Hunted (Reeve Leclaire 2) (15 page)

Yvonne takes control, directing her son to set the tools inside the garage and insisting that he join them for dinner. “Go take a shower. I’ll find some clean clothes of your dad’s that will fit, and I’ll keep a plate warm for you.”

As soon as he’s out of the room, Yvonne settles into her seat and puts a hand on Reeve’s shoulder. “You’d think he had nothing else to do but help out. The truth is, our son just won’t sit still.”

“He keeps hijacking my repair projects. I think he’s afraid I’ll drop dead by lifting a hammer.” Bender taps his chest. “But my old heart’s better than ever. More likely I’ll get struck by lightning.”

“Or fall off a ladder.” Yvonne waves a fork at him. “You better let JD do that from now on. No more roof repairs.”

Reeve sits quietly, observing their easy exchange, glad to be outside the center of attention.

A few minutes later, JD enters with damp hair, wearing a clean University of Washington T-shirt. While Yvonne serves him shrimp and pasta with grilled asparagus, Reeve learns that JD lives aboard a sailboat, which strikes her as mildly eccentric.

“One day he’ll sail us down the coast, won’t you, JD?”

“I’m counting on it, Dad. I could use a crew.”

“We’ll go down to Mexico,” his father continues. “Maybe even to Panama, through the canal, and then cruise the Caribbean.”

Yvonne rolls her eyes. “Color me seasick.”

“So, Reeve, are my folks taking in boarders now without telling me?” JD asks. “Because if they’re renting out my old room, I’ll need to throw out the last of my junk.” He looks chagrined. “Not much room for storage on a boat.”

“Reeve and Milo are investigating a case together,” Yvonne says, widening her eyes.

“Don’t tell me it’s Daryl Wayne Flint?” JD looks from Reeve to his father and back, the realization dawning on his face. “Wait, aren’t you . . .?”

Stiffening, she explains that she has changed her name.

Milo Bender briefly recounts what they’ve been doing over the past several hours. Then Yvonne places a warm hand on Reeve’s forearm, asking, “How are you holding up, dear, with all this ugly business? Are you having trouble sleeping? I sure would be.”

Everyone is looking at her. Her face flushes. She hates being the object of pity.

As she’s trying to come up with a response, JD leans over and stage-whispers, “Mom’s a nurse who believes that a good night’s sleep is the cure for all ills.”

“Sleeping is very important, it certainly is,” his mother huffs. “And so is good nutrition.”

“Which reminds me, could you please pass the pasta?”

As JD remarks on each ingredient, Reeve discerns that he’s intentionally drawing attention away from her. They share a smile. And she watches his hands while he eats. Strong, scrubbed hands with nice, clean nails.

“So, you’re going to UC Berkeley,” JD says, “What’s your major?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

“Undeclared? Hey, that was my major, too.” He grins. “But I eventually got a doctorate in marine biology. Which I highly recommend, by the way, if you’re hoping for years of lucrative employment working in a gym and fixing up old boats.”

His mother says, “But I thought the University of—”

“Nope, they hired someone else.”

Reeve watches his parents exchange a look.

“What about that grant?” his mother asks.

“Which one? I’ve applied for so many.” JD laughs and his blue eyes return to Reeve’s. “So, what do you do for fun?”

“Fun?”

“You know, that thing you do when you’re not going to class or helping my dad chase down criminals. Hobbies? Pets? Sports? Games of chance?”

Reeve has learned that mentioning a pet tarantula—even one going through the fascinating and natural process of molting—is a guaranteed conversation stopper. She gives a shrug. “Just the usual college student stuff. Movies, concerts. My Japanese class is interesting, and a few of us are learning to make sushi. But the best thing, really, is my cycling group. We take rides through gorgeous places like Napa, Monterey, Yosemite. . . . And I love to run.”

“JD was a track star,” his mother interjects.

“Hardly. I have a few second-place trophies.”

“You kept letting Jimmy win.”

