Hunted (Reeve Leclaire 2) (33 page)

The medics won’t allow Bender’s son to board. He steps away and stands hunched beside Reeve as the chopper’s blades spin. The noise builds, and in an instant the chopper is in the air, heading to the nearest hospital, leaving behind a whirlwind of conjecture.

The crime scene swarms with FBI investigators. Everyone is asking questions, but the only certainty is that Daryl Wayne Flint has managed to slip away.

“Keswick, can you give me a hand here?”

She looks up and recognizes an investigator named Torres.

“We need to box this stuff up,” he says. “We’re done processing Bender’s vehicle.”

“God, I hope he makes it,” she says, glancing back at Bender’s son. He’s walking slowly toward Reeve, who is waving her arms, talking agitatedly with Blankenship.

Keswick would love to know how those two civilians ended up here, but just now, there’s too much going on to worry about them. The word is that graves have been discovered. A forensic anthropologist is on the way to oversee the exhumations. Lights are being set up for an all-night shift. Meanwhile, forensic teams are processing evidence in a cabin, a shed, and a Ford Bronco.

It won’t be long until a news chopper shows up and all this hits headlines, Keswick thinks, following Torres up the road to Bender’s minivan.

Jenna Dutton had been discovered huddled inside, bruised and hypothermic, but once she’d been wrapped in blankets and given a thermos of hot coffee, she’d been eager to talk and surprisingly coherent.

“Okay, look, I’ve got everything organized,” Torres says, handing Keswick a file box. “Just hold this a minute, would you?”

She stands beside the vehicle, gripping the box with both hands while Torres gathers up evidence. The front seats are covered with bagged and tagged items—including maps, binoculars, and a cell phone—which he hurriedly places in the box.

“Let’s get these loaded up,” Torres says, lifting two identical stacked boxes in his arms.

As they’re loading the boxes into an evidence van, Blankenship calls Keswick over to where he’s talking with Reeve. “Nikki? I need you double quick.”

“What’s up?” she asks, hustling toward them.

“Reeve thinks she might have some information. Take her down to the lake and show her the graves.”

D
aryl Wayne Flint loops the binoculars’ strap around his neck, fits the camouflage hat onto his head, and finds the path through the brush. The way is vaguely familiar, though overgrown since he was here last. When he gets close, he ducks under a branch and proceeds forward on his hands and knees until he nears the water’s edge. Then he gets down flat on his belly and scoots forward on his elbows until he has a sightline across the lake.

He peers through the binoculars and focuses on the commotion on the opposite shore. They’ve found the graves.

Or—correction—they’ve found three of the graves. Flint adjusts the binoculars and watches, rapt.

The FBI has encircled the faint mounds with neat yellow flags. They are measuring, setting up lights, and photographing, scurrying about like the methodical little worker ants they are. It’s funny that they walk right past the other graves without even noticing them.

Flint snorts, jiggling the binoculars, and the image vibrates.

Wertz was clever to have found this spot so many years ago.

Once they had covered that first grave with pine needles, Wertz said, “We need an observation post in case somebody comes looking for your daddy.”

Then he’d taken Daryl all the way around to this side of the lake, where they hid his car and then hiked to this place on the opposite shore. They’d had to scrunch low through the brush, and Flint recalls crawling on his elbows, terrified and thrilled by what they had done.

“No one can ever know,” Wertz said. “But you and your momma owe me big time.”

And so their pact had begun. Shortly after that, Daryl went to live with him. He’d expected that his mother would object, but it seemed like she thought it was her idea. Like she thought he was payment, almost, for helping to get rid of that mean son of a bitch.

But he and Wertz knew the truth.

Daryl had worked hard to prove himself to Wertz from the very start. He’d paid attention and soon recognized that, despite the age difference, they had shared interests. He seized his first opportunity to make an impression one afternoon when he caught Wertz hiding in the bushes, snapping photographs of nude sunbathers.

Wertz had given him a hard look, like he thought a thirteen-year-old kid might raise a fuss.

