Hunted (Reeve Leclaire 2) (2 page)

Now he sees the car approach the gate, but then it moves beyond his peripheral vision. He cannot stop and gawk, but continues walking around the court, looking straight ahead. When at last he makes a turn and has a clear view of the white car, his pulse quickens. He need barely move his eyes to watch it turn into the parking lot.

He calculates: an unfamiliar car, arriving at this particular hour, on this particular day . . . It can only be the new barber.

This might be the perfect day for a haircut.

Keeping the smile off his face, he watches the car cruise past. The driver is a white male wearing some type of hat.

A beret? The guy must think he’s some kind of artist.

Flint aches to turn his head and study the driver as the car continues in search of a place to park, but now his feet have arrived at the next corner. He must turn south. He keeps a steady pace as he walks past the cafeteria, past the long blank wall, past the warden’s ironclad windows. All the while, he’s straining to hear any sound from the new arrival. The car door slamming shut? A cell phone conversation as the driver crosses the parking lot?

But he hears only the trash talk of the basketball game, the ball slapping asphalt, thwacking the backboard, rattling around the rim.

He swallows his disappointment.

At the next corner, he turns east, heading toward the guard tower that overlooks the nine-foot fence and the deep woods beyond. He has no interest today in the colors of the leaves or the gathering clouds. Instead, he’s weighing risk versus opportunity.

And he’s wondering just how much he can trust his mother.

Has she done everything needed? It’s hard to know.

Visiting hours aren’t so lax in the medium-security wing that inmates can speak freely, no matter what their status. No matter how addled they might be. No matter what meds might be flooding their brains. People are always listening. So, of necessity, most of his conversations with his mother have been in code.

During their most recent visit, his mother had said, “I’ve been thinking about your dear, departed father.”

He’d nearly choked.

“Thinking about our wedding day,” she said, widening her eyes at him. “You remember the date, don’t you?”

He shifted uncomfortably, wondering where this was headed.

“Don’t you remember? It was April.”

“Uh, no—”

“Shush. April fifth, 1968. Repeat it back to me.”

Perplexed, he recited, “April fifth, 1968.”

“That’s exactly right. The fourth month, the fifth day. The fourth month, the fifth day.”

That’s when he realized she was speaking in code.

“It’s hot in here,” she said abruptly. “I wish they’d open a window or something. Let in some air.”

He nodded to let her know he was following.

“Oh, it was such a lovely day. In the early fall, like this.” His mother gestured toward the girded window.

He scowled. Hadn’t she just said it was April?

But she went on describing “the perfect little church—the ideal location for an April wedding. And it was so close to our first house. We got a few things out of storage,” she said with emphasis, “and moved right in.”

Her meaning dawned. “So, the church and the house weren’t that far distant.”

“You could say that.” She looked to the north. “Less than three miles apart.”

His lips curled into a smile.

“Anyway, we were just starting out, your father and I. But we had enough cash for essentials. Food and water, a little gas for our motorbike.” She lifted a penciled-on eyebrow, waiting for a response.

He sat forward. “Not much, but enough to get started.”

“Oh, yes.
Enough.”
She gave a sideways glance at the guard.

Flint stroked his long beard. “Tell me again, how were you dressed?” Noticing the guard, he added loudly, “I mean, for your wedding day, Momma. You know I love this story.”

“I wore white, of course,” she replied, with a wave of her hand. “But your father, he wore black.”

“All black?”

“Completely,” she said, squinting at him. “From his cap to his toes.” She seemed to wait for the guard to turn away before adding, “You know, he was about your size when he died.”

Flint replays this conversation as he reaches the corner and turns again toward the parking lot. He scans for the white car, quickly locates where it is parked, and studies it as he marches forward. A Honda. Compact and non-descript. Washington plates.

The sun disappears behind the clouds, and a cold wind whips Flint’s hair across his face as he continues his walk. No one pays any attention. He’s the repetitive inmate with post-concussive syndrome who never causes problems.

