Hunted (Reeve Leclaire 2) Page 7

  As he eases along the winding, bumpy drive, he glances sideways at the overgrown footpath that leads past the graves to Shadow Bark Lake.

  The road has become so rugged it’s scarcely navigable. Saplings brush the doors and windows as the SUV winds through the trees. Uphill . . . downhill . . . uphill again.

  At last, the SUV’s headlights glare on the cabin’s front windows. He parks, angling for the best illumination, and leaves the lights on as he climbs out. A layer of wet pine needles cushions his tread until he steps onto the front porch, where he fits the key into the lock and the door creaks open.

  Except for the splash of headlights, the inside lies in deep shadow. Flint gropes along a table, finds a box of matches, and lights a kerosene lantern. He holds it high. The place is cold and dusty, but everything is pretty much as he remembers: woodstove, sofa, table, chairs.

  His eyes go to the floor. He sets down the lantern, peels back the rug, and locates the seam in the floorboards. It takes a knife and some effort, but the floorboards come free. He sets them aside.

  Inside, he finds the stun gun, a set of handcuffs, and two types of high-powered binoculars. Here’s the rifle with plenty of ammunition, and a full selection of fine knives, still sharp. He pauses to admire the blades, glinting in the light. A knife is not as good as a scalpel, but these aren’t bad.

  “Ultimately, none of this stuff is going to do me any good,” Walter Wertz had said to him one day long ago. “I might as well enjoy it while I can, right? Because once the dialysis starts, it’s all downhill. They won’t put me at the top of any donors list. And when my kidneys start to fail, I’m a dead man.”

  “Come on, you’re not that old,” Flint had said. “Don’t be fatalistic.”

  “Realistic. We both know it’s the truth. I saw what happened to my father. It’s genetic, Daryl. The same thing’s gonna happen to me.”

  Flint’s antennae had gone up. He smelled opportunity. His older partner had money, property, resources. Why let it all go to waste? So, over the next few weeks, Flint had coaxed him along. “You’re the end of the line, eh? That’s a shame, isn’t it? If only there was a way of passing along the family legacy, you know? I mean, you worked hard for all this. We worked hard for all this.”

  Flint planted the seeds so subtly that Wertz thought it was his idea. “What would you think of taking over once I’m gone, Daryl? You’d be, like, my heir. That would be fitting, wouldn’t it?”

  Flint had feigned surprise. “That’s hard to imagine. But if anybody could make a crazy idea like that work, it’d be you.”

  It hadn’t taken much effort to draw Wertz along, one detail after another, until the idea began to take form.

  “It’s the ultimate bug-out plan,” Wertz announced one day, handing him a large metal box. “When my kidneys give out, you can just step into my shoes. No paperwork, no trail. What do you think? We’ll call it Plan B.”

  This was classic Wertz. He always had a plan. Plan A was business as usual; Plan B was the bug-out plan; and Plan C was always ready in case they had to drop everything and run north across the border to Canada. Three plans ready, just in case.

  Of course, Flint’s arrest hadn’t been in anybody’s plans.

  He’d loaded his little cricket into the trunk of his car, trying to move her on a rainy night, and hadn’t even seen the car that hit him. The next thing he knew, he was behind bars.

  His bad luck.

  Now Flint lifts the metal box from its hiding place and opens the latch. Inside, he finds cash, credit cards, and keys to Wertz’s house in Olympia. Here are the horn-rimmed eyeglasses. He grins at the bifocals, squinting through the clear glass at the top, the minor magnification through the lens at the bottom.

  Next, he lifts out a messy wig and places it atop his head. He’ll need a mirror to do it right. He sets the wig aside.

  At the bottom of the box, he finds several pairs of panties—which he lifts out to sniff one by one—and a driver’s license with a photograph of a bushy-haired guy with heavy eyebrows and horn-rimmed eyeglasses.

  Walter Wertz has left it all to him.