“Jimmy was fast.” JD tips his head toward Reeve, adding, “The truth is, I was never competitive enough. Or at least, that’s what my coach kept telling me”

The conversation ambles along while Yvonne serves a delicious dessert of baked pears with caramel sauce. Everything seems normal on the surface, but Reeve observes that each time Yvonne starts asking about Flint, the father or the son somehow manage to change the subject. It seems to be an underlying family dynamic. Perhaps years of having an FBI agent in the house has created paths of communication that diffuse charged discussions, leaving secret information unshared.

Meanwhile, phones softly ping and chirp in the background, but no one moves to answer them. Milo Bender seems distracted, and Reeve wonders what messages wait for him at the end of the meal.

As she carries her plate to the sink, JD sidles up beside her. “I was wondering, would you like to come to my gym? I could get you a guest pass.”

“No, thanks. Gyms have too many mirrors. I’d rather just run.”

“Do you want some company? I’ve got mornings off. I could show you some nice trails.”

She looks at him, surprised, and hears herself asking, “What time?”

I
t’s nearly midnight by the time Daryl Wayne Flint drives down out of the mountains. He cruises through Olympia’s quiet streets until, in the midst of an ordinary neighborhood, he turns toward the unremarkable home owned by Walter Wertz. The driveway is long and the trees are overgrown. The automatic garage-door opener works, and he parks the Ford Bronco inside. So easy. So familiar. But as he gathers up his supplies, he remembers the last time he was here at this house.

Wertz had been furious.

The fight had started because Flint had finally confessed that he was the one who’d kidnapped a schoolgirl named Reggie six months earlier. He’d done it all on his own. And he’d gotten away with it. The girl was secure in his basement, his own private project.

No harm, no foul, right?

But Wertz didn’t see it that way. Maybe he hated the fact that Daryl had gone off and done something on his own initiative, because he balled his fists, yelling, “Why the hell would you want to keep one?”

They had carried their argument through the house, and now it replays in Flint’s head as he unlocks the door, flips on the lights, and sets his bags on the kitchen table.

“We’ve got the perfect arrangement,” Wertz had yelled, stomping through the kitchen. “Why would you want to risk screwing that up?”

“What’s it to you?” Flint spat back. “It doesn’t make an ounce of difference to our business. I can keep her and still do everything else here.”

“Are you out of your goddamn mind? Don’t you see how dangerous this is?”

“I shouldn’t have even told you. You didn’t even need to know.”

Now Flint shakes his head, muttering, “Drama, drama, drama.”

He looks around and finds the place much the same, except for some dust and a few spiderwebs. Wertz hasn’t been gone all that long. The house still carries the faint odor of cigar smoke.

Somewhere, there should be a letter for him, but the countertops and table are bare. He heads into the den, where glassy eyes stare back from the heads mounted on the walls: an elk, a six-point buck, a wild boar, a bull moose, a wolf, and a grizzly bear. This room always gave him the creeps, but Wertz thought it was grand. He was always boasting about his family’s hunting adventures.

“That’s the difference between you and me,” Flint had said, waving at the heads mounted on the wall. “You like your trophies dead. I want mine breathing.”

Wertz had wheeled around, eyes wild. “This is no joke, Daryl. This is way out of bounds. Don’t you see that?”

Flint had tried to reason with him. “Try to understand, man, I’m not like you. The photos, the hunts, they’re not enough for me. I want to keep one for a while.”

“How long?”

“I don’t know. A while.”

For Christ’s sake, he’d taken precautions. The girl was locked up quiet and secure in his basement. She had nothing to do with any of the work they did together. What was his problem?

But Wertz wouldn’t listen. He hated the fact that his junior partner had taken the lead, that he’d applied his wits and ingenuity to do something solo for once. . . . Plus, that he’d waited six months to tell him about it.

Wertz had yelled at him, nose-to-nose, “Never again, Daryl. This is the last time you step one foot inside my house. From now on, we meet at the bar or the cabin. Because I’m not having you lead the cops straight to my door!”

