Hunted (Reeve Leclaire 2) (21 page)

Some of the photos are paired with age-enhanced versions, a youngster as she appeared when she went missing alongside what she might look like today. Reeve’s stomach knots. Her own photograph must have been posted here, too.

She is one of the weirdly lucky ones, recovered after years, who make the news and give the other families hope. A cruel injection of hope, she thinks bitterly.

“Come sit over here,” Bender says, “and let’s try to pair up some of these missing girls with those days when Flint went AWOL.”

With a last look at the photographs, she folds into a seat beside him. Open files lie on the table, along with the wood plank from the basement stairs.

Keswick opens her laptop and types. “Okay, I’ve got the calendar keyed up here. Let’s try to identify the actual dates when you were left alone in that basement.”

“Okay.” Reeve steels herself, adjusts the board in front of her, closes her eyes, and carefully places her fingertips on it. She suffers a sense of vertigo as she’s swept back into the basement, but she shakes it off and begins reading the small gouges like braille.

She counts from day one, getting oriented. After a long moment, she opens her eyes and taps a spot. “Here’s the first Halloween after I was kidnapped. He was gone for three days.”

“Before or after Halloween?”

“Halloween was the day in the middle. I figured out Thanksgiving that year and then counted backward to be sure. I remember he was gone every year at Halloween. And Flint used to say something—it was three words: Halloween, Hallo-week, and . . .” She frowns. “And something else.”

Bender adjusts his bifocals, looks at the board, then at Reeve. “Let’s just continue, okay? Because there are other dashes, too. Can you identify other specific periods?”

She closes her eyes again and runs her fingers across the rows. Counting the days, weeks, months. “Here,” she says at last. “Memorial Day weekend. He was gone three days again.”

She opens her eyes to see Bender and Keswick exchanging a look. “What?”

Keswick frowns, her fingers flying over the keyboard. “Let’s just keep working. We’ll pair up the missing at the end, okay?”

“Okay.”

Counting days with her fingertips, she goes through week after week, and it’s as if each thin mark in the wood is a step backward, as if she is descending into that awful darkness. She’s again a child chained in a basement, hungry. Some days she was suspended and whipped. Others, she was drugged and woke to the bite of a blade.

She had promised herself early on that he would not make her cry. It had taken only weeks of practice before she’d mastered that skill. It was the one thing she could control.

Reeve fingers the marks she made during those terrible days, checking and double checking dates until she has identified ten periods when Flint left her alone in the basement for more than twenty-four hours, usually for just two or three days. Twice for four days, once for five.

“I ran out of water that time,” she recalls. “I was really thirsty when he got back.”

When her fingers reach the end of the calendar, she blinks and looks around.

The room is bright and clean. She is safe and healthy. She sits back and takes a deep breath.

“Okay, good,” Keswick says. “Now, do you remember anything he said that might have indicated where he’d gone?”

She casts a look at Bender, remembering what she’d blurted about a fishing cabin, but shakes her head. “I wish I had some idea where he went, but he never explained anything to me. He never answered questions. Sometimes he’d come back angry. Sometimes he’d seem almost giddy. But he never mentioned any other girls, or not specifically, anyway.”

After a beat of silence, Bender says, “I’m sure that wasn’t easy for you,” and pours her a glass of water, which she clasps with both hands.

An idea flickers behind her eyes. “There’s one other thing, though. I always knew there must have been other girls because he sometimes told me I was his favorite.”

Keswick mutters something unintelligible, shoves back her chair, and gets up to leave the room. She returns a moment later with Agent Blankenship, and the two of them begin conferring over lists of missing persons on the computer screen.

Reeve watches, feeling ill, as Keswick begins retrieving photos of missing girls from the wall, which she places in sequence on the table.

The picture of one pretty teen with a heart-shaped face and a cascade of honey-colored hair makes Reeve gasp.

“What’s the matter?” Bender asks sharply.

She says nothing, bending over the picture.

“Do you know her?” Blankenship asks.

Reeve swallows hard.

“What?” Keswick asks, looking from the photo to Reeve and back again. “Do you think she looks like you?”

