Hunted (Reeve Leclaire 2) (30 page)

He creeps forward and enters the kitchen. A few plates in the sink, an inch of cold coffee in the bottom of a cup. He stands still and listens for a long moment.

The house remains silent.

He moves from the kitchen to the den. Also empty, except for the mounted heads of a dozen animals. Somebody’s a hunter, and proud of it.

Bender creeps from room to room, searching expertly, moving with stealth and speed, gun ready for any potential threat. When he’s certain the house is empty, he returns the gun to his shoulder holster, ready for a second pass. This time, he looks more closely, checking doors and cupboards and floorboards, looking for locked rooms or a trap door, anyplace where Flint could have stashed young Jenna Dutton.

Once he has searched the house a second time, he returns to the den and, ignoring the staring eyes of the dead animals, scans the room, taking its measure. Something is off. He moves to the adjacent room, which is dominated by a mahogany dining table, and stands in the doorway, studying the wall between the two rooms.

He stiffens, then creeps back to the den. Ignoring his arthritic knees, he lowers into a crouch and examines the carpet. Footsteps seem to disappear into the middle of the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.

Bender again unholsters his gun. Silently, he approaches the bookshelf, placing his boots inside the indentations. A half-step to the right, on the underside of a shelf at hip level, he finds the button. Holding his gun ready, he pushes it.

The door slides open and lights flicker on. The room is narrow and windowless. Bender scans the table, cabinets, shelves. There are books and several cameras of various types. Long, telephoto lenses. Boxes of high-quality photograph paper and a large printer.

In one corner stands a polished gun case, empty. Are Wertz and Flint out hunting?

Bender peruses the titles on the bookshelves. Yearbooks. High schools, middle schools, elementary schools. Shelves full of them, dating back years.

A cold comprehension falls upon him.

One yearbook lies open on the table, and something catches in his throat as he recognizes a schoolgirl photo of Reggie LeClaire.

Beside the yearbook is a file folder marked with a large “D.” Bender scans the papers inside, stops at a property tax document. He studies the information, memorizes it, and closes the file. Leaving everything exactly as it was, he steps out of the room and pushes the button so that the secret door slides closed behind him.

Moments later, he’s climbing back out the garage window. He closes it tight, fetches the window screen, and fits it back into place. He turns the wheel-barrow upright and rolls it around the side of the house, returning it to its spot beneath the overhang.

His slick tracks in the damp grass are already disappearing by the time Bender has crossed the street, climbed into his vehicle, and settled behind the wheel. He adjusts his glasses and checks the map, intent on locating the best route to the remote property owned by Walter Wertz.

L
ast night, he’d been elated by his success. One quick zap and she dropped like a dead cat.

No one saw him wrestle her limp body onto the passenger seat. He quickly got her secure, then got away, clean as you please.

But things started going south once he got her back to the cabin. Even by the kerosene lantern’s sputtering flame, he could see the hideous tattoos covering her shoulders and back.

A skin artist needs a clean canvas, but her skin was ruined, useless.

By this morning’s light, he sees that it’s even worse. She has an ugly C-section scar across her lower abdomen.

“Ugly, ugly, ugly,” he grumbles. He couldn’t even get hard after seeing her naked.

That’s what he gets for grabbing an old one, but the young ones are so goddamn skittish these days, with their cell phones and their meddling mothers. It used to be so much easier.

Now the question is, what the hell is he supposed to do with her? There’s no damn way he’s going to waste energy keeping this one alive.

“Cover yourself up, I can’t stand to look at you,” he says, throwing a sheet at her.

She grabs at it awkwardly with handcuffed hands and he slams the closet door.

He stomps back and forth across the floor, pacing like a caged beast. Then he hears Wertz’s voice in his ear, telling him he’d better get started. He shoulders on a warm jacket, grabs his gloves, and heads outside.

The temperature has dropped and the air smells like snow. He tips his head back and puffs a breath toward the low ceiling of clouds. The cold feels good on his face.

There’s a lot of work to do, but last night’s binge has cost him, and a heavy ache fills his skull. He decides to fix himself something to eat first.

