Hunted (Reeve Leclaire 2) (19 page)

“It’s just an old saying for times when you’re stuck. Like now, with no leads.”

“It sucks, doesn’t it?”

He gives a twitch of his shoulders. “Not a phrase I would use, but yes, it does.”

They sigh in unison.

“Have a seat,” he says, shifting a stack of files off a chair.

She perches on the chair, kneading the numb edge of her left hand. “I thought he would’ve been caught by now.”

“You and me both.” He shakes his head. “Seems like we’re several steps behind him. And who knows where he’s hiding?”

“So you’re digging through old files, looking for clues?”

He gestures at the papers splayed across his desk. “Just an old dog doing the same old tricks, I’m afraid.”

“Doesn’t look like much fun.” She glances at the files wondering what the retired agent might have kept. “So what’s next? Dr. Moody’s funeral?”

Before he can answer, the sound of her ringing cell phone carries down the hall. She bolts out of her chair, leaving “Excuse me!” hanging in the air as she dashes back to her room to snatch up her phone.

The number is foreign, but Dr. Lerner’s voice is familiar. “Good morning, Reeve. How are you?”

“Hi. Are you still in Brazil?”

“Yes, but we’re wrapping up. I’ll be home in a couple of days.”

“You sound so close. What’s the time difference there? Three hours?”

“Five, so this is a good time to talk.” The background noise diminishes, as if Dr. Lerner has moved to a quieter area. “It’s terrible news about Flint. I’m sure all of this is very upsetting for you. How are you sleeping?”

“Crappy.”

“Understandable. I wish I were there to help you through this.”

Reeve slumps on the bed and brings him up to date.

“Wait. Did you say you’re in Seattle? Why did you—”

“I felt like I could help. Because I predicted some of what Flint would do.” She shares more details and explains what has transpired over the past few days, with Dr. Lerner stopping her at several points to ask questions. She can hear the concern in his voice when he says, “You’ve fully immersed yourself in this case, haven’t you?”

“I had to. But we don’t have a clue where he’s hiding, so I’m looking back at my initial reaction—which is usually the most reliable, right? Why did I just blurt out that Flint would go to a fishing cabin someplace in the woods? Where did that come from? Why can’t I remember?”

“Is that a memory you’re trying to retrieve, or simply a guess?”

“I don’t know. How can I judge?”

“Flint’s escape has surely rekindled a great deal in your subconscious, and I understand that you want to help, but this isn’t your fight. Besides,” he continues, “we talked about your memory issues. You know it’s not unusual to block out details of traumatic events. It’s good how much you have recovered, given the deprivations you suffered during those important years of development, but—”

“But I can’t really access it, not in a useful way. Can’t you give me some techniques to help me remember?”

A pause. She can almost see Dr. Lerner’s penetrating look. “You mean like hypnosis?”

“No, I mean something I can do on my own. Something fast. Right away. Certain sounds and smells can trigger flashbacks or intrusive memories, right? So I could do that intentionally, couldn’t I?”

“Reeve, that might be dangerous. I’d recommend that you only undertake this with close supervision, in a clinical setting. Even then, treatments of traumatic amnesia are controversial.”

“But Flint is going after new victims
now,”
she says hotly. “He’s out there stalking again, I’m sure of it.” She chokes slightly. “So maybe it’s crazy, but it feels like it’s my fault.”

“Why do you feel that it’s your fault?”

“Because I failed to stop him, don’t you see that? If only I’d, if only—”

“Reeve, you’re not being rational. You survived, that’s the most crucial thing. You survived and you’ve made tremendous progress considering that—”

“That I was kidnapped by a sadist?” She’s on her feet and pacing. “That he made my skin his canvas? I know. That’s my point.”

“Reeve, take a breath. You’re only hurting yourself by trying to reengage like this. You’ve made so much progress. Don’t let Flint’s escape drag you back into the torments of the past.”

She stifles a groan.

On Dr. Lerner’s end, there’s the sound of a knock on a door and some muted exchange before he says, “I’m so sorry, Reeve, I really need to go. But I’ll be heading home soon, and once I get back, we’ll talk, okay? I can help you get more perspective on Flint’s escape. An emotionally charged situation like this would be difficult for anyone to process, and you don’t have to do it alone. So listen, when I get back to San Francisco, we’ll resume our sessions for as long as you feel it’s helpful. How’s that?”

After they say goodbye, she replays this conversation several times, pacing.

He’s right. She knows he’s right. But she keeps hearing that girl’s voice from her dream:
No one will help us.

If Dr. Lerner were here with her in Seattle, rather than thousands of miles away, she could explain all this to him. Then he would understand that she has no choice.

She sets her jaw and heads back down the hallway to Milo Bender’s office, where the light is still leaking from beneath the door. Rapping softly, she lets herself in.

Bender is at his desk. When he looks up, she says without preamble, “There are some things you don’t know about me.”

“Well, yes, I’m sure that’s true.”

“Things about my memory.”

He adjusts his glasses, watching her.

“You know how I said that Flint would go to a fishing cabin in the mountains?”

“Have you remembered more details?”

She hears the hope in his voice and gives a rueful shake of her head. “No, that’s the problem. I have a gut feeling that it must be in there somewhere, but, um, I have an impairment, you might say. There are some things from my past—long periods, actually—that I’ve just blacked out.”

“That’s not really an impairment, is it? A lot of people who’ve suffered traumatic events as children don’t remember them. It’s a defense mechanism. It’s self-protective.”

She relaxes a notch, relieved that he understands. “The thing is, memories can be triggered all of a sudden by certain circumstances.”

“Like flashbacks, right?”

“Right. So listen, I have an idea. It’s going to seem weird, but I need your help.”

A
gent Pete Blankenship squints through the camera’s viewfinder and adjusts the high-powered telephoto lens, beginning to regret that he gave Nikki Keswick the plum assignment of mingling with the crowd. She’s down there, getting a close-up look at all the possible suspects, smelling the flowers and expensive cologne, while he’s stuck in the brush on this windy hillside.

He zips his jacket up tight, refocuses, and snaps a photo of Mrs. Moody.

It’s much too early to rule out anyone, particularly since they’ve found no actual evidence that Flint’s mother, Mrs. Pratt, acted as his accomplice. So Blankenship is working a new theory. He suspects that Dr. Moody may have unwittingly aided Flint’s escape. Moody had enemies—many of them female— so perhaps Flint’s buddy teamed up with one of Moody’s disenchanted girlfriends.

Shifting position, Blankenship focuses on each woman as she approaches the door, then catches her again as she exits. Each time, he silently curses the way sunglasses and hats cast shadows across their features, making them hard to identify.

Seems like there are an awful lot of hot babes at this funeral. Old Dr. Moody had it goin’ on. By every report, he had a slew of girlfriends over the past few years, which was a big factor in his divorce. Here’s another nice figure in black, slim and blond. That’s about all he can make out, but he snaps her picture.

They’d found two strands of long blond hair and six of synthetic brown ones in the storage unit. Impossible to say when they were left behind, or by whom, but possible leads, nonetheless.

Of course, with that fat, friggin’ reward, they had no shortage of leads. They were getting calls about sightings from all over, from Fargo to Phoenix. It just made his job harder.

Whenever there’s a lull in the action, Blankenship scans adjacent hillsides, hoping Daryl Wayne Flint might pop up. There’s always a chance that a killer will appear for the thrill of watching his victim’s funeral. He checks for a man lurking in the parking lot, in the hedges, behind trees. . . . Nothing.

Swinging his lens back to the funeral, he focuses on one of many men with brown hair. Natural or a wig? He can’t tell, so Nikki damn well better be paying attention.

The good news was that the motorbike treads they found in the storage unit have led them to Flint’s getaway vehicle: a Ducati motorcycle found abandoned near the ferry terminal, easy walking distance to Moody’s house. The bike had been reported stolen a year ago in Yakima, so one theory is that Flint’s accomplice resides in eastern Washington.

Agent Blankenship notices that Mrs. Moody is holding hands with a frail-looking old woman who must be her ex-mother-in-law. That’s gotta be awkward, he thinks, though he’s never been married.

He again scans the crowd and the surroundings for any suspicious-looking men, but again sees nothing. He takes photos of those men who appear to be Flint’s approximate height, since that’s the toughest characteristic to conceal, but he is not optimistic that Flint or his accomplice will appear. Or that the storage unit manager would even recognize the man who rented the unit, even if handed a nice sharp photo. The guy didn’t seem all that bright. And eyewitness accounts have the reliability of a coin toss.

Who is that Nikki’s talking to now? Yet another fair-haired woman in black, with a nice figure. That makes eight he’s counted so far. A natural blonde? Who knows? He snaps another series of shots, cursing the sunglasses, wishing the damn sun would give him a break. Of all the days for a cloudless sky over Seattle.

At least Milo Bender and Reeve LeClaire haven’t shown up. With luck, they’ll butt out of this investigation altogether. What was Cox thinking, inviting those two to meddle in his case? That LeClaire girl imagines she has a proprietary interest because of some weird connection with Flint. A former victim, okay, she has some insight. But all he needs is a reckless civilian messing with evidence. Besides, he’s done his research. Last year, she wormed her way into a California case and almost got herself killed.

Some shit like that could end his career.

He’ll make one last scan of the crowd, finish up here, and get back to the office so he can grind out some real evidence, make a good impression on Cox. He brings the lens back to Nikki Keswick. She cleans up well. With her tight figure and glossy black hair, his young colleague is the best-looking woman at this funeral.

Why the hell not, he thinks, and snaps her picture.

A
n hour after the funeral, Cybil hangs her beautiful new dress in the closet and puts on jeans and a sweater. She fixes herself a cup of tea, then flips through the stack of bills on her kitchen table, wondering how much money Daryl Wayne Flint managed to lift from Terry’s safe. Thousands? Tens of thousands? She can only speculate.

It surprises her that the newspapers have made no specific mention of what was stolen. But she knew Terry’s habits. Three times, she’d fitted bundles of hundred dollar bills into her suitcase and helped him carry cash to his account in the Cayman Islands.

She closes her eyes, remembering the impossibly gorgeous blue-green of the Caribbean. The silly, pineapple-flavored drinks they’d sipped at sunset. The extravagant breakfasts they’d eaten in bed. When she opens her eyes again, she sees only the coming winter crowding thick against her windows.

If only he’d truly loved her.

All those years, Terry had kept promising he would get a divorce so they could be together. Just give me another six months, another year, he’d begged. But she’d been a fool to hang on all that time. He’d filed for divorce and then cast her aside like an old pair of shoes, claiming it would be easier on both of them if they didn’t have to work together. He’d even had the gall to ask her to train his new assistant, that matronly Simms woman.

What an act he’d put on, pretending to be so distraught and spouting all that nonsense about celibacy. Did he really think she’d buy that? She’d followed him, naturally. And when she saw him driving that hot new car with one girlfriend after another, she’d scratched the lying bastard’s shiny new paint.

The pleasure in that act of vandalism proved fleeting. She next posted some nasty things online, but that was small potatoes. Burning down his house crossed her mind.

She was trying to figure out some clever way of getting away with serious sabotage when Daryl Wayne Flint’s mother called. The two of them had been friendly during Flint’s trial. And as soon as Cybil heard Mrs. Pratt’s voice, she calculated how she might use the woman to hurt Terry.

As it turned out, Flint’s mother was on exactly the same page. She wanted to help her son escape. She even had a storage unit all set up, so it didn’t take long for the two of them to cook up a plan. A map and a key was all it took. Mrs. Pratt gave her directions to the storage unit, where Cybil stashed a perfumed envelope.

No fingerprints, she was careful of that.

Perhaps it’s a shame that Terry’s pet patient is now loosed upon the world, but at least the lying bastard got what he deserved. She chuffs a laugh, but it sounds empty in her apartment. The helium-light thrill of his funeral is already dissipating. Too bad. She’d expected the heady sweetness of revenge to be much longer lasting.

She pushes the stack of bills aside, wishing she’d made more lucrative plans. Mrs. Pratt’s generous contribution is long gone, and the unemployment checks aren’t covering her costs. She walks her fingers across the table to last week’s newspaper, which remains open to the same page, the same story: “Reward Offered for Dangerous Fugitive.”