Hunted (Reeve Leclaire 2) (34 page)

The dark-haired agent plates the food, and when the two of them move deeper into the house, away from the window, he steps from his hiding place. He crosses the lawn, moving farther from the street. The wind stirs the clouds and whips the trees.

There is no hurry as he approaches the house. He imagines them eating their food, talking about him. They will speculate about the graves, and he enjoys thinking about those who await exhumation.

He moves in closer, slow and stealthy, keeping to the shadows as the moon waltzes in and out of the clouds. The dark-haired agent’s house stands unobserved by any neighbors. He approaches the back, wondering where the agent will have stashed her gun. By the front door? Perhaps a second weapon in the bedroom?

It doesn’t matter. She won’t have time to reach for a gun.

Y
ou don’t like the fried rice?” Keswick asks, eyeing Reeve’s plate.

“No, actually, it’s really good. Better than anything I could make.” Reeve takes another bite and swallows. She scarcely tastes the food. Now and then her phone pings, and she apologizes to Keswick about responding to a text.

“No need to apologize. I’ll bet your family is worried sick.”

She nods, texting. “And my roommates are insomniacs.”

“Oh, I almost forgot to tell you,” Keswick says, putting a strand of hair behind her ear. “You know that woman you asked about, Cybil Abbott? The one who used to work as Dr. Moody’s assistant?”

“Yes?” Reeve sets her phone aside.

“We took a closer look, found some interesting credit card activity. She bought gas in South Turvey, not far from Church Street Storage, a couple months ago.”

“So, is she under arrest?”

“I wish.”

“What happened?”

“She’s dead. Looks like a drug overdose. Suicide.”

Reeve puts down her fork. “It’s not suicide.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Flint’s mother killed her. I’d bet you anything.”

Keswick gives her an uncomfortable look, starts to say something, then changes the subject, saying, “I’m going to make some tea. Would you like some?”

Reeve nods. While the teakettle boils, she silently resolves to say nothing more about Flint or his sick, twisted family.

But Keswick’s mind is still back at the crime scene. “These types of predators, they dedicate themselves to their crimes. And they perfect their skills over time,” she says, setting two mugs of tea, spoons, and a jar of honey on the table. “But Flint was off the charts. I mean, we found a whole damn graveyard, six so far. And who knows how long he’d been doing this? You’re lucky you weren’t killed.”

This last comment stings, but Reeve tries to keep it from showing on her face. “I don’t know why he didn’t kill me,” she says softly.

Keswick raises her eyebrows. “I’ve got a theory about that.”

She seems to be waiting for permission to continue, so Reeve meets her eye and nods once.

“It was your skin.”

“You think Flint was creating designs on my skin.” She looks away. “Yeah, he was.”

“But it was more than that. I think you became his obsession.”

Reeve gives a twitch of her shoulders.

“No, listen. When I was growing up, we had a neighbor who grew bonsai trees. It’s a Japanese art form that requires a lot of dedication.”

“I know what bonsai is. But what does—”

“It takes years of careful pruning to perfect bonsai. The roots are cut and bound. Each branch, each bud is cultivated. It’s a kind of artful torture of the plant.”

Reeve scowls into her mug of tea.

“So my neighbor had lots of bonsai,” Keswick is saying. “It was his business. But there was one tree that he refused to sell. It wasn’t the most beautiful or the most impressive, but he was fixated on that little tree. He eventually fell ill and sold all his bonsai, everything, all his family treasures, but he kept that one special tree. And they say it was at his bedside when he died.”

Something crackles inside her. “That’s a sickening theory. You think Flint was so obsessed with me, he would have kept me forever, like a plant in a pot?”

“It’s just that Flint doesn’t fit any profile. I mean, he’s insane, for sure, and he must have been abused because—”

“Oh, please. I’m so sick of hearing about how poor Daryl Wayne was abused.” Reeve feels the heat rising in her cheeks. “Because then it’s his father who was abused, and then it’s his grandmother, and on and on until it’s just an endless string of blame. And I don’t care who abused who first, because I’m the one who was abused last, and it has to
stop.”

She gets up from the table and pours her tea down the sink.

“Oh, god, I’m so sorry,” Keswick says, following Reeve and placing a hand on her shoulder. “I can’t believe I said that to you. That was thoughtless of me.”

Reeve takes a breath. “I didn’t mean to snap at you. It’s just, well, this is not my favorite topic.”

“Of course. And I really, really apologize. The words just flew out of my mouth before I realized what I was saying. Honestly, you seem so self-possessed that I just forgot that . . .”

“Okay, so could we please not talk about Flint anymore?”

“Cross my heart,” Keswick says, drawing an index finger across her chest. She glances at the clock. “God, it’s later than I thought. We’ll have to get an early start tomorrow. Will 6:30 work for you?”

“I hardly sleep anyway. I’ll be up.”

Reeve offers to help with the dishes, but Keswick waves her away, saying, “Go on to bed. I’m just going to get the coffee machine ready and take out the trash.”