Blankenship bends over the picture, saying, “Yeah, she kind of does.”

“No, it’s not that. She doesn’t look like me. She looks like my sister.” She points a shaking finger at another girl’s photo. “And so does she.”

R
achel answers on the first ring, and after hearing repeated assurances that her sister is fine, Reeve’s galloping heart begins to slow.

“Of course I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be? You’re the one we’re worried about,” Rachel says. “We saw you in that news clip when they found Flint’s getaway vehicle. You’re getting way too close to this, Reeve. Dad wants to know when you’re coming home.”

Reeve offers vague reassurances, asks about the baby, and soon says good-bye.

When she hangs up, she grips Agent Blankenship’s arm. “Promise me you’ll send an agent to watch my sister’s house.”

“Right, we’ve got it handled.” He pries her hand free and turns to Keswick. “Nik, why don’t you and Reeve take a break?”

Reeve hates being dismissed like this, but swallows her protests and follows Keswick out of the room. They take the elevator to the cafeteria, where Reeve chooses a seat near the back corner. Out of habit, she keeps an eye on the exits.

While Keswick gets some lunch, Reeve sits alone, mulling the connection between her kidnapper and the missing girls. She can’t get their faces out of her mind. Could Flint have had a role in their kidnappings? Could any of them still be alive?

“Okay, I’ve brought your hot chocolate,” Keswick says, setting down a fully loaded tray of food. “Help yourself to anything. I’ve brought more than I can eat.”

Reeve barely glances at the food. “How many of those missing girls match up to days when Flint left me alone in the basement?”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out. Don’t worry. Blankenship might lack social skills, but he’s a smart guy and a solid agent. And with what you’ve given us, we’ll be able to scour old cases for possible correlations.”

Reeve hunches in her seat, saying nothing.

After eating a few bites, Keswick says, “Tell me about your sister. What’s she like?”

“You’re trying to calm me down, aren’t you?”

“Tell me about her.”

She sighs. “Okay, fair enough. Rachel is one of those beautiful, gifted, talented people who can do anything. Unlike me. She cooks, she sings, she plays piano, and she’s mad about dance, especially ballet. When we were kids, she always said she wanted to be an actress. She was in a lot of school plays, and she was really, really good, but . . . I guess my kidnapping messed her up. Plus the trial.” A pause before Reeve adds softly, “And then our mother died.”

“Oh.” Keswick puts down her sandwich. “I’m so sorry.”

Breathe in, breathe out.

“Anyway, Rachel is married and has a son and seems exceptionally happy. But she’s less bubbly than she used to be. And when it comes to me, she over-compensates.”

“How do you mean?”

“She’s always trying to . . .” Reeve pushes her cup away. “I think she blamed herself when I was taken. As if she should have kept a closer eye on her kid sister. Of course, Flint is the one to blame. Flint and no one else. But it’s like she’s always trying to make it up to me, trying to fill my life with good cheer. Or that’s my two-cent analysis, anyway.”

“The blame thing?” Keswick shakes her head. “I see that over and over. The criminal is the one to blame, but people are always either assuming blame, or assigning blame to someone else. It makes no sense, but it happens a lot.”

Reeve frowns, recalling the faces of missing teens and young women. “If Flint went after older girls, does this mean he isn’t a pedophile?”

“Maybe he’s a situational offender. Maybe it’s not the age of the victim so much as the opportunity to grab someone who’s vulnerable.”

Reeve chews on this for a minute. “So what’s your theory about Flint’s accomplice?”

“We’re looking at family past associates, the whole gamut. Plus anyone who might have had a grudge against Dr. Moody. His ex-wife, former girlfriends. Could be more than one person involved.”

“But what would motivate anyone to help Flint escape?”

“Like I said, we’re working on it, looking at disgruntled business associates, former patients. . . .” After a beat, she asks, “Did Flint ever bring anyone else down into the basement?”

“Never. He seemed like a complete loner.” Reeve groans, rubbing her forehead. “I feel like there’s something we’re missing.”

Keswick studies her for a moment before asking, “With all you’ve been through, can I assume that you have a gun?”

Reeve gapes at her. “What? Me? God, no.”