“Mentally disordered, with frontal lobe dysfunction, obsessive tendencies . . . antisocial behavioral problems that render him unsuitable for incarceration in the state penitentiary,” his psychiatrist had said.

Sure, let them think that.

Let them think that.

Let them think that.

Because every crazy thing he does is useful. And each day brings him closer to Plan B, closer to recapturing his favorite girl.

The daily rec yard routine? Three spins at center court allow him to take in the entire 360-degree scene within minutes of exiting the building. Three turns around the basketball court? It’s a leisurely way to observe all the inmates and the staff. And three tours of the fence line? Well, one needs a daily search for weakness along the perimeter. All very innocuous, all due to his mental impairments. And none of the doctors—not even the brilliant Dr. Terrance Moody—has found a way to cure him.

During rec time he gathers information about the comings and goings of visitors and staff. He knows, for instance, that the regular barber’s car is the color of Dijon mustard, not the bland mayonnaise-white of this new vehicle. Wanda-the-Warden drives a BMW, which she parks in the slot marked “Chief of Psychiatry,” just beside the head cook’s Cadillac. The cook’s car is as black as his hair. The warden’s car is the same red as the scarf she wears like a slash across her throat.

His exercise regimen has melted away the pounds he packed on after dropping out of college. He’s never been so fit. And sometimes he finds useful objects. Just yesterday, he spied a plastic bag wrestling with the fence. He snatched it up and tucked it inside his underwear. Last night, he pulled it out to inspect it and found it beautiful. He secretly carries it with him now.

Flint turns west, heading directly toward the cafeteria. Sunny days can cause a glare on the glass, but most days are cloudy, like today. The individuals inside are lit up like actors on a stage.

People stream past with their trays of food, and he wonders about those who occupy the other, less secure sections of the institution. What are their afflictions? What are their routines? What happens in those realms that clink and moan just beyond the forensic unit’s locked doors?

He imagines focusing a camera lens on the men in the cafeteria and spots a new face: A pudgy man in a beret. He smiles. The new barber is getting coffee.

Three times, Daryl Wayne Flint strokes his wooly beard, recalling that the last time he let a barber touch him was the day before his trial.

S
ix cyclists come pumping up the hill, turn, and then glide in single file onto the wide expanse of the Golden Gate Bridge. It stretches before them with picture-postcard splendor, its famous tangerine towers rising into a sapphire sky, and the cyclists whoop and shout as they wheel onto the wide promenade that runs the length of the span.

One by one they maneuver past clusters of tourists, coast over to the railing, and dismount to marvel at the view. Yachts and sailboats, tankers and tugboats cut across the jade-green bay, while to the right, San Francisco’s distinctive skyline crowns the scene.

The cyclist in the lead removes her helmet and the brisk autumn breeze ruffles her flame-colored hair. She gazes around, then peers over the railing, where the dark water is pushing seaward so fast and so far below that it brings a flash of vertigo.

Just then, a sturdy blonde with an animated smile angles up beside her, grips her arm, and says, “Oh my lord, Reeve, thank you for making this happen. This is the most gorgeous trip yet.”

“It is amazing, isn’t it?” Reeve grins, pleased that her first attempt at organizing the group’s monthly bike ride is going so well. They cluster around as she points out the Berkeley hills, Angel Island, and then Alcatraz, which glows like a pearl, belying its dark past.

“How crazy is it that I’ve been in California for over three years,” the blonde says, waving at the view, “and this is the first time I’ve actually stood on the Golden Gate Bridge.”

Reeve gives her friend a nudge. “Lana, you’re not in Kansas anymore.”

Lana’s boyfriend joins them. Toned as a whippet, David is the most serious cyclist of the bunch. “Just look at this,” he says. “It’s spectacular!”

“We need pictures,” someone shouts, and the group jostles together, holding up their phones, snapping selfies. Then a passerby offers to serve as photographer and the six of them grin while striking poses. After a few moments, the group unknots and continues walking their bicycles along the span, gawking.

Reeve notices that a baby in a stroller has lost his shoe. She hurriedly scoops it up and hands it to the distracted mother, who says something in a foreign language while beaming gratitude. Reeve smiles in answer and continues weaving past joggers, couples, and families.

