Hunted (Reeve Leclaire 2) (23 page)

D
aryl Wayne Flint had planned on sleeping late after a long night of sex and skin. Instead, a growing pile of cigarette butts attests to his frustration. Three times yesterday he targeted a girl, and three times the girl flitted away like a startled bird. Then, at Triangle Park, he’d been so close. . . . How could he have failed so completely after so many long years of anticipation?

He replays every action in his mind, following their old routine. Success or failure, with a girl or without, he and Wertz would analyze each detail. If they’d succeeded, they would smoke cigars and celebrate. If they’d failed, they would examine what went wrong and then assign blame.

Of course, Daryl was always the one to blame, according to Wertz.

He clicks on the television and scans the news channels. Sure enough, the kidnapping attempt at Triangle Park dominates the news. He gets to his feet and starts to pace.

He failed because he was impulsive.

He failed because he didn’t to stick to the plan.

He must clear his head of improvisation, just as Wertz always said. Because tomorrow is Halloween, and his costume is ready. Besides, things will be easier with all the giddy trick-or-treaters streaming along the sidewalks, high on candy and careless of strangers. And he can almost hear Wertz saying, “Halloween provides cover and opportunity. Don’t screw up, Daryl.”

He’s about to click off the news when her face suddenly fills the screen. His girl! He watches, transfixed, scarcely hearing her words. She blinks three times, unmistakably. Then she’s gone, and the newscaster is saying, “Reggie LeClaire, who was Daryl Wayne Flint’s captive for four years, will be making her first public statement later today in downtown Seattle—”

He grabs a pen and jots down the details, thrilled that today—just three hours from now—she will be addressing the press in Seattle. He’d feared that she’d already flown away, that he’d missed her, but she’s still here. And it’s surely no accident that his cricket has stayed in Washington. He begins to pace, thinking she’s meant to be his again, thinking he’ll drive up there right now to stake out the location.

But as he’s making plans, something niggles in the back of his mind.

He shuts his eyes and tries to order his thoughts.

Yesterday’s attack at Triangle Park has been all over the news, and they’ve posted a description of a brown or maroon SUV. The partial license plate number is no longer a problem, but he clicks his teeth, worrying about the conspicuousness of the Ford Bronco.

When a solution dawns, he opens his eyes and rushes to the secret room, where he boots up the computer.

He keys up a search and finds even more than he’d hoped for: three video clips—
one, two, three!—
which he watches in chronological sequence. There she is, wearing a UC Berkeley hoodie, with that lovely face framed with red hair. The camera zooms to close-up and he watches her pretty lips move, feeling as if she is speaking directly to him.

Next, he replays the news clip of her at Church Street Storage. He studies the video with the thrill of possibility tingling through him. But this time he notices something new. He freezes an image and sits forward.

Who is that pulling her away from the camera?

He enlarges the image and recognizes the man. Without doubt, the FBI agent who testified against him at his trial.

He sits back and taps his chin, trying to summon the man’s name.

Milo Bender.

Where has he seen that name recently?

It takes only a minute to find the reports among Dr. Moody’s papers. Moody had collected copies of the FBI reports during the discovery process of the trial, and each one bears the no-nonsense signature of Special Agent Milo Bender.

He lights a cigarette, replaying scenes from the trial in his mind until he recalls an interesting fact: Milo Bender’s son attended one afternoon, a blond teen with even more height than his father. The boy’s name won’t come, if he ever knew it, but when Flint’s gaze falls upon the rows of high school yearbooks, he smiles.

Walter Wertz was a bear of a man with worker-bee habits. He kept meticulous billing records from the start.

It takes only a quick search of the thousands of alphabetized orders to locate JD Bender, the only boy with that surname.

Next, Flint plucks a lime green yearbook off the shelf and scans until he finds the boy’s picture. The grinning high school senior is the same teenager he recalls from the trial, and the very same JD Bender who ordered a “Special Deluxe” package of school photographs delivered to his home twelve years ago.

Flint notes the address and verifies through an online search that the house has not been sold in two decades. Bender’s house seems a good place to start. Perhaps the man will lead him to her.