“Well, maybe you should get one.”

“I don’t think so.” Reeve looks away, trying to frame her response. “I’m no good with guns.”

“Think about it. You could get some training, then you could sign up for a permit to carry. Really, you should be armed. As a precaution.”

“But what if you don’t see the guy coming? What if he grabs you and you’re down before you know it? Flint used a stun gun.” Her stomach clenches as she recalls the searing jolt that came out of nowhere. “There was no time to react. Besides, I’m not a big person. I can’t rely on something that can be taken away.”

Keswick raises an eyebrow. “How about self-defense? Aikido or judo or karate? Have you tried that?”

A twitch of the shoulders. “I took a one-day class once.”

“You know that eighty-one percent of foiled abductions are due to fighting back, right?”

Reeve gives her a flat look. “I’m aware of the statistics.”

“I hear that Bender’s son teaches self-defense. I guess he’s pretty good.”

Reeve heaves a sigh, thinking about the missing girls of the past, the potential victims of the future. Halloween is just around the corner, and Flint is still on the loose, circling and stalking. She itches with frustration that there’s no way she can’t stop it.

Just then, she sees Special Agent in Charge Stuart Cox entering the cafeteria accompanied by a tall, lanky woman with stylish glasses. The two talk briefly then scan the room until their eyes find Reeve.

The woman seems to ask a question. Cox nods. All the while, they keep their eyes fixed on Reeve, as if taking her measure.

“Who is that talking with Stuart Cox?”

Keswick glances over. “Oh, that’s the bureau’s public information officer.”

Cox and the woman continue conspiring together. Then Cox nods and is out the door, but the woman heads toward their table with purposeful strides.

“She’s coming over here.”

Keswick sets down her fork and looks up. “Well, shit. I’ll bet she’s going to ask you to make a statement.”

Reeve blanches. “To the press?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Why? I’m not an agent.”

“But you’re a sympathetic figure. They probably think you’d provide a fresh angle.”

“A fresh angle? Meaning what, exactly?”

“A fugitive at large gets to be a one-note story. Maybe they think you could warn the public in some new way.” Keswick starts to rise, adding, “Don’t worry, I know you hate facing cameras. I’ll tell her that—”

Reeve grabs her sleeve. “No, I’ll do it,” she says, getting to her feet. “Let’s set it up.”

W
hile the FBI is preparing for tomorrow’s event, Daryl Wayne Flint is watching young girls come and go. He pulls the cellophane off a packet of cigarettes, places one between his lips, produces flame with a flick of his lighter, and inhales deeply.

Isn’t it marvelous how easy it is to slip back into old habits?

Flint has given up on Strawberry Lane and has returned to a place he remembers from his old prowls. Triangle Park was once a sleepy patch of grass with just a few benches and swings, but as Seattle grew, the park was sliced up and paved and developed into a low-budget shopping center. The developers spared only a few trees. And Flint is leaning against one now, thinking that the nice thing about a triangle is that it’s so easy to view the whole area from one point, especially when the shopping center has no big chain to draw business, half the shops are vacant, and the parking lot is nearly empty.

The three girls he’s been following emerge from a shop that sells girly things—cheap jewelry and cheery T-shirts—each carrying the same bag, as if they’ve made identical purchases.

A trio of pretty girls. Leggy and smiling. They huddle together on the sidewalk, talking, and their giggles carry like music on the air.

A minivan pulls in and a horn blares. The girls look up. Two hug their friend good-bye, hurry over to the waiting minivan, and wave as they get in. While the vehicle drives away, the third girl, intent on her cell phone, starts walking in his direction.

It’s Hallo-week. Even Wertz would agree that it’s not too early to get started.

Flint takes three quick puffs, then crushes his cigarette underfoot and walks toward his vehicle. He pulls his baseball cap low over his wig of short, black curls and pretends he has no interest in the girl as he opens the driver’s side door. A gag, a knife, and the zip ties are ready. A set of handcuffs is already secured to the metal bar beneath the passenger seat. The stun gun waits in his pocket.

He climbs into the Bronco, wishing he had a van, wishing he had Wertz there to drive so he could spring out from the back. That always worked well.