  Using both hands, he lifts out the bundles of cash and gold coins and places them on the desk. Then he lowers himself into the soft leather chair while savoring one final memory: In a nice trick of light, Dr. Terrance Moody’s pooling blood had looked dark as wine.

  TEN

  San Francisco, California

  It’s obvious to Reeve that her father and Amanda are trying their best to distract her. But while lingering over the kitchen table and then watching a charming film on their big-screen TV, Reeve itches to grab her phone and check the news. She fidgets on the sofa, doing her best to be genial while inwardly obsessing over Flint’s escape. Because a man like that won’t just fade away. He’s a kidnapper. He’s a sadist. She can’t just sit here pretending that he’ll slink off and vanish. She has to do something.