Hunted (Reeve Leclaire 2) (22 page)

He fits the key in the ignition, sparks the engine, and the girl doesn’t even look up.

He shifts into drive, calculates her trajectory, and looks around. No headlights. No pedestrians. No witnesses. Just a few dim shops in a dying shopping center.

Gently, he eases down on the accelerator and rolls forward until he pulls up beside her. He stops, opening the door while saying, “Excuse me, miss, you dropped something.”

She looks up. The twilight shines on her face. Lovely, clear skin, so like his cricket at that age.

She sings out, “Oh, thank you!” And as she steps back, making a half turn to look at the ground behind her, he jumps out and zaps her with the stun gun.

Her body slumps and he catches her as her cell phone skitters across the asphalt. Drops of urine sprinkle her bright new purchase as his strong arms loop around her waist. He hauls her off her feet and they surge as one toward the vehicle.

As he lifts the girl’s limp body, shoving her toward the yawning door, someone shouts, “Hey!”

A figure comes barreling up behind him, shrieking, and hits him hard on the back of his head. He wheels around to face his attacker and finds a short, stout woman standing barefoot, brandishing a shoe in each fist.

He laughs, releasing the girl with one hand and smacking the woman so hard that she falls sideways.

He turns back to his task, lifting the girl, but the woman is on her feet, shouting, beating at him with the heels of her shoes. He grunts in pain, shoving her aside while awkwardly struggling with the girl’s weight. He muscles the girl onto the seat, but now the screaming woman has grabbed onto the girl’s ankle and is pulling hard.

He wheels, backhanding the woman, who staggers but doesn’t let go. She pulls with both hands and the limp girl slides off the seat, landing hard on the asphalt.

He stoops to grab the girl under her armpits, struggling to lift her dead weight, but now more shouting commences.

Shit!

Without turning to look, he drops the girl and scrambles into his Bronco. He slams the door, pops it into gear, and the Bronco lurches forward.

Now another woman rushes out, waving her arms like crazy, trying to block him. He clips her hard as he accelerates out of the lot, then speeds away, keeping one eye on the rearview mirror as he races toward the freeway.

F
lint zooms down the freeway in a state of disbelief. Everything had been going fine. How could things get out of hand so fast?

This is bad, this is bad, this is bad.

He left witnesses. They can ID his vehicle.

He swerves to the off-ramp and exits the freeway, watching his speed.

Minutes later, he’s wheeling into a shopping center near the University of Washington campus that he remembers from his years as a student. He drives into the parking structure and keeps cranking the wheel, climbing to higher and higher levels. At the top, he cruises slowly through the dark structure, keeping his eyes on the rearview mirror, until he finds a good spot. He parks between an old sedan and the back wall, but leaves the engine running. He retrieves the gun from beneath the seat and holds it ready.

His breathing gradually slows. When he’s sure no one is following, he turns off the motor and listens.

No one around. Marginal lighting. Perfect.

He sets the gun on the seat where it will be handy and leaves the door cracked open while he goes around to the back. First things first.

In a couple of minutes, a fresh license plate is in place. One down.

He walks around to the front of Wertz’s Bronco and barks a curse. The front headlight is smashed.

Footsteps.

He squats between his front bumper and the concrete wall, listening.

A woman’s heels click past. He’s tempted for half a second, but this is not the time to push his luck, which has already turned sour.

A car door opens and closes. An engine turns over. A car rolls past, heading toward the exit. As it wheels away he stands, feeling stiff and sweaty. Now what?

He doesn’t dare drive down the freeway with one headlight broken. He’d be asking to be stopped.

Steal a car? No, another red flag.

Be logical, he tells himself.

He scoots around to the front of his vehicle, wondering if he can make repairs. After a quick inspection, he decides he can switch the bulb from left to right, at least that. He’s worked on this vehicle before, when he was in college. And in that instant, he recalls visiting an auto supply store located near here. This is why he was drawn to this parking structure. Of course. They can’t drug the smarts out of you completely.

He climbs back into the driver’s seat, wedges the pistol back into its hiding place, and grabs his wallet. He removes the baseball cap, replaces the wig, and fits on his horn-rimmed glasses. Just like that, he becomes Walter Wertz.