He fetches a load of firewood and carries it inside, where he stacks it next to the woodstove. Opening the metal door, he finds that the embers have died. He places kindling and logs inside, wads up a few papers from Dr. Moody’s file, and crams them into the crevasses. He lights the paper and watches his secrets burn while pondering the best way to dispose of the girl.

A
single red flowerpot adorns the front steps of Mrs. Pratt’s otherwise plain brown home. Reeve sits in JD’s pickup, studying the house for a moment, but sees nothing distinctive about Flint’s mother’s suburban residence. Then she steels herself, climbs out of the vehicle, and joins JD at the curb.

They cross the street together and go through the short gate. The instant their shoes hit the walkway, a dog starts yapping, and the closer they come to the door, the more ferocious the barking becomes.

They mount the porch. The yapping increases in intensity, and the dog bangs against the door, trying to get at them. It’s a small dog, given the height and tone of its noise. Reeve pictures its snarling teeth and rings the bell, which chimes while the barking becomes more vehement.

Reeve notes that the large, bright red flowerpot is brimming with cigarette butts.

JD leans close and whispers, “Maybe she’s not home.”

“Stop that!” cries a woman’s voice. “Doodle, you stop right this minute!”

After some minor commotion, the door swings wide and there stands Mrs. Pratt, cradling the angry dog in her arms. Mrs. Pratt is tall and thin and dressed in a pink-and-black leopard print outfit. The dog has yellow fur and black lips that are stretched tight, baring its teeth.

“Here you are,” she says to Reeve. She gives JD a flat look. “But I thought you’d come alone.”

Reeve introduces JD while the dog yaps.

“Don’t mind him. He’ll calm down in a minute,” Mrs. Pratt says, but this is a lie. The dog has a fit when she steps back to allow them inside.

“I wasn’t expecting you quite so soon.” She shows them into a living room crammed with dark, heavy furniture. The wood gleams, but the place smells of dog and cigarettes. She tells them to have a seat, and the dog struggles in her grasp, snapping at them as they edge past.

Reeve and JD sit on a swamp-colored sofa while Mrs. Pratt remains standing, holding the dog, watching them. The dog’s and its owner’s eyes shine, and it occurs to Reeve that Flint’s mother enjoys making them squirm.

“Would you care for a drink?” Mrs. Pratt carries the dog over to a huge and ornate sideboard. “Port? Bourbon? Jägermeister?”

JD frowns. “It’s awfully early, don’t you think?”

Mrs. Pratt makes a dismissive sound. “Suit yourself.” She pours herself a glass of something over ice and takes a sip, leaving a pink lipstick mark on the glass, then smacks her lips, all the while cradling the snarling dog in one arm.

“Doodle, you bad little man,” she coos into the dog’s ear. “Just calm down, will you?”

Flint’s mother carries her drink and the dog closer to them and perches on the arm of an overstuffed armchair. She’s a carefully groomed woman who might have been beautiful before years of smoking furrowed her complexion. Her eyebrows are drawn on, and she shows an extravagant taste in jewelry. Her rings seem to capture every bit of light, and Reeve wonders if they’re as valuable as they look.

Mrs. Pratt sips from her glass, then eyes JD. “Your name is Bender, did you say? So you’re related to that peculiar FBI agent with the same last name?”

When he answers that he is indeed Milo Bender’s son, the dog snarls.

The woman gives the dog a pat, smiling. “Oh, I am so sorry, but Doodle sure doesn’t like you.” She sets her glass on an end table beside a stack of paperback books. “Let me just put my little mister in the next room.”

Her heels click with purpose across the floor. Just out of sight, a door opens and shuts. The dog continues yapping while the heels click back toward them.

Reeve tips her head toward JD and murmurs, “Maybe this was a bad idea.”

He gives her a look. “Ya think?”

Reeve catches herself rubbing the numb spot on her left hand and forces herself to stop.

“Now, I’m so very sorry to tell you,” Mrs. Pratt says, settling again on the arm of the overstuffed chair, “but I really have no idea what my son might be up to. I’ve cooperated fully with the FBI and told them everything I know already.” She rolls her eyes. “So I’m afraid your trip is wasted.”

“But you were his only visitor at the hospital, weren’t you?” JD asks.