“Okay, I’ll see you bright and early.”

As Reeve retrieves her bag of toiletries and carries them into the bathroom, she hears Nikki Keswick’s light tread in the kitchen, cabinet doors opening and closing, the rustling sound of a plastic bag. She turns on the faucet and brushes her teeth, rinses, spits, and shuts off the faucet. The house is quiet. She’s using a washcloth on her face when she hears movement in the kitchen again.

The hair stands up on the back of her neck.

She goes still, listening hard, hoping she’s wrong. But no, the footsteps are different. Heavier. And horribly familiar. For four years, she listened to that same tread going back and forth across the floor above her head.

Her chest constricts as she looks around, wanting scissors, something sharp, but seeing nothing but soft, pretty things. She shuts off the light, afraid that it might shine beneath the door, and holds her breath in the darkness, desperate to hear something from Nikki Keswick.

She hears only his footsteps coming closer.

Her mind is frozen with fear. She listens to the sound of the footsteps change as they leave the tiled kitchen floor and come into the hallway.

Moonlight spills through a window too small for escape.

Where is Keswick’s gun? Reeve tries to picture where it might be stashed, but she has no idea.

She looks around, seeking a weapon. Even a can of hairspray and a match might work. Her eyes stop at the toilet. Quickly, she removes a box of tissues from atop the tank, grips the ceramic lid firmly with both hands, and lifts it off. Keeping her eyes on the door, she shifts her grip on the lid and raises it above her head.

Her heart thuds in her throat. The footsteps come closer, closer . . . and move past, creeping toward the front of the house.

Should she bolt out the door and try to escape? Or does she have a better chance if . . . There’s no time to equivocate, because now the footsteps return and the sound has changed, as if he’s on tiptoe.

A floorboard squeaks.

A shadow falls across the threshold.

Her eyes water with fear as she widens her stance, watching as the doorknob slowly turns. Gripping the heavy lid, she raises it higher, arms trembling.

Flint bursts in, and she smashes the lid down with all her might—but it glances off his shoulder and flies from her grasp, crashing to the floor. She cries out and tries to dash past him, but his fist smashes into her face. She stumbles and he grabs her by the waist, lifting her off her feet with astonishing strength. She screams and thrashes. Her feet touch the floor and she bucks hard, throwing a knee at his groin, but not connecting. She struggles wildly, but he throws her to the floor so hard that her head bounces on the tile. And then he strikes like a viper with a searing hot jolt.

S
he chirps sweetly and drops, just as she did the first time. He bends close and breathes in her scent.

His little cricket. His again.

He stares at her limp body, marveling at how superb she is, with her clear complexion and trim physique. He tilts his head from side to side, admiring the artful way her red-bronze hair spills across her cheek. Then he spies the scar at the nape of her neck, peels off her sweater, and gazes at her back for a long, thrilling moment, recalling how he created each detail.

The photographs don’t do her justice.

Tremendously excited, he imagines what he could do right this minute— now!—but he cannot trust this house, these neighbors all around. He needs to get somewhere safe.

Time for Plan C.

He secures the zip ties to her wrists and ankles and drags her down the hallway, leaving her there while he hurries outside to move his vehicle closer to the house.

He’s back a moment later, sealing duct tape across her lips. He covers her with a blanket and carries her outside. Once he has her secure in the back, he wraps a heavy black cargo net over her and fastens it tight as an added precaution.

When he climbs into the driver’s seat, he notices the wonderful aroma that permeates the interior. He fills his lungs.

He shifts into gear, leaving his headlights off until he reaches the next intersection. Then he speeds onto the freeway. He’s unconcerned about when or how the female agent’s body will be found. He’s thinking instead about the distance from Mercer Island to Anacortes, estimating how long the drive will take. Two hours, maybe three.

He remembers the place clearly, a two-story structure of concrete block. Not a place to stay permanently, just long enough to arrange for a pick-up time. He glances at the thick envelope beside him on the passenger’s seat, the one Wertz marked “Plan C.” The final escape plan.

Burn the bridges, leave it all behind, and head north, north, north. By this time tomorrow, they’ll be starting a new life in Canada.

H
er head is swimming and she hears herself moan. Each breath requires effort. Duct tape seals her mouth. Her arms are pinned, her back twisted, her face pressed to the floor. She hears the vehicle’s tires spinning and fear coils in her gut.

She tries to roll but cannot. Plastic ties bite into her wrists and ankles, and she’s covered by a musty blanket, wrapped tight. Cocooned.

Her sweater is gone. She feels no other body heat. She’s alone.

She thinks of Nikki Keswick and a lump swells in her throat. She swallows painfully and tries to picture what will happen tomorrow. How long will it take the FBI to wonder where they are? How long until they begin to search and then discover mayhem at Nikki Keswick’s house? What will happen when her plane ticket goes unused, when her father’s phone rings with such terrible news?

His heart will stop. This will kill him, and it will cripple her sister.

Reeve yanks against the ties