He locks up the vehicle and descends the stairs, looking utterly bland and nonthreatening.

First, he must fix the headlight. After that, he’ll go get something to eat. Best to kill some time and not drive until it’s well past dark. He strides toward the auto supply store, which he finds situated exactly where he remembers.

M
ilo Bender tries to keep the conversation light through dinner, steering it away from Reeve’s ordeal in the basement, the cases of missing girls, and the news of an attempted kidnapping at Triangle Park, a place not far from where Reeve grew up. But he can’t help noticing that Reeve barely speaks.

After the dishes are done, Yvonne says, “Let’s watch a movie, a comedy or something, help take your mind off things.”

But Reeve doesn’t sit with them to watch the movie, saying she has to prepare her remarks for tomorrow’s press conference.

Just as well, he thinks. The eleven o’clock news comes as a crescendo to the day’s events. Every station airs the sensational reports of the attempted kidnapping of a fourteen-year-old girl at Triangle Park. The attack culminated with the girl’s mother, thirty-nine-year-old Molly Sullivan, being hit by the suspect’s vehicle, which is described as a large SUV, probably brown or maroon.

The man’s description doesn’t match Flint’s, but each time the kidnapping attempt is recounted, the newscast segues to his escape. Flint’s image fills the screen while viewers are reminded of the reward offered for information leading to his arrest. And every newscast seizes the opportunity to include a picture of sixteen-year-old “Edgy Reggie,” along with the news that she’s expected to make a her first public statement tomorrow morning.

Shortly before midnight, Reeve sticks her head in the door to bid them good night. The minute she leaves, Yvonne pulls her husband’s sleeve, saying, “Now, would you please fill me in on what really happened today?”

Then she listens, clasping and unclasping her hands, murmuring, “My god. Going back to that basement must’ve been awful for her.”

Milo Bender removes his glasses, rubs his eyes. “She said it would jog her memory. It sure did.”

“And now she wants to make a statement to the media? That’s not going to be easy for her.”

He agrees, but doesn’t share more details. Yvonne would not approve of Reeve’s plan to use herself as “bait”—her word—to lure Flint.

Would he come circling? Would the surveillance team be able to spot him? What if it’s an accomplice who shows up? He doesn’t mention these concerns. Nor does he tell Yvonne that he felt compelled to call Reeve’s father, who has made it clear that he wants his daughter back on a plane and home again as soon as possible.

“It would be hard on anyone,” Yvonne is saying. “She seems stoic, but the poor girl surely has post-traumatic stress. Did you hear her scream last night?”

“Nightmares. Yeah, she woke me up, too.” He strokes his chin, worrying that Reeve’s mental state seems more fragile now than when she first arrived. “She’s so preoccupied, like she’s brooding about something.”

His wife gives him a sympathetic look. “I know you’re concerned about her. But she’s going to JD’s gym tomorrow, right? That can’t be bad.”

He raises his eyebrows.

“He likes her,” she says with an impish smile. “And do you know why?”

“He was always fascinated with her. Plus the usual reasons, I suppose. She’s pretty. She’s smart.”

“No, there are plenty of those girls at the gym. What JD likes about her is what makes her different. She lacks vanity, she’s genuine, and she doesn’t giggle or pretend.”

He hugs his wife’s shoulders and feels momentarily better. But then he remembers the faces of the missing girls and something twists in his gut.

“About Halloween,” Yvonne is saying, “I’ll be working late, so I’m not even going to bother getting candy, unless you plan to hand it out.”

Bender recalls Reeve’s words—
Halloween, Hallo-week
—and tells her no.

Yvonne pats his hand. “You look exhausted, sweetheart. Let’s go to bed.”

Milo Bender’s unease grows late into the night as he lies under the covers, awake, listening to his wife’s breathing deepen and slow. Worries churn inside him.

Unable to get comfortable, unable to clear his mind, he rises quietly, grabs his robe and slippers, and tiptoes to his office. He closes the door softly behind him and goes to the wall of filing cabinets, where he starts rifling through drawers.