She makes a
tsking
sound. “What a dreary place that is. Have you seen it? God, it will be a relief if I never have to go back there.” Waving her glass so that the liquid sloshes, she looks around the room as if at an audience and pronounces, “You’ve no idea how difficult it is having a notorious criminal in the family. No one invites you to the country club, I’ll tell you that for sure. It would suit me just fine if my son simply disappeared.”

Reeve frowns at her. She’d been more convincing at her son’s trial, taking the stand wearing nice clothes and subdued makeup. What makes this woman tick? The manipulative witch.

JD is saying, “. . . because a lot of people are putting a great deal of effort into locating him. He’s killed two men and—”

“Why do you care?” Mrs. Pratt squints at him. “Are you a lawman, like your daddy?”

“Um, no ma’am.”

“Oh, I see. I suppose you’re after that reward is that it?” She coughs a laugh. “Well, no one would blame you. Seventy-five grand, that’s a nice take.”

Reeve finds her voice, “Mrs. Pratt, do you have any recollection of a place by a lake, maybe a cabin of some kind?”

“A what?” She gulps her drink.

“Someplace in the mountains?”

She purses her lips into a tight smile, looking at Reeve a beat too long before shaking her head.

“Maybe someplace your son went camping when he was young?”

“Camping?” That coughed laugh again. “Daryl was hardly a Boy Scout.”

Reeve bites her cheek. She is trying to frame another question when Mrs. Pratt says, “By the way, I’m sorry about what happened to you.”

Surprised, Reeve is trying to digest this when Mrs. Pratt continues, “But it wasn’t so bad, was it, really? It made you famous, didn’t it? I’ve seen you on TV. You’re quite the little celebrity, aren’t you?”

The floor seems to tilt.

“Anyway, let’s face it, plenty of girls have trouble with men.” Still smiling, she seems to be speaking to the ice cubes clinking in her glass. “So what? It happens. You get over it.”

Their eyes meet, and something churns in Reeve’s stomach.

“After all, just look at you. Young and pretty.” Mrs. Pratt’s eyes sparkle with malice. “You’ve recovered all right, haven’t you? You seem just fine to me.”

Reeve rises to her feet. “We need to go.”

JD agrees. Standing, he cups her elbow, and they hurry toward the door.

“Sorry I can’t help, but I wish you a heckuva lot of luck,” Mrs. Pratt slurs, close on their heels. “I mean, in getting that reward money and all.”

The woman laughs oddly, her boozy breath falling on Reeve’s cheek with a familiar medicinal stink. The hallway seems cramped and narrow. Is the floor uneven? Reeve stumbles slightly, her shoulder bumping a framed photograph and knocking it askew.

“Watch it,” the woman snaps. “Daryl’s daddy wouldn’t like being disturbed,” she says, straightening the photograph.

The picture swims before Reeve’s eyes. The man looks exactly like Daryl Wayne Flint.

The other framed photographs draw her like magnets. Here is one of a young Daryl holding a fishing pole in one hand, raising a string of fish with the other. She gasps and brazenly plucks it off the wall, studying it closely.

“Who took this picture?”

Mrs. Pratt snatches it from Reeve’s hands. “I’ve no idea. Probably Walter. He was always taking pictures.” She clutches the glass to her chest.

Reeve stares at the golden sticker on the back of the frame:
Walter Wertz Photography.
It fixes in her mind as she escapes out the door and blindly follows JD to his pickup truck.

“Well, damn, was that weird or what?” he says, starting up the engine and pulling away from the curb.

She turns away, huddling low in the seat.

Wertz.
The name echoes in her head.
Halloween, Hallo-week, Hallo-Wertz.

She groans aloud.

“What’s wrong?” JD asks.

She shushes him, pressing the heels of her hands hard against her closed eyes, hearing that woman’s odd cackle, smelling that alcoholic odor. She searches her memory, reaching deeper, descending until she locates a seam, picking at it like a scab until it tears open, and she’s in the basement, Flint’s hands clasped around her throat while he’s shaking her, threatening her, his mouth against her ear, his voice a low rasp. “You know where you’re going to end up, don’t you, cricket? Dead and in the ground, that’s where. Buried! Buried with the others, right next to my daddy.” He snickers, his stinking breath hot on her face. “And I’ll sit on your grave and laugh while I’m fishing.”

She’s rigid with fear, gasping—

“Reeve? What’s wrong?”