Hunted (Reeve Leclaire 2) Read online

  She excuses herself and slips back into the guest room, where she scrolls through the headlines for the hundredth time. It’s just a repeat of the same news.

  Frustrated that Flint hasn’t been caught, and angry at herself for failing to call earlier, she finds the number of the sheriff that Otis Poe mentioned. The phone rings and again a recording advises her to call 911 in an emergency, but this time she endures the full spiel until an actual human being answers.

  When she explains that she’s calling about Daryl Wayne Flint, the man who escaped from mental lockup, a woman’s voice responds, “State your name, please.”

  “I’d rather not.”

  A pause. “Are you calling to report a sighting?”

  “No, not a sighting. I just think I know where he’s headed.”

  “You think you do. Okay, what makes you think that?”

  “I’d rather not say.”

  Another pause. “Do you have something specific for me or not?”

  “Well, the thing is, I believe I have some insight into this case.”

  “Uh-huh. And why is that?”

  “I’d rather not say.”

  The woman’s tone sours. “Listen, we deal in facts here, and we’ve had our share of psychic readings for today.”

  “It’s nothing like that.”

  “Well, if you have any solid information, I’d love to hear it.”

  “The thing is, you need to make sure that you watch Dr. Moody’s house.”

  “Whose house?”

  “Dr. Terrance Moody’s. He’s the psychiatrist who testified at Flint’s trial.”

  “Okay, and why do you think that?”

  “Well, it’s just a hunch, really.”

  “A hunch?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “That’s it?”

  Realizing this is going nowhere, Reeve steels herself and tries to explain in simple terms who she is.

  “Seriously? You’re that girl? The one he kidnapped? The one he kept locked up in his basement?”

  “Correct. Regina LeClaire, and I think—”

  “Edgy Reggie, right? Isn’t that what they called you?”

  She stiffens. “I changed my name.”

  “Well, that’s good, because it wasn’t a very complimentary—”

  “The point is,” Reeve interrupts, “you haven’t found him yet, have you?”

  “Not yet, no.”

  “And there are already people staking out his mother’s place, am I right?”

  “Why do you think that?” the woman asks with a suspicious tinge.

  “Because that would seem logical. But he won’t go to his mother’s.”

  “And why not?”

  “Because he’s insane, not stupid,” Reeve snaps. Hearing herself, she tries a softer tone, adding, “He’ll anticipate a trap. But I’ll bet no one is watching Dr. Moody’s place. Am I right?”

  Another pause. “And where exactly is that?”

  “Somewhere in Seattle, I’d imagine. Don’t you have records?”

  “Seattle’s not our jurisdiction, but everyone’s on the lookout for that stolen Honda, so it’s highly unlikely he could drive all the way to Seattle without being seen. It makes more sense that he’s hiding out locally. That’s what I think, anyway.”

  “But he won’t do what you expect. He won’t. He has a plan of some kind.” Reeve strangles the phone, realizing that the more urgently she speaks, the crazier she sounds.

  As if thinking the same thing, the woman’s tone turns placating. “Thank you for calling with this information. I’ve got it down, and I’ll be sure to relay your suggestion to the investigator in charge.”

  Reeve grinds her teeth. “Can I speak to that person directly?”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure to relay your information. Is there anything else?”

  Reeve hangs up, sinks down on the floor, and plunges her hands into her hair.

  Later, wearing her good shoes and dressed in her clothes from last night, she returns to the living room saying, “Dad? Amanda? We need to talk.”

  Her father and his wife exchange a look and her father clicks off the television.

  “I know you’re trying to help, and I really appreciate it. I do,” she says, settling on the couch. “But I can’t just hide out here like some kind of fugitive. I need to get home. I’ve got classes tomorrow.”

  “Are you sure? Because it’s quiet here and your roommates—”

  “They’re my friends, Dad. It’s okay. I just talked to them. They understand.”

  She couldn’t ask for better roommates, and that’s become clearer now than ever. But she has deeper reasons for wanting to get home.