He carries a stack of his old notebooks to the desk and begins flipping through, refreshing his memory, hoping something will jump out at him. There must be some bit of overlooked evidence. He searches page after page, but if there’s any clue in his notes, it eludes him.

There’s a rap on the door and Reeve tips her head inside.

He closes his notebook. “Having trouble sleeping?”

“How’s the girl’s mother, Mrs. Sullivan? Have you heard?”

“Out of ICU and recovering pretty well, last I heard.”

She comes in quiet as a cat and folds into the chair across from him. “I hate it that Flint tried to grab that girl. I hate it that he hasn’t been caught.”

“They’re not sure it’s Flint. The descriptions vary.”

“It’s him. He used a distraction and a stun gun, right?” She chews a nail, then adds, “You know they’re saying she looks like me, that girl he tried to kidnap.”

He gives a wince and a nod.

After a beat of silence, she asks, “You talked with my father, didn’t you?”

“He’s worried about you. Especially since that attack at Triangle Park.”

“You didn’t tell him any details about tomorrow’s press conference, did you?”

“Only that there would be one.”

“Or about the missing girls looking like my sister?”

“That seemed . . . unkind. No need to burden him with that.”

Bender sighs. Talking with Reeve’s father had been difficult because the man had legitimate questions, but there was plenty Bender couldn’t share. Ethical questions that once appeared clear-cut now seemed muddy.

“I’ve been thinking about those girls,” Reeve says, massaging one side of her left hand.

He notices the pale scars that ring her wrists. Handcuffs.

“We both know, statistically speaking, that they’re probably dead.” She says this as if holding something bitter on her tongue. “So I can’t figure out why my kidnapping would be any different. Why was I kept locked up? Why aren’t I dead and buried?”

No wonder she seems so preoccupied.

“That’s hard to figure, isn’t it? Perhaps Flint kept you alone at his house as a . . .” He shakes his head, unwilling to say more.

“Nikki Keswick says I should get a gun.”

He chokes slightly. “What do you think?”

“I think people with guns but no training are idiots. Ergo, that would make me an idiot.”

“Training is important.” He nods slowly. “Very important. And you’re certainly no idiot.”

“You have a gun, right?”

He doesn’t blink. “Yvonne made me hang up my holster when I retired. She hates guns. Anyway, self-defense seems more your style.”

“You think so? Well, yeah, maybe it is hypocritical for me to go on television advising girls to fight back without learning self-defense myself. I’m setting myself up as an example. . . .” She takes a breath, adding, “Which is ironic.” She gets to her feet. “At the very least, a session with JD will help me burn off some nervous energy.”

“Besides, you might like it. And JD’s a good teacher.”

“He said you started taking him to lessons when he was just a kid.”

“Once he saw me doing it, he wanted to give it a try.”

“He said you were a black belt.”

“That was a long time ago. But a lot of agents practice martial arts.” After a beat, he says, “You should try to get some sleep. Do you want an Excedrin PM? I’m sure Yvonne has something.”

She makes a face. “I’ll read my chemistry book. That’ll put me to sleep for sure.”

After she has gone, Milo Bender leans back in his chair, mulling over the case. If Flint is returning to old stomping grounds, their chances of catching him are on the rise.

He sits forward, opens a file, and pulls out the postcard that the bureau found in Flint’s personal affects. It’s a picture of a leaping trout, with a cryptic message:
“How you
Be
?”

Bender studies the Seattle postmark. The postcard was sent five months ago, and he feels certain that this somehow triggered Flint’s escape. But what does it mean? Is it a link to the fishing cabin Reeve first mentioned?

He studies the ceiling, wrestling with a decision, then leans down and runs his fingertips across the underside of his desk until he finds the key. He peels off the tape and the key drops into his palm.

He stands and carries it over to the row of metal filing cabinets that line the wall, old and battered. He unlocks the one in the middle, pulls out the drawer marked “G,” and locates what he wants far in the back, wrapped in an old T-shirt.

He lifts it out and carries the heavy bundle over to the desk, placing it carefully on the surface. The office chair squeaks under his weight as he settles down to load his gun.