Hunted (Reeve Leclaire 2) (18 page)

“That’s what we’re all wondering. But think about risks versus rewards. What are the consequences of getting caught, from his point of view? He’d probably enjoy another trial, where he’d be in the limelight for a while. And then he’d be returned to forensic lockup.”

This stops her. “You’re serious? He’d just go back to Olshaker?”

“He’s mentally ill.”

“Well, crap, then what difference would a couple of life sentences make?”

Bender coughs a sound of disapproval. “Flint has had a lot of time to think about that.”

“Yeah, spending years of being locked up, craving freedom.”

He gives her a sad look. “As you know too well.”

She tries to imagine what her kidnapper is up to, where he’s hiding, how he’s reinventing himself. “We still don’t have a clue where Flint could be.”

“He can’t just go back and start over, but ordinarily, a fugitive will try to reclaim his old life, his old routines.”

“But—” She bites off the sentence, unwilling to say aloud that
she
was his old life.

The car slowly winds out of the neighborhood, and she stares glumly out the window at houses bedecked with Halloween decorations. One lawn is pocked with tombstones, skeletal hands reaching from mock graves. And the sudden sensation of Flint breathing on her neck makes her shiver.

J
ust as Daryl Wayne Flint is turning into Wertz’s driveway, a neighbor comes out onto his porch with an aging spaniel, does a double take, and gives a wave.

Flint doesn’t curse. He doesn’t smile. He just nods his bushy wig and raises a palm off the steering wheel in a gesture midway between casual and contemptuous.

The last thing he wants is to encourage nosy neighbors.

Once inside, he stashes the groceries and supplies and his newly purchased pirate costume, then heads down the hallway toward the den. He pauses midway, noticing the framed map of the Pacific Northwest. He remembers how Wertz liked to point out his ancestors’ timberland, especially the high-profit areas, while griping about all the acreage bequeathed to national parks.

“Gripe, gripe, gripe,” Flint says, heading into the den, where he ignores the glass eyes of the dead animals mounted on the walls.

The door to the secret room rolls open. Inside, he adds his newly purchased wigs to the shelf, and then stands back to admire them. Wertz would not approve, but the colors are certainly a big improvement over that old selection.

Now it’s time to focus on Plan B.

Flint sits down with the computer, starting with their bank accounts. Wertz had been a master at setting up untraceable websites and offshore accounts. Wertz was the businessman, Flint was the artist. It worked well. Wertz managed all the technical stuff, but he had thoroughly schooled Flint about using only anonymized e-mail accounts. So now, no matter where his imagination takes him, Flint is certain the Tor program running in the background is cloaking the laptop’s IP address.

He logs out of the bank account and peruses one of their websites, all of which are running on servers somewhere overseas, perhaps Norway, where strict privacy laws protect it from the reach of US authorities. He scrolls through the pictures and smiles. Specialty porn always draws a moneyed clientele.

Recalling the instant of capturing each image, Flint admires the play of light and shadow on young skin. Then he leans back in his chair and glances up at the shelves of yearbooks.

The school photography had been a stroke of genius.

As a legitimate business, Walter Wertz Photography had given them access to literally thousands of children every year. Wertz spent his days behind the camera, smiling at all the pimply faced coeds. Later, the two of them would study the photos—catalogues of young faces—culling the ugly ones, selecting those with the most potential.

After that, Flint went to work, scouting out their homes, identifying the ones worthy of serious attention. No dogs. Distant neighbors. Careless habits. He was stealthy by nature, good at surreptitious work, and spent long hours prone on hillsides, coiled in trees, crouched on balconies, aiming high-powered lenses through windows and capturing unguarded moments. The bedtimes. The evening baths. He especially loved the summers, when damp swimmers were always peeling off wet swimsuits.

He scrolls through the websites featuring beautiful young flesh that never ages. But the unmarked skin seems strangely bland and uninteresting. Imagine how much better it would be after many long months of careful work, after it scabs and heals and blooms.