Instead, Daryl signaled that he could climb a tree for a better shot. He shimmied up the trunk, and Wertz grinned as he handed up the camera.

Wertz treated him differently after that, like he was testing him or something, giving him tasks. But Daryl didn’t mind. He knew he’d have to jump through a few hoops if he wanted to team up with someone like Walter Wertz. Getting rid of his brute of a father was a bonus.

As Daryl matured, Wertz gave him more responsibility, and they honed their complementary talents. Daryl was good at improvising, while Wertz was always methodical, always thinking ahead. For instance, Wertz had explored all around Shadow Bark Lake long before their first encounter. He knew all the best spots.

Flint smiles at this thought, refocuses the binoculars, and stares intently, because there she is, his own little cricket. Her skin is lovely, even at this distance.

He likes the red hair.

Next to her is another woman, taller, with long black hair, wearing a vest with “FBI” in bold print. Reggie grabs the woman’s elbow and points. And Flint can practically hear her say, “Look there,” as she points at where another girl is buried.

T
he whole time Reeve is with Jenna Dutton—holding her hand, offering words of comfort—she has the oddest feeling of déjà vu. It makes no sense, because she hasn’t seen Jenna since middle school. Now they’re adults, and Jenna even has a son, but while holding her friend’s slim fingers, she feels like she’s a kid again. It’s comforting and familiar, even in this bizarre circumstance, and she wants to hear everything about her old friend’s life, but this is not the time or place. When Jenna’s family arrives, Reeve listens to their tearful reassurances to one another that everything will be all right. Then, promising to stay in touch, she says good-bye and slips out into the hospital corridor.

She hurries upstairs to the ICU. When she enters the waiting room, she finds a half-empty coffee cup on the table next to the chair where JD had been sitting. She shoots a fearful look at the heavy, locked door, and pictures JD hovering at his father’s bedside. The horrible details of the past hours kaleidoscope through her mind, and she swallows a hard lump.

Her head hurts and her body aches. She heads toward the restroom to use the toilet, wash her hands, and splash water on her face.

“You look like hell,” she says to her reflection.

When she returns to the waiting room, she finds JD sitting hunched over his phone. As she perches beside him, he glances up. His face has aged a decade.

“How’s your father?”

A heavy pause. “The same.”

She places a hand on his. “I wish there was something I could do,” she says, but the expression seems weightless. What can anyone do while monitors tick and screens flicker? She casts about for something better to say, but any further comment seems pointless, and any question seems cruel. They sit in silence for several minutes, hoping for the best, fearing the worst. Her chest aches as if she were the one who got shot.

JD gives her a bleak look and says, “My aunt and uncle are flying down from Calgary in the morning.”

The next instant, there’s a distinct metallic click and the door yawns open. Yvonne emerges from the ICU, pale but erect and alert as a soldier.

A nurse, Reeve remembers.

She stands before them, palms clasped together, as JD questions her about his father’s condition, his collapsed lung, his blood loss, his heart. Yvonne answers in medical terminology which seems paradoxically vague and specific, like naming stars in some remote galaxy.

Touching her son’s shoulder, Yvonne adds a few soft words that Reeve doesn’t catch, and they all fall silent, each studying the floor, each wanting to know the one thing that cannot be answered: Will he survive?

The question hangs over them like a shadow, and Reeve suffers a hard pang of guilt. If only she’d stayed in California, if only she hadn’t dragged Milo Bender back into this case . . . She feels responsible for every awful thing that has happened.

After a moment, Yvonne suggests that they all head down to the cafeteria for coffee, and they move toward the elevator. Reeve stays silent, listening while the mother and son gravely discuss the pending arrivals of various relatives.

The elevator dings, the door opens, and out steps Agent Nikki Keswick, looking fresher and more alert than any of them.

After a rush of questions about Bender’s condition, she turns to Reeve and proposes: “Why don’t you come home with me? You have your luggage with you, right? I’ve got a comfortable guest room, and I’d be happy to take you to the airport in the morning.”

“That’s probably best, dear,” Yvonne says, patting her shoulder. “Go get some rest. We’ll call you when there’s any news.”