He stubs out his cigarette and plucks the auburn wig from atop a lifeless head. He hurries to prepare his gear. And then he calls for a taxi.

B
y the time the girl once known as Edgy Reggie arrives in the Press Room, her emotions have fluxed through anxiety anger, dread, and every shade in between. She’s been awake since before dawn and she’s shaking from an overdose of adrenaline. She had no appetite for whatever food was offered, and little more sustains her now than the hope that facing the cameras might somehow spare a future victim.

Nikki Keswick has helped with makeup. Someone’s hands have attempted to smooth her hair. But Reeve feels certain that she looks exactly like what she is: a distressed individual with jumbled emotions.

The news media seem pleased.

She stares at her notes, trying to remember the tips Otis Poe has suggested.

“You’re the expert on Daryl Wayne Flint,” Poe had said, “so just tell the girls out there what you wish someone had told you.”

But what could have saved her on that hot summer day?

“I’ll try to snag a last-minute ticket to Seattle,” Poe said. “But if I can’t make it, is there anything you’d like to share beforehand? Any quotes for me?”

She’d managed to utter a few sentences, but now has no idea what she might have said.

She digs her fingernails into her palms, watching while cameramen surge into the room with a flock of reporters. They begin setting up microphones. She can barely believe what is happening—the lights, the sense of urgency—and she hopes the pain rising from her clenched fists might somehow center her in this bizarre reality.

It does not.

The chaotic scene flows around her as she scans the crowd for Otis Poe. She instead spots Nikki Keswick standing on the periphery, dressed in faded jeans and a UW sweatshirt—undercover—and wonders how many armed agents have planted themselves amongst the spectators. How many are circling the block? And what will happen if they spot Flint in the gathering throng?

“Reeve, do you understand what’s expected of you?”

She stares at the unfamiliar face, then realizes it’s the FBI’s public information officer, the tall, lanky woman with the stylish glasses, whose name escapes her.

Without waiting for Reeve to respond, the woman keeps talking. “I’ve issued a detailed press release. No one is permitted to ask questions. You won’t be hassled in any way. All you have to do is speak from your heart. Do you understand?”

Suddenly, given some cue that Reeve doesn’t catch, the crowd falls silent and all faces turn toward her. Someone places a chair at the table with the microphones and motions for her to come and sit down. She can’t feel her legs, but shuffles the short distance and folds into the chair.

The lights press hotly on her face. She licks her lips. Her mouth is coated with paste. Someone kindly pours a glass of water and places it in her hand. She raises it to her lips, takes a drink, and her mind goes blank.

Someone whispers in her ear, “Picture a young girl and pretend you’re speaking directly to her.”

She squints into the lights, swallows, and tries her voice. “Hello. I’m Reggie LeClaire.”

Everyone stares as she searches for words.

“Maybe you know that I was kidnapped on a summer day when I was twelve. I was just an ordinary kid with an ordinary life, and that day didn’t seem unusual. I never thought anything bad would happen to me. I’d been warned, of course, that there were dangerous predators out there, but I wasn’t thinking much about that.”

She clutches at the water glass, takes a sip to compose herself, and continues, “I’ve had a lot of time to regret that day. My mistake was that I disregarded my first suspicions and accepted the help of a stranger. That’s all. I gave him the benefit of the doubt. I expected that particular stranger to behave as a normal human being.”

Her voice strengthens as she speaks. “But he wasn’t a normal human being. He was a psychopath. And now the man who kidnapped me has escaped. You know his name. You’ve seen his picture. And you know what he’s capable of doing.”

Her hands are shaking as she continues, “But here’s something very important that you might not know: The best way to get away from a kidnapper is to fight back. Eighty-one percent—that’s a big statistic—eighty-one percent of foiled abductions are due to fighting back.”

She looks out at the crowd of faces, but sees only the photos of missing children. “So be safe. Be on guard. And be especially wary of any stranger who insists on getting your attention. Don’t be fooled by the guy who pretends he’s simply asking a question or offering help. If you find yourself in a situation that feels weird, get away as fast as you can.”