He stops at a familiar torso. Her name is lost to him now, but he remembers her curves. She had been Wertz’s favorite that season. He now recalls that, after they’d smuggled her away to the cabin, Wertz had laid full claim and sent him away with scarcely a chance to photograph her.

Wertz always preferred the chesty ones, but Flint followed his friend’s lead because there were often sisters more to his taste. Like Reggie.

He savors a memory, then stands, faces the shelves of yearbooks, and runs his fingers along the colorful spines until he locates the middle school yearbook he seeks. He plucks it off the shelf, opens it, and the pages fall open to precisely the page he wishes. He retrieves the magnifying eye loupe and bends so close to the smiling photograph that he can count the freckles sprinkled across young Reggie LeClaire’s cheeks.

He taps his toe three times, then boots up the laptop. He finds the news clip of the discovery of the storage unit, and stops the frame when he spots her, enlarging the image until her face begins to pixelate. The sight of her warms him.

He replays the video, wondering how she ended up here when, according to Dr. Moody’s files, she’s supposedly living in San Francisco. He sits back in the chair, tapping his chin.

If she’s here in Seattle, where would she be? Staying with an old friend, perhaps?

An idea occurs to him that’s so tantalizing, he doesn’t know why he didn’t think of it before.

He vividly recalls Reggie as a girl of twelve, coming home from school, roaming her neighborhood, visiting with the girl two doors down, the one with the charming gap between her front teeth. What was her name?

Jenna.

It’s a risk, but a few minutes later, he’s loading up his gear, humming a tune, eager to get started. He always enjoyed surveillance. The camera’s spotting scope brings details in so close—the hand on the hip, the curve of the spine—you can almost smell their skin.

Just in case he gets lucky, he’ll bring the metal box loaded with his tools.

S
itting on an outcropping of granite, Daryl Wayne Flint squints through his binoculars, scanning Reggie LeClaire’s old neighborhood. He can be a patient man when he needs to be, and he has been waiting for the sun to dip below the horizon, as it does now. There’s no breeze as twilight creeps in, painting the clouds with streaks of gold.

This was not in the original plan—Wertz would certainly not approve— but he’s now free to improvise. And he’d be a fool to overlook this opportunity.

It makes sense that his cricket might have returned to this neighborhood on Strawberry Lane, where she has old ties. Her family has moved to California, but perhaps she’s visiting old friends, perhaps even staying in this Tudor-style house, where she and that coltish, gap-toothed girl used to play.

Jenna. How old would she be? Early twenties, like Reggie, so perhaps she’s moved out. But she might still be living here. Nowadays, kids fail at natural independence, hanging onto their mother’s tits as long as possible. Not like when he was a boy. Once his father was dead and buried, his mother’s plans didn’t include him, so at thirteen it was time to man up. He’d shot into adulthood, and after a short apprenticeship, Wertz invited him into a partnership. None of this lifelong coddling and indulgence, like today’s youth.

The sun disappears below the horizon. He adjusts the camouflage hat on his head and peers through the binoculars, watching as the lights come on in the houses, just as he did years ago. But now, instead of focusing a camera lens and following Wertz’s dictates, he carries a stun gun in his pocket and follows his own interests.

What’s this? A car pulls up to the curb and out hops a girl. He gets to his feet for a better look.

She’s young, perhaps only fourteen, with short bangs and honey-colored hair. He focuses on her perfect skin as she waves goodbye to her friends in the car, then he watches her lithe form mount the steps.

Might this be Jenna’s little sister, all grown up?

She unlocks the door, and a moment after she enters, the lights come on.

He smiles, pleased that no one is waiting for her at home, and gets to his feet. He creeps down the slope, inhaling the woodsy aromas, and pauses at the road. When all is quiet, he slips across unseen to crouch in the shadows, then follows the hedge along the side of the house.

A light shines from a bathroom window. He hears a toilet flush and rises up on his toes, but the frosted glass obscures what’s inside. He moves to the back of the house, where he finds a wide, flagstone patio. He checks the neighbor’s windows, careful to stay out of their line of sight, and creeps along the perimeter.

