Hunted (Reeve Leclaire 2) (12 page)

Reeve nods and abruptly stands, wanting to sidestep this particular discussion. She finds herself drawn to the plastic model of the human brain. Placing her fingertips lightly on the clear plastic skull, she asks Dr. Blume, “May I?”

“Certainly, if you wish.”

Reeve lifts the model by its skeletal jaw and carries it to Dr. Blume’s desk, setting it down gently.

The doctor’s curious expression deepens. “Are you studying anatomy?”

“I’ve always had an interest in brain function.” Reeve removes the clear skull and lightly taps the frontal lobes above the eye sockets. “This area, the orbitofrontal cortex, controls decision making, social behavior, and aggression.”

Dr. Blume steeples her fingers with just the hint of a smile.

“Flint’s brain would likely show impairment here. And”—Reeve lifts out a part of the brain and points to a section colored in blue—“psychopaths have reduced activity here, in the anterior cingulate cortex, the center of empathy.”

Dr. Blume nods. “The ACC does show reduced activity in psychopaths. But researchers don’t know why.”

Reeve points to two areas located deep within the brain, the amygdala and hippocampus. “These are the centers of mood and memory, which can be affected by stress hormones.”

“Especially during childhood,” Dr. Blume says. “And Flint’s brain likely had some impairment in this area, since his father was by all accounts a brutal man.”

Reeve can’t muster any sympathy. No doubt her own brain suffered a flood of stress hormones, thanks to Flint. Each time she struggles to keep her feelings in check, each time a memory eludes her, she blames him. But she doesn’t mention any of this. Instead, she says as lightly as possible, “The man is also a sadist, of course.”

“A sadist, an opportunist, and a narcissist,” Dr. Blume agrees. “But he doesn’t easily fit into classification, perhaps because of his closed-head injuries.”

“Ah, from the car crash,” Bender says. “As I recall, Dr. Moody testified that brain trauma caused some kind of obsessive disorder. Isn’t that right?”

“He exhibited some ritualistic behaviors, yes.”

“What kind of ritualistic behaviors?” Reeve asks, staring at Dr. Blume.

“Repetitions. An obsession with sets of three, apparently. I never spoke with the man directly.” After a beat, Dr. Blume adds, “I did meet his mother, however.”

Reeve notices that the doctor compresses her lips, as if sealing further comment.

Bender asks, “Did Flint have any violent episodes prior to his escape?”

“None. But Dr. Moody and I had our disagreements regarding Flint’s long-term treatment. His prognosis was based on somewhat questionable results, in my opinion.”

“Meaning what?” Reeve asks. “His psychological evaluations were inconclusive?”

Dr. Blume cocks an eyebrow at her. “Somewhat. Dr. Moody administered all the standard tests, but Flint tested in the midrange.”

Reeve rests her fingertips on the plastic brain. “Didn’t I read about a new type of evaluation, a new technique that can diagnose psychopathic subcategories?”

Dr. Blume smiles at her. “You have done quite a lot of reading on this subject, haven’t you?”

“Excuse me,” Bender says, “but could you two fill me in on what you’re talking about?”

“Certainly,” Dr. Blume responds. “There are new tests which measure the brain’s response to various stimuli, such as olfactory stimulations.”

“Odors?” Bender adjusts his eyeglasses.

“Yes. The smell of fear, for instance.”

“Is there such a thing? I thought that was a myth,” he says.

“It’s a physiological fact.” Dr. Blume again steeples her fingers. “You see, there are three types of human sweat. The one associated with fear is distinct. When afraid, human skin actually sheds cells along with fluid, unlike what is produced during exercise or sexual activity. And fear produces a smell to which psychopaths respond. Measurably.”

“Respond in what way?” Reeve asks. “I mean, in real life.”

“Brain imaging shows that their pleasure centers are stimulated by fear.”

Reeve shudders at the thought that her own scent must be stored somewhere deep within Flint’s brain.

Bender clears his throat. “I’m guessing this is somewhat controversial.”

“New ideas are always controversial. But classification hardly matters at this juncture, does it?”

“Right,” Bender says. “We’re just trying to figure out where to find him.”