Her voice rises. “So trust your instincts, and don’t worry about being embarrassed. It’s better to be embarrassed than to be kidnapped, believe me. So don’t argue with your own suspicions, just act. If someone scares you, run. Don’t get close enough for him to grab you. But if he does, you’ve got to fight back. You’ve got to scream and kick and fight and run!”

A reporter suddenly shouts out, “Reggie, are you afraid that Daryl Wayne Flint will come after you?”

Reeve glares at the man, and for a heartbeat the room is completely still. She takes a breath and is about to answer when the FBI’s information officer steps between them, putting up her palms and saying, “No questions. There’ll be no questions. That’s all for today.”

When Reeve stands, it’s like a curtain coming down. Everyone stirs, the noise level rises with kinetic energy. The busy young men begin removing the equipment.

She touches a hand lifting a microphone off the table and asks, “When will this go on the air?”

The young man glances around as if looking for help, then says, “Your voice will go out on radio right away. The TV stations will splice you in with other footage, you know, for the news.”

The tall information officer with the stylish glasses appears at her side. “Thank you for doing this. You did great. But I’m so sorry about that question. That was out of line.”

“I was about to answer.”

“I saw that.” She puts a hand on Reeve’s shoulder. “But we’re glad you didn’t, because that would’ve become the only sound bite we’d be hearing for days.”

This is truer than the woman realizes. Reeve had pictured the armed FBI agents watching, circling, and almost said, “Let him try.”

But that brash thought is quashed when Nikki Keswick meets her eye and gives a shake of her head.

T
he secret is the same as hunting. You find your prey and creep in silently. Daryl Wayne Flint has a talent for it. It’s all about elevation and line of sight.

The first thing is to circle the neighborhood, but Milo Bender’s split-level house isn’t easy to circle surreptitiously because of the way it is situated beside the park. Flint cruises around, looking for vantage points and watching for cops. He’s driving a nondescript silver sedan, which he rented at Sea-Tac airport. He doesn’t like it much. It’s not as functional as the Ford Bronco, but it’s about as close to invisible as a car can get.

He finally decides on a spot across the park, at a higher elevation. It’s hard to get a good view, and he’d prefer to climb a tree or perch on a rooftop, but not while it’s still daylight.

He parks the car, briefly checks his reflection in the rearview mirror, and smirks. Eyeglasses and a wig make anyone look different. He hangs the binoculars around his neck and zips up his jacket to conceal them. He pockets the stun gun and he’s ready.

A shady path traverses the lip of the park. He passes a man walking a fat bulldog, then drops down a level. The path winds along an outcropping of granite. When he’s sure he’s alone, he scrambles atop a boulder to study the houses on the other side of the park and easily locates the distinctive roofline of Milo Bender’s house.

He peers through the binoculars, angles for a better view, and can hardly believe his luck. There she is, pacing in front of the house, the phone cupped to her ear. She waves a hand, emphatic about whatever she’s saying.

If he were close enough, he could grab her this instant. He scrambles off the boulder and runs back to the sedan.

It takes only a couple of minutes to circle the park, but by the time he reaches Bender’s house, she’s gone. Maybe she has walked down the street. He curses three times and circles the block, searching.

As he’s coming around the corner, he sees that a green pickup truck is now parked directly in front of Bender’s house. He drives past, glancing sideways. A blond young man sits at the wheel—Bender’s son?—with his gaze focused on the front door.

Flint drives ahead, checking his rearview mirror, and parks midway down the next block, just out of sight. A second later, he hears a car door slam, and here comes the green pickup truck, with Reggie in the passenger seat, talking.

He waits for the pickup to continue down the block, and when it pauses at a stop sign, he pulls away from the curb.

The pickup truck proves easy to follow, winding lazily toward the Eastlake district, where it turns into the parking lot of One World Fitness, a two-story building on the left. Flint takes the first parking spot he can find, and then hustles back up the block to a coffee shop on the opposite side of the street, which affords an unobstructed view.