Sounds of movement. A cupboard closes, a dish clinks. He locates a kitchen window and gets a glimpse of the girl—lovely up close. He can almost feel her skin beneath his fingertips.

He moves across the flagstones, tiptoeing through the potted plants, and approaches the sliding glass door. From here, he can view the entire living room, a staircase, and all the way through to the front door. Light glows from the kitchen, but the rest of the house falls darker by the minute. He approaches the patio door, eyeing the locking mechanism. Sliders can be iffy. Some lock securely, others are easy to—

The front door suddenly swings open. He freezes as two adults enter with shopping bags. He holds his breath and watches their eyes, but they turn immediately toward the kitchen with a call of greeting, and neither parent glances his direction.

He eases away from the door to retrace his steps through the potted plants and along the hedge. He pauses before crossing Strawberry Lane, then hurries back up the slope.

A few minutes later, he’s behind the wheel of his vehicle, feeling both frustrated and exhilarated at having come so close.

I
n her dream, Reeve is late for a trip. She barely has time to throw a few clothes into a suitcase and run. The suitcase is heavy and she misses her plane, so she has to take a train.

The train is dark and crowded and grim.

She disembarks in a strange country where the looming trees are huge, gnarled, black things, completely bare of leaves. They have learned to talk, and they mutter nasty things at her as she rushes past.

She makes it into town but discovers that a long funeral procession is blocking the street. She must wait in the crowd for it to pass. She stops, trying to be respectful, craning her neck to see. She is expecting a hearse to appear, but realizes there are no cars. Instead, throngs of people come marching toward her with their arms raised above their heads.

She strains to see what’s happening.

Thin, naked bodies are being passed overhead.

She turns to run away but stumbles, falls, and is horrified to realize that she has tripped over a skinny girl sitting on the ground. Reeve blurts an apology, and as she starts to rise, sees that the girl’s legs are scarred and broken like twigs.

The girl glares into her face and spits out, “No one will help us!”

Reeve jolts awake with a shudder, the girl’s words ringing. She pulls the covers over her head, but the nightmare grips her like a chill. The bed turns cold. Sleep is hopeless.

She gets up, pulls on a robe and goes to the window, where she stares out, grappling with the dark insinuations rising from her psyche. She once studied her dreams with the avidity of Freud’s disciple. Over the years, she became more skeptical, but this is one she cannot ignore.

What would Dr. Lerner say? Survivor’s guilt?

Before leaving for Brazil, he’d said to call him any time. Reeve chews on this a moment, then pulls her cell phone from the charger, keys up his number, and listens to the recorded message. Her psychiatrist’s voice is usually a balm, but she grips the phone, working her jaw, searching for words.

Beep.

“Hi, it’s me. As you know, Daryl Wayne Flint is at large and . . . I’m having a hard time with this, is all.” Her words sound so weak that she flushes with shame and says hurriedly, “That’s all. Never mind. Sorry to bother you.”

She hangs up, feeling unsettled, and stands at the window, watching daylight begin to dawn. Then she pads down the hall to the bathroom to splash water on her face.

On her way back to bed she hears a sneeze. A line of soft light shows beneath a door. She creeps up to it and listens to drawers opening and closing, the rustle of paper, a man’s voice mumbling.

She raps lightly and whispers, “Are you up?”

Milo Bender opens the door. He, too, is wearing a robe, and his hair is uncharacteristically tousled. “I’m sorry, did I wake you?”

“I’m just restless.”

He gestures her inside, saying, “Who can sleep with all that’s going on?”

“Is this your office?”

“Partly. This over here is Yvonne’s,” he says, pointing at the computer. “And all that is mine.” He waves at a wall of metal filing cabinets. “I’m old school.”

Several drawers are open, and the desk is covered with papers.

“You’re awfully busy for so early in the morning, aren’t you?”

“Bah. The old man’s curse is that you can never sleep. And the old agent’s curse is that when you can’t move forward, you must look behind.”

“What does that mean?”