  He sets aside what he’ll need and closes the trap door. He’ll make himself comfortable for the night and rest up for tomorrow. Then he’ll order his tasks, take inventory. Once the cabin is ready he’ll head into Olympia and get Plan B underway.

  He sets the lantern on the table and heads back outside to unload his gear. He’s methodical. Back and forth, back and forth, his boots loud on the wood floor.

  When he’s finished, he stands in the middle of the room and taps a toe three times, enjoying the sound so much that he does a quick jig, chanting, “Off the grid, off the grid, off the grid.”

  FOURTEEN

  University of California

  Berkeley, California

  The moment the professor stops speaking, Reeve snaps her laptop shut and checks her phone for news about Flint. The first thing she sees is a text message from Otis Poe:

  Breaking news! You were right about DWF paying a visit to Dr. M. But not in a good way.

  All the information the professor has imparted over the past sixty minutes empties from her head as she follows Poe’s link to an article, “Fugitive’s Psychiatrist Found Dead.” The news seems so unreal she has to read it twice. Flint is running rampant, and now he has killed Dr. Moody.

  “Good lord,” she groans. Startled by her own voice, she looks around and realizes that the lecture hall is empty.

  She crams her computer into her backpack, jumps to her feet, and hustles along the row, up the aisle, and out the exit into the chilly air. She takes a deep breath, trying to clear her head. Too antsy to stroll, she jogs along the path through the trees, hurrying toward her next class.

  The last thing she expects is to be ambushed.

  A scarecrow of a man shouldering a heavy camera steps in front of her while a tall woman with heavy makeup sticks a microphone into her face.

  “Reggie LeClaire!” the reporter barks. “Tell us, how did you feel when you heard the news that your kidnapper had escaped?”

  “Leave me alone,” Reeve says, flinching away.

  “He was your captor for four years. During that time, did you believe he was capable of murder?”

  “Please go away,” she says, jamming her hands into her pockets and ducking aside.

  The cameraman follows Reeve’s movements with a lens like a hungry mouth. Her first impulse is to swat it, but she’s gone that route before. And wouldn’t the media just love to capture her making the same mistake twice?

  “What were your first thoughts when you heard about Flint’s escape?” the reporter persists.

  “No comment.”

  “Are you aware that Flint’s psychiatrist was found murdered earlier today?”

  A group of students has turned to stare. Reeve recognizes a guy from chemistry lab, and suspects that he’s the one who pointed her out to the news team.

  She does a quick pivot, half hoping to clip the news people with her bulging backpack, but they gamely dodge around in front of her.

  The microphone again waves in her face. “Reggie, what would you like to say to the families of Flint’s victims?”

  She glances around at the spectators and flips her hoodie up over her hair.

  “Were you shocked when you heard the news of Flint’s escape?”

  She’s taking a deep breath, preparing to shout something she’ll regret when a thin man steps between her and the news team. He butts the cameraman aside, saying, “Leave her alone.”

  “Hey! What are you doing?” the cameraman protests.

  Reeve is relieved to see Lana’s boyfriend, David.

  “She says she doesn’t want to talk to you, man,” he says, blocking the camera’s view.

  “You don’t understand,” the tall reporter says, standing with him toe-to-toe. “We’re working on a news story.”

  “Well, you’d better work on it somewhere else before I break your damn camera.”

>   “Yeah, leave her alone,” calls another voice, and Reeve turns to see Lana running up.

  The reporter’s nostrils flare but she takes a step back.

  “If you don’t beat it, I’m calling security,” David says.

  “Yeah, we’re calling security.” Lana squares her shoulders. “So you better leave before they get here.”

  The reporter glares at Reeve, narrows her eyes at her friends, then turns away, telling the cameraman, “That’s it for now. Let’s pack it in.”

  Reeve stands with her friends, assuring them that she’s fine, but feeling far from it. Because now it has begun. She watches the news team receding down the path with their cell phones high and glowing, and then closes her eyes with that image still burning on her retina. And it’s like watching a lit fuse.