  “I can’t let my past ruin another minute of my life. I’ve worked too hard to get back on track. So now I need to focus on my studies and forget all about Flint. Because whatever he’s doing up in Washington, it has nothing to do with me.”

  She nods briskly, looking from one to the other, willing these words to be true.

  ELEVEN

  West Seattle, Washington

  The next morning, Daryl Wayne Flint rises early, eats a large breakfast, and then begins searching through Dr. Moody’s garage. He ignores the expensive bike, the kayak, the snow skis. When he finds an ice chest, he carries it inside, sets it on the kitchen floor, and packs it full. When he lifts it he realizes he should have loaded it in place, but manages to muscle it back out the garage door, where he pauses. The shiny new Audi is tempting, but it’s a showpiece—far too noticeable—so he loads the ice chest into the Toyota.

  A black and nondescript SUV. Perfect.

  He finds a screwdriver and squats down to remove the license plate, replacing it with one that had been included with the supplies in the storage unit. Finished, he considers the screwdriver for a moment, then finds a duffle bag and selects several more tools to bring along, plus zip ties and a roll of duct tape. He then goes back into the kitchen. A selection of sharp knives and three large plastic garbage bags get added to his stash.

  Satisfied, he rummages through the freezer, and opens a tub of ice cream. He admires the design of chocolate swirled through vanilla.

  Just as he spoons in, a phone begins ringing.

  Has it started?

  He carries the ice cream into the living room, where he picks up the remote and flips through channels, searching for news until there he is: a picture taken before the trial, when he was younger and heavier, with his unruly hair and full beard.

  He sits on the sofa to watch. Here’s a brief clip from his trial, with just a glimpse of his little cricket. He jerks forward, eager to see more of her, but now the newscaster reappears, describing his “daring escape that was captured by security cameras Saturday afternoon.”

  Flint leans in, studying the grainy black-and-white video that shows him exiting the mental hospital. The frame freezes and zooms in. It’s a poor-quality image and he barely recognizes his own features, so pale between the dark beret and dark goatee.

  Dark, white, dark. Like an ice cream sandwich, he thinks.

  When the news shifts to the next report, Flint clicks off the television and hurries upstairs to the master bathroom, where he stares into the mirror, rubbing his palm over his distinctive goatee.

  TWELVE

  Seattle, Washington

  Efficiency and punctuality define forty-two-year-old Mrs. Simms, and for this she’s being well compensated. As Dr. Moody’s new assistant, her salary is nearly twice what she formerly earned teaching history to ungrateful adolescents. This job is proving to be a joy in comparison.

  Mrs. Simms arrives at the office each weekday morning well before Dr. Moody and she makes sure the relevant papers are organized and the coffee is hot by the time he reaches his desk at 9:00 a.m. This Monday is no different than usual except for two things: First of all, the phone begins ringing the moment she steps in the door. Reporters, reporters, and more reporters.

  Mrs. Simms handles these adroitly, saying noth
ing quotable and belying none of the anxiety she feels about the escape of Dr. Moody’s most notorious patient. The instant she first heard the news, she’d anticipated this unpleasantness. Now she can hardly wait to see how Dr. Moody will deal with these vultures.

  Much more troubling is the second thing: She has received no word from Dr. Moody himself. On the few occasions when Dr. Moody was running late, he has always called to let her know why he was detained and when to expect him. Always.

  She checks her cell phone as well as the appointment calendar, but finds nothing to explain this lapse.

  Mrs. Simms doesn’t usually touch the coffee until Dr. Moody has finished his first cup. But when the doctor hasn’t arrived by 9:30, she fixes herself a mug with sugar and sits at her desk, sipping the excellent Kona coffee while debating what to do.

  Should she call his former assistant and ask the correct protocol? No, better to call Dr. Moody, though she hates to bother him. There could be some kind of emergency. He could be in deep consultation with an important client or a suicidal patient. Or perhaps he just forgot, with all this bother about Daryl Wayne Flint.