“And as I told your colleagues, that’s anyone’s guess. Because without his medications, Flint’s behavior will likely become more erratic, more unpredictable, more impulsive.”

The talk turns to risk assessment, and Reeve half listens while lifting the plastic model with both hands and returning it to its place on the shelf. Before setting it down, she peers into the eye sockets and whispers, “Where are you, you monster?”

D
aryl Wayne Flint grabs his jacket and heads outdoors to survey the grounds. The air is brisk, and he can smell winter coming. He hikes down to the shore, scarcely glancing in the direction of the graves, and scans Shadow Bark Lake. The dark water stretches out like smoked glass. He studies the sky and listens to the birds. Finding no clue of another living soul, he trudges back toward the cabin to complete his inventory.

There’s a charcoal grill with two bags of charcoal, and a gas grill with three spare propane tanks. There’s a small cistern that efficiently collects rainwater, plus fresh water from a creek that flows through the property. A canoe and fishing tackle, all neat and ready.

Perhaps best of all is that Wertz has constructed a narrow garage since Flint was here last. It’s tucked into the pines, well camouflaged. Inside are two vehicles: a snowmobile, and a Ford Bronco with excellent tires, registered to Walter Wertz. Nice.

Flint wishes he had a van, but this big Ford is just what he’ll need when he heads down to Wertz’s house in Olympia. Just in case he ever needs it, he’ll keep Dr. Moody’s SUV packed up and ready to go. He parks it in a well-hidden spot between the trees and sets to work. When it is thoroughly concealed beneath a canopy of pine boughs, he steps back to assess his handiwork, saying, “Good, good, good.”

Next, he considers the woodpile. He needs to split firewood, a task he has always hated, but he grabs an ax.

A few minutes later, he’s raising the ax high and bringing it down hard. The wood splits with a loud
crack!

He tosses the freshly split wood onto the pile and sets up another log, his muscles warming in the brisk mountain air. He repeats this process over and over, the sound of splitting wood ringing through the forest. This is the routine Wertz had dictated early on. Get everything ready first, decide on a target later. And for now, Flint is sticking to what works. Once the firewood is stacked high and the cabin is in good shape, he’ll put on his disguise and head into Olympia, where his new life as Walter Wertz awaits.

Wertz had never visited him in lockup. Not once. Flint knew it would be out of the question. Then, one afternoon about five months ago, he received a postcard with a picture of a fish. The message read:
How you
Be
?

Flint knew immediately who it was from and what it meant.

So, the next time his mother appeared in the visiting room, Flint lowered his voice and told her, “I need you to call Walter. Tell him we’re on for Plan B.”

Funny how things turn out.

He grasps the next log, positions it, raises the ax high, and brings it down with a satisfying
crack!

A
loud noise grabs Reeve’s attention and she peers out the blinds. A group of men are playing basketball. The ball sails through the air and again smacks the backboard with a loud
thwack!

Dr. Blume is saying, “So, Mr. Bender, might I suppose that you and Miss LeClaire are here at least partly because you’re interested in the reward?”

“Reward?” Reeve shoots Bender a puzzled look.

He shakes his head. “I forgot to mention it. Fifty thousand dollars.”

“I’m sure they’ll be more than happy to write you that check if your contribution leads to Flint’s apprehension. God knows, they seem to have no idea where he is.”

“I’m not here for any reward,” Reeve grumbles.

“We’re ineligible, in any case,” Bender says. “Or at least I am, I imagine, given my connection with the bureau. But a reward can bring some good leads.”

“Or plenty of bad ones,” Dr. Blume exhales, rubbing her temples. “I was about to say, you have no idea. But with your experience, I’m afraid you do.”

Conversation has just turned to Dr. Moody’s funeral when noise again erupts outside. Reeve cranes her neck to watch the hooting men on the basketball court.

“Did Flint play basketball?” she wonders aloud.

The other two look at her blankly.

“Basketball?” Dr. Blume says after a beat. “I would imagine so. Why?”

“Well, the thing is—” Reeve glances out the window “—I’m sure you’re busy, Dr. Blume, but would you mind if we just look around?”