“You’re overreacting. I told you, there’s no evidence and no witnesses. It’s as clean as anything we’ve ever done together.”

“You really don’t get it, do you? You’re goddamn nuts to try this. And if any blowback comes at me, I’ll kill you.”

Flint scans the den, muttering, “But you’re the one who’s dead now, eh buddy?”

Or at least, that’s his best guess.

Flint glances around, wondering what he’ll find waiting for him. He approaches the side wall, which is lined with bookshelves, and locates the button on the underside of the bottom right shelf. One push, and the middle sections slide apart.

Flint enters the secret room, roughly six-by-twelve, with full shelves and cupboards. A laptop computer and a thick folder wait for him on a work surface. He carries the folder to a worn leather chair and eases down into the seat. Inside, he finds a handwritten note.

Flint grunts, crumples the note, and gives it a toss.

Inside the folder, he finds all the expected paperwork, the sort of information that any homeowner accumulates—the water and electricity bills, the property taxes, the deed—as well as a list of instructions. A post office box, where mail is being held. Bank accounts, where the money flows in and all the bills are on autopay. Flint smiles. Wertz was always a supremely organized man. He has made it all so easy to slide into his life.

Flint shuffles the papers back into the folder, then fingers a large envelope marked “Plan C.” He knows what’s inside, but it would be bad luck to open it. Besides, Plan B is going to work out fine. Plan C won’t be needed.

He sets the envelope aside and stands, taking stock. One shelf is lined with camera gear. Other shelves are lined with yearbooks. Some are fat, some thin, several have cracked spines. They are a testament to Wertz’s many years of work as a photographer.

Flint raises a hand to pull one off the shelf, but then stops. Not yet. He has other things to attend to first.

A third shelf is lined with wigs, placed atop neat, round, Styrofoam heads. Flint tilts his head from side to side, assessing the shades of mousy brown and dull gunmetal. Wertz never had a sense of color.

Flint had teased his friend about the wigs, but Wertz chastised him, “Don’t laugh, Daryl. Someday this could all be yours.”

“Dull, dull, dull,” Flint says aloud, fingering the lank hair. Tomorrow, he’ll purchase some new wigs, add some color.

He returns to the kitchen, puts the groceries away, then begins refamiliarizing himself with the house. The pleasures of the cabin and the great outdoors had grown thin, and this house makes a nice change. With central heat, comfortable furniture, and plenty of room, it has everything he’ll need for day-to-day life as quiet, responsible Walter Wertz. He won’t return to the cabin until he has a girl.

After getting settled, he pours himself a shot of Jägermeister on ice and returns to the secret room, where he opens the laptop computer. It’s been years since he’s used one, but he gets it booted up and clearly remembers the password: PlanABC.

It takes a few minutes to figure out the icons and get online, but then it’s a simple matter to type in a search. His name brings up an impressive number of articles. He mutters curses while scanning the news. Eventually, he finds what he’s looking for: the news clip of the discovery at Church Street Storage.

He replays the video three times. Each time he glimpses Reggie, his mood lightens.

She has left her California address and is back in Washington. So close. But how can that be? There’s got to be some special meaning in her reappearance.

He closes the laptop and gets to his feet, trying to clear his head. With a flash of inspiration, he snatches up one of Dr. Moody’s files and spills its contents across the countertop.

Here are the photographs. Even with that ugly lighting, her skin looks sublime.

He fetches a magnifying eye loupe from a drawer and bends over the photos, studying each detail, fingertips hovering as though they might actually touch the perfect edges of the designs he created on her skin. It’s electrifying to see them again.

His need for release has become urgent. He unzips and comes almost immediately.

But afterward, as he’s cleaning up, he can almost hear Wertz’s voice in his ear, chiding him:
Don’t screw up, Daryl. Stick with the plan. Stick with the plan. Stick with the plan.