  More likely, he’s having another dispute with that ex-wife of his. That’s certainly possible. After all, the woman seems terribly obstreperous. Mrs. Simms even suspects that Dr. Moody’s ex is the culprit responsible for that nasty gouge in the doctor’s beautiful new car. She can’t understand why Dr. Moody won’t confront the woman. In her experience, bad behavior needs to be nipped in the bud. Otherwise, it blooms into something worse.

  At 9:40, having heard nothing from her employer, Mrs. Simms decides she must act. She mentally prepares a carefully worded apology and calls the doctor’s cell phone.

  No answer.

  When the phone switches over to voice mail, she leaves a brief and polite message reminding him of his ten o’clock appointment. Then she gets up, smooths her skirt, and carries her coffee mug to the small kitchen, where she washes it out and sets it in the drainer to dry. She debates whether to pour out the coffee and make a fresh pot, but decides to wait until after the doctor’s first appointment. She hates to waste expensive Kona coffee.

  Mrs. Simms handles two more phone calls from reporters, then considers whether to call Dr. Moody again. Perhaps there’s something wrong with his cell phone. Or perhaps he’s ill.

  She checks the time. What’s the best way to handle this?

  With a growing sense of foreboding, she sends a text message. When she gets no response, she phones Dr. Moody’s home.

  The phone rings three times before Dr. Moody’s recorded prompt to leave a message. “I’m very sorry for the intrusion, doctor,” she says, “but it’s now nearly ten, and you have a patient scheduled, and I’m concerned that I’ve heard no word about why you are, uh, detained.”

  She hangs up and frowns at the phone as if it has committed some offense, then turns her attention to her computer.

  A moment later, Dr. Moody’s first appointment, a sloppily dressed young man wearing expensive shoes, enters the door, states his name, apologizes for being early, and makes himself comfortable on the couch.

  At 9:58, she explains that Dr. Moody hasn’t yet arrived and offers the young man coffee, which he declines, asking for green tea instead.

  In the kitchen, while preparing the young man’s tea, she pours herself another mug of coffee and has a taste. It has gone bitter. She pours it down the sink and rinses out the pot, then serves the tea and retakes her seat.

  The phone has stopped ringing and the atmosphere in the office grows tense as Dr. Moody’s absence lengthens. Mrs. Simms offers the young man a copy of the Wall Street Journal, which he declines, pulling out his smart phone.

  Mrs. Simms tries to concentrate on bookkeeping, but now her worries have gained an appetite. Her mind reaches from one scenario to the next, trying to find some explanation for Dr. Moody’s uncharacteristic behavior. Has she neglected something?

  She wonders what the psychiatrist’s previous assistant might have done in her situation. She double-checks the calendar, wondering if she could have overlooked a court date.

  The young man coughs, setting aside his empty cup of tea, and Mrs. Simms offers another apology for Dr. Moody’s tardiness. She again checks the time, and at that moment—10:11—the phone rings.

  Mrs. Simms blurts, “That must be him,” and quickly answers.

  But the voice that replies is not her employer. “This is Dr. Wanda Blume at Olshaker Hospital. I must speak with Dr. Moody immediately.”

  Mrs. Simms recognizes the name of the hospital’s chief of psychiatry. “I’m so sorry, Dr. Blume, but Dr. Moody unfortunately is not in the office.”

  “No? Well, he’s supposed to be here for this morning’s meeting. But since he hasn’t appeared, I thought—”

  “What meeting?”

  “He didn’t tell you?”

  “No. Tell me what?”

  “He didn’t call you yesterday?”

  “On Sunday? No. Is something wrong?”

  The young man on the couch sets his phone aside and gives Mrs. Simms a curious look.

  “This is strange. I talked with him Saturday evening,” Dr. Blume’s voice rises as she continues, “and he said he would instruct you to cancel today’s appointments.”

  “But he didn’t call, and I’ve been trying to reach him all morning.”

  “When did you last speak with him?”

  “Friday afternoon, when we closed up the office. What’s wrong?”

  Dr. Blume says nothing.

  “Does this have to do with that man who escaped?”

  “Oh my god.”

  “What is it?”

  Dr. Blume chokes slightly. “I’m afraid someone needs to check on Dr. Moody.”

  THIRTEEN

  Cascade Mountains, Washington

  While white Hondas are still being scrutinized on every highway across the state, Dr. Moody’s dark SUV is speeding east with Daryl Wayne Flint at the wheel. A steady rain turns the interstate into a slick ribbon, but he’s soon through the pass.

  He exits the highway, and the road narrows as it skirts Cle Elum Lake. He winds deeper into the mountains until he spots Granite Reach Mini-Mart, looking every bit as dingy as he recalls. This is his last chance for a pit stop, so he parks and hustles inside where he selects a few provisions, including fishing line, beer, cigarettes, and a weatherproof camouflage hat.

  As the pimply faced teen is ringing him up, Flint studies a display of faded photographs of happy fishermen. “What’s biting these days?”

  “Hell if I know,” the kid responds. “My dad says I couldn’t catch a cold in a kindergarten.”

  “You mean catch a cold in a storm.”

  The kid rolls his eyes. “Whatever.”

  Flint notices a map on the counter—Granite Reach Wilderness Area— but resists picking it up. Not good to look like an outsider. Besides, he figures he can remember the way.

  But three turns later, he’s wondering if maybe his memory got dented in that car crash years ago. Or if all those meds they fed him damaged his brain. Because these rain-drenched surroundings sure look different than he remembers. Nothing familiar. Nothing but forest, with thick green moss hugging rocks and trees.

  The windshield wipers beat back and forth. Maybe he missed the turn. Another mile, he thinks, and then he’ll have to turn around, get reoriented, take another run.

  Something up ahead on the left catches his attention. He brakes, slows, and sure enough, there’s the one-track bridge crossing Shadow Bark Creek. Old and weathered, just like he remembers.

  Farther along, the road narrows and cuts into a rocky hillside. A bullet-riddled sign warns of falling rocks.

  Twilight arrives early as the sun dips below the crags to the west. A rare set of headlights appears up ahead, cutting through the rain. Flint eases over to the shoulder to make room, but doesn’t look at the other driver as the pickup rolls past. His eyes are focused on the sign up ahead.

  Granite Reach
Wilderness Area.

  Flint makes the sharp turn into the forest, and the rutted road begins to feel familiar. When he recognizes the old fallen tree, he slows for a good look.

  The tree doesn’t seem near as big now, but it’s surely the fallen fir that blocked the road that first day his father brought him to Granite Reach. His father had jolted to a stop, cursing. But then a strong young man named Walter Wertz had shown up. Pretty soon there was a noisy competition, his father wielding a chainsaw on one side of the road, Wertz working on the other, sawdust flying.

  Daryl had stood back to watch the two slicing fat rounds out of the fallen tree, impressed with their skill, envying their strength. Soon they’d removed enough of the big fir to make the road passable.

  The tree doesn’t look as impressive now, settling in decay, but the way it brackets the road is unmistakable. He recalls patting the pattern of freshly exposed rings, then helping to roll the fat rounds off the side of the road, where they were later split into firewood.

  He smiles at the memory of that first meeting with Wertz, and knows he’s getting close.

  Soon he spies the moss-covered boulder and the turn.

  The driveway is little more than a path, overgrown and muddy. Flint cranks the wheel hard, dodging trees and splashing through puddles.

  There’s the old shed up ahead. It looks the same as always, years past decrepit. He slows and stops, angling the SUV’s headlights to illuminate the padlocked door. The rain has eased to a drizzle, but he puts on his new weather-proof hat and climbs out, leaving the engine running.

  The keys are easy to find if you know where to look, hanging on a nail beneath the eave. He lifts them off and pockets all but the smallest.

  It fits into the padlock which clicks open, and he chuffs a laugh.

  The inside of the shed is dusty, but he finds exactly what he remembers: two shovels, a pickax, a hatchet, handsaws, duct tape, a knife, and a snake-bite kit.

  He hurries back to his vehicle, checking the ground for signs of recent tire tracks. You can never be too careful. Finding none, he climbs back into the SUV and leaves the shed behind.