K
eswick talks fast and drives faster, saying, “God, I’m wound up. I’m running on adrenaline and coffee.” She grips the steering wheel, accelerating around a truck. “This case has blown wide open. We’ve brought in teams from all over.”

Reeve listens in amazement while Keswick talks about how a jumble of events fit together. A dozen scenes flash through Reeve’s mind, and then she asks, “Do you know how Bender ended up at that cabin?”

“We’ve been piecing it together. Did you hear about the yearbooks?”

“What yearbooks?”

“Walter Wertz, the guy who owned that property in the mountains, worked as a school photographer. He had a huge collection of yearbooks. And it looks like he and Flint worked as partners.”

“Partners?” She frowns. “As photographers?”

“Yeah, they had a legitimate school photography business that provided the perfect cover. And he and Wertz ran a kiddie-porn business on the side. At least, that’s the theory.”

“School photographers.” Reeve swallows dryly. “They took kids’ pictures.”

“And that’s how they found their victims. Some of our missing girls were high school students in those yearbooks. You were the youngest, as far as we know. The only middle school student.”

“So . . . schools were their stalking grounds.” Reeve stares glumly out the window, where trees tremble in the moonlight.

“Anyway, we’ll know more tomorrow,” Keswick says. After a moment, she adds, “I hate to think about what would have happened if we’d arrived at that cabin even a few minutes later.”

Reeve’s heart skips. “You don’t think Bender would have made it?”

“He would have bled out for sure. We figure Flint had just left.”

“What?”

“We must’ve just missed him. Flint must’ve headed east, otherwise we would have seen him. He would have driven right by us.”

They ride in silence while Reeve grapples with this.

Keswick makes two quick turns and winds through a residential area. In a few minutes, she steers up a long driveway and parks in front of a one-story home with contemporary lines.

Reeve climbs out of the car feeling stiff and lightheaded. “Nice place,” she says absently, as she carries her luggage inside.

“Isn’t it? My aunt is letting me house-sit while she’s in Hawaii with her grandkids. I can’t even imagine what I’ll do when she decides it’s time to come home. I’m drawing a total blank.”

They move through a living room decorated with cheerful colors and quality furniture. Keswick shows her to the guest room, where Reeve stashes her luggage.

“I know it’s late, but I’m starved. How about you? Are you hungry?”

Reeve nods mutely. She can scarcely recall her last meal.

A minute later, Keswick is peering into the refrigerator. “I’ve got nothing to eat but rice and eggs. Oh, wait, how about fried rice?”

“Anything is fine Can I help?”

“Nope, I’ve got it. Let’s see . . . soy sauce, ginger, celery . . . You’re going to love my mother’s recipe. Quick and healthy.”

Reeve leans against the counter behind her and watches while Keswick dices vegetables, her fingers a blur of chopping.

“Does the bureau have any idea where Flint is hiding?” Reeve asks, rubbing the scar on the back of her neck.

Keswick sets down the knife. “No clue.”

A
fist of moonlight punches through the clouds, throwing beams and tossing shadows while Daryl Wayne Flint moves closer. He crouches deep in the darkness, feeling comfortable as he settles into old patterns. It had been simple to follow Reggie from the lake to the hospital and then here. And from this vantage point, he can watch the whole house, front to back.

There are no curtains on the kitchen windows. Peering through the high-powered binoculars, he feels as though he’s part of the domestic scene inside.

He recognizes the one with the glossy, black hair. She has shed the bulky FBI garb that she wore at the lake, and looks so much better now in her blood-red sweater.

He watches her cooking, noting where she reaches for the knife, which she leaves atop the cutting board. When she steps away from the window, he can see all the way inside the kitchen, to where his girl stands, fine as ever.

Most girls have only a short period of beauty before the acne and awkwardness of adolescence, but his cricket was always blooming. Her skin still glows. Her gestures have the grace of a dancer. When she stops to think, the tip of her tongue reaches briefly for her upper lip. He hungers for that tongue.