A tight smile. “I’m afraid you can’t just wander through the forensic wards. However . . .” Dr. Blume taps her chin, then raises an index finger, signaling an idea. “We have a wonderful public relations person,” she says, picking up her phone. “Why don’t I have Vincent show you the facility?”

Five minutes later they’re in the airy office of a slight man in a blue shirt and tie who hands each of them a colored brochure printed in calming hues. Reeve studies the pretty pictures, the inspirational quotes. “Don’t you have anything about the forensic wards?”

The corners of Vincent’s mouth tighten. “That literature is being redesigned. People are usually more interested in the gardens, the food, visiting hours, that kind of thing.”

“But we’re here about one particular patient: Daryl Wayne Flint.”

Vincent leans across the desk and drops his voice. “We’re not supposed to talk about that.”

“You don’t know who we are, do you?” Reeve says, tensing at the prospect of having to explain her history.

He gives her a puzzled look, but before he can reply, Milo Bender says smoothly, “Allow me to explain. My colleague and I are consulting with the FBI on this case.”

Reeve hides a smile while Bender mentions several agents by name and drops a few choice phrases.

Vincent goes wide-eyed. “Oh, of course. They came in and questioned everybody, just like in the movies. I talked to them.”

“Right, so we’re following up on a few matters today, and Dr. Blume said you’d be the best person to show us around.”

Vincent’s face brightens. “Absolutely no problem.” He stands, clasping his thin hands together. “What would you like to see first?”

While Bender strolls ahead with Vincent, Reeve trails behind and watches how Bender walks in stride, echoing body language. Intentionally putting Vincent at ease, no doubt.

A red sign above a security door announces:
Forensic Unit, Medium Security.

Vincent pulls out a plastic key card, opens the door, and sticks his head inside. A man dressed in scrubs who seems to be guarding the door questions Vincent a moment. He looks them up and down, then stands aside and swings the door wide, gesturing to the left.

They file in and proceed down an austere corridor while Vincent explains, “It’s rec time for another few minutes, so all the rooms are empty. Don’t worry, it’s completely safe.” He stops and opens a door, saying, “This was Daryl Wayne Flint’s room. It’s been cleaned out, of course.”

Reeve stops in the doorway of the bright, white room. The cot has been stripped bare. A metal toilet and a metal sink jut from the wall. It’s a relatively humane confinement, she notes bitterly, but her feet stay glued to the floor, refusing to step one inch into her captor’s cage. The lights are hot. She can almost sense his presence, almost see the imprint of his back on the mattress.

Milo Bender is standing beside her, watching her closely when he says, “Vincent, could we please see the visiting area next?”

The visitors’ room has all the charm of a cardboard box, with a color scheme ranging from brown to beige. Two rows of brown tables with brown benches, all affixed to the floor. Beige walls, beige flooring.

Vincent introduces them to a tall man with an etched face who wears his long, black hair pulled back in a ponytail. He looks classically Native American to Reeve, but his name is Synderman.

“The regular patients, you know, they can walk around the grounds,” Synderman says, gesturing with long fingers. “They have a nicer place with couches and a TV and stuff. But this is what we’ve got for forensic lockup.”

“It’s better than I expected,” Milo Bender says. “No cubicles with barriers”

“Oh, we have those, too, but that’s maximum security.”

Vincent pipes up, “This is where Mr. Flint met his visitors. Synderman talked with the FBI because he was most often the guard on duty.”

“Yeah, but I guess I don’t know much,” Synderman says. “All the guys we get in here are on the weird side, so it’s not like he stood out, you know? Besides, his mother was his only visitor. There was nothing suspicious or anything.”

“Do the prisoners and their visitors sometimes share a table with others?”

“Nah, that wouldn’t be allowed. But sometimes they greet one another, you know, call back and forth. That’s okay.”

“And did Flint interact with others? Friends, perhaps?”

“Only Sven. He and Flint were buddies, I guess. I’m sure he’s been questioned already.”

Reeve hangs back, listening while Bender asks questions in his gentle, persistent manner.

“Yeah, Sven’s girlfriend is kinda flirty. But there was nothing suspicious, like I said.”

“What about Flint’s mother?”

Synderman rolls his eyes. “You ask me, she’s a sentimental old bat.”

“Really? In what way?”

“Well, she was always talking about her dead husband.”