  FIFTEEN

  Reeve is in the kitchen slicing an apple when her cell phone rings. She wipes damp fingers on her jeans, checks the phone, and frowns at the Seattle area code.

  The caller identifies himself as Agent Pete Blankenship with the FBI. “Miss LeClaire? I understand that you placed a call to the Turvey County Sheriff’s Department yesterday morning, is that correct?”

  “I did.”

  “And you were calling to warn them that Daryl Wayne Flint might target his psychiatrist, is that right?”

  She frowns. “Well, no, not that he would ‘target’ him. That’s not a term I would use.”

  “So what was it, exactly, that led you to make the call?”

  There’s no way she’s going to explain her reasoning to this stranger. What’s she supposed to say? I figured that Flint would want to talk to his psychiatrist because I wanted to talk to mine? No way.

  Instead, she answers blandly: “It just seemed logical.”

  “Logical in what way?”

  “Flint was in mental lockup. How many people ever showed up to visit him?”

  Blankenship says nothing.

  “I mean, his psychiatrist would see him regularly, right?”

  “Did you ever visit him?”

  “Of course not.”

  “How did you know Dr. Moody?”

  “I saw him during Flint’s trial. And I’ve read his books, of course.”

  “So you’re saying you came to this conclusion without any direct information?”

  “It wasn’t a conclusion. It was a hunch.”

  “And how did you arrive at this hunch?”

  She can’t help but scoff. “Have you read any of Dr. Moody’s work?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Dr. Moody’s books, his journal articles. Have you read them?”

  “Why?”

  “Because he wrote about Flint, obviously.”

  A dry cough. “Listen, the point is, you were right about the danger Flint posed to Dr. Moody. So where do you predict that he will head next?”

  “I’ve no idea.”

  “Do you have any information about his mother?”

  “If you’re thinking that Flint will head to his mother’s, well, that’s not very smart, if you ask me.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because Flint knows what you’ll expect. That’s his advantage. He’ll do what you do not expect.”

  “So, what’s your assumption, since you apparently know him so well. You have my full attention.”

  She stands very still, wrestling with her thoughts, clutching the phone to her ear with one hand and rubbing the scar on the back of her neck with the other.

  “Miss LeClaire, we’re interested,” he prods. “Given your personal knowledge of Flint’s nature, what is your expectation? What’s your best guess?”

  “Well, I’m not a profiler,” she says sarcastically.

  “Exactly. Which is why we’re so interested in your point of view.”

  She says nothing.

  “Tell me, when was the last time you had contact with Daryl Wayne Flint?”

  “What? Not since the trial. I’m a student at UC Berkeley.”

  “He called you last year, didn’t he? What did you talk about?”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “Did Flint express any resentment toward Dr. Moody?”

  “What?”

  “Did he tell you he was planning an escape?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Has Daryl Wayne Flint communicated with you or shared his plans with you in anyway?”

  “That’s a ridiculous question.”

  “What about his mother? Has she been in touch with you?”

  Something snaps shut inside her. “I’m sorry but I’ve told you all I know.”

  “But we have more questions, and we’d like to interview you further. Would tomorrow be convenient?”

  She blows out air and has a sudden vision of a tall, Nordic-looking man with a sweep of blond hair and crinkle lines around blue eyes. “Could I speak with Agent Bender?”

  “Who?”

  “Special Agent Milo Bender. Is he there?”

  “Bender?” A pause, a muffled exchange, and then the voice comes back on, saying, “Uh, no, Agent Bender is no longer with the bureau.”

  “Well for god’s sake, he’s the one I need to talk to.”

  SIXTEEN

  Seattle, Washington

  Milo Bender used to dream about retirement. He’d imagined that he and his wife would travel. First, they’d visit Sweden and Norway, where he would breathe the air and walk the landscapes of his maternal ancestors. Next, they would tour the British Isles, the sunny Mediterranean, and the Swiss Alps. After that, the Caribbean, Asia, and the distant Southern Hemisphere beckoned.