As she walks her bike along, enjoying the sunshine and breathing in the fresh, crisp air, she fully appreciates that a day like this brings the kind of healing that even years of psychotherapy can’t.

At the far end of the bridge, the cyclists mount their bikes and follow Reeve through the last knots of foot traffic. She leads them away from the bridge, the tour buses, and the busy highway, onto a two-lane road that winds downhill. The glittering views of the bay diminish, turn after turn, as they sweep through green hillsides and quickly descend into Sausalito, a scenic bayside community with expensive homes climbing the hills to their left, the waterfront stretching to their right, and plenty of upscale shops, restaurants, and galleries in between.

As the road begins to flatten, Reeve stands on her bike pedals, exhilarated by how mysterious and strange and wonderful life is. How marvelous that she has fit in with this tribe. How completely her life has changed.

It had all started last spring. Just as Reeve was re-enrolling in college, her apartment building was sold, and the new management announced a nosebleed increase in rent prices. The next day, she met Lana on the beach during a coastal cleanup event. They started talking while picking up trash, and it turned out that Lana’s house was in need of one more roommate. Serendipity, pure and simple. Reeve was soon unpacking boxes in a noisy household not far from the UC Berkeley campus.

Shortly thereafter, she was invited to join this cycling club, and now she owns her first bike since that ill-fated summer when she was just an average twelve-year-old kid. She doesn’t need her psychiatrist to tell her that this marks another milestone in her recovery.

Now, at twenty-three, Reeve feels that her life as an adult has finally bloomed and ripened. Each day seems to drop into her palm like sweet, plump fruit.

The group wheels through town to the ferry terminal, where they lock up their bikes and buy tickets for the ferry ride back across the bay. Then they stroll around the picturesque waterfront, their cycling shoes clacking loudly while they eat snacks and drink smoothies.

Right on time, the ferry appears in the distance. It grows steadily larger, pulling a white wake as the cyclists retrieve their bicycles and prepare for boarding.

Megan, the tallest woman of the group, maneuvers up beside Reeve and asks about their route home. “The Ferry Building is near the BART station, right?”

“That’s right, we’ll take the train back to Berkeley,” Reeve replies, watching as the ferry slows, reverses engines, and nudges into place. “Sorry this is kind of a short bike for you hard-core riders.”

“Don’t be sorry. There’s no way I’d be able to keep up,” Lana says. “Good lord, David is doing sixty miles tomorrow, can you imagine?”

“The ferry will be going right by Alcatraz, won’t it?” Megan asks.

Reeve nods but says nothing. She watches deckhands scramble out to secure the ferry to the dock with rope as thick as her arm.

“Alcatraz must be cool,” Megan continues. “There are guided tours of the old prison, right? I’d love to see the old cells, hear all the stories.”

“Reeve, you’re the San Franciscan,” David says. “What do you think of Alcatraz? Is it worth doing a tour?”

“For you, maybe.” She gives a tight smile. “But I have zero interest in prisons.”

Lana—who is Reeve’s sole confidante and the only one aware of her old name and her tragic, headline-grabbing past—quickly changes the subject. “This trip was a great idea,” she says, looping her arm through Reeve’s. “And I love the Ferry Building. Let’s run in and get some sourdough bread before heading home.”

Reeve feels a rush of gratitude for Lana, for her new life in Berkeley, and for every single minute that adds distance between ever-loving now and those wretched years spent locked in her kidnapper’s basement.

D
aryl Wayne Flint wanders down the corridor to the lavatory, checking out the line of inmates waiting for a chance to sit in the barber’s chair. It has diminished to two guys now, but they look like they don’t even need haircuts. Like this is some sort of entertainment, a diversion.

Okay, after all these years, he can certainly understand that.

A short time later, Flint returns to stand behind the one guy remaining in line, a guy with a cap of blond curls. Then the door opens and a huge guy with a shaved head shuffles out.

“How was it?” the blond guy asks.