  That had been his plan, but now he’s careful not to remark on any of this to his wife. The most exotic trip they might hope to manage is a sailing excursion down the coast with their son. But even that has to wait, since Yvonne is still working full-time as a nurse.

  Bender hadn’t planned on being out of the game so soon. One minute he was solving cases, the next he was flat on his back, having his sternum sliced open. The zipperlike scar running down his chest rebukes him each morning while he shaves. It has now faded from vivid pink to a waxy color. The only thing still hurting is his pride.

  But who wouldn’t be bitter? His early retirement had coincided with the tanking economy. So Bender’s travel these days is limited to the route from home to the hardware store to one of four aging rental properties that have done nothing but demand major repairs and drain his savings. Of necessity, he keeps tools and a change of clothes in the back of his minivan. This morning, he’s buying what’s needed to fix a leaky toilet.

  As he pockets his receipt, he notes with detached irony that ABBA is playing on the store’s soundtrack, as if mocking his dreams of touring Scandinavia.

  When his cell phone rings, his first thought is that it’s one of his renters calling to gripe. He fishes the phone from his pocket, ready for bad news, then stares through his bifocals at the familiar number displayed: FBI Field Office.

  He clears his throat and answers crisply, “Milo Bender here.”

  “Bender, this is Stuart Cox. Remember me?”

  Bender pauses. He’d heard that Cox was fully capable as Seattle’s special agent in charge, but he never much liked the man. Data driven and impersonal, that was Bender’s impression. But maybe it was a generational thing. Cox and all those younger agents were always clicking keys and scanning screens and talking in acronyms.

  “Stuart, it’s been awhile,” Bender says coolly. “Congratulations on your promotion.”

  “How’s retirement? How’s Yvonne? How’s your health?”

  “Yvonne’s great, and I’m not dead yet. What’s up?”

  “Listen, if you have time, I’d like to talk.”

  “Sure, okay. Shoot.”

  “The thing is, I missed breakfast and I’m starving. Can you meet me in, say, half an hour?”

  Bender pictures the rental’s leaking toilet and the damage the water is doing to the floor beneath. He has torn up floors before. It’s cost
ly, unpleasant labor, and he knows it’s important to catch a leak early. He swallows, knowing the answer but asking anyway, “What’s this about?”

  “I need to pick your brains about the Daryl Wayne Flint case. He’s still at large, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

  In all his years with the bureau, Milo Bender never saw another criminal like Flint. Hearing the man’s name still makes his blood pressure spike. “Name the place,” he says. “I’ll be there.”

  Exactly twenty-five minutes later, Milo Bender is sitting across from Stuart Cox at a café on Pioneer Square. Eyeing the bureau’s new boss from behind his menu, Bender is surprised by the change he sees in Cox. The ruddy man who was bulging out of his suit now looks gaunt, and his face has assumed a terrierlike sharpness.

  After they order, Cox says, “It’s on me today. Official business.” Moving the silverware aside, he pushes a thick file across the table.

  Bender recognizes the case file as his own. He doesn’t touch it, but remembers every item of evidence, each awful photo. A flutter in his chest reminds him to check his watch. Wordlessly, he pulls a vial of pills from his pocket, shakes a dose into his palm, and pops the tablet into his mouth.

  Cox watches him swallow, then leans forward and says, “Before we get started, what’s your take on what happened with Flint’s conviction? I mean, not guilty by reason of insanity didn’t fly, right?”

  Bender sighs. “Because he was guilty—insane, sure, but still legally culpable. His actions showed he knew exactly what he was doing.”

  “Obviously. Hiding a girl in your basement for years is not exactly a rash act.”

  Bender’s face tightens.

  “So,” Cox continues, “Flint was rational, organized, and cognizant of his actions. The guy’s guilty as hell under the law. So how’d he end up in mental lockup?”

  “After he was convicted, things went sideways. He apparently had some kind of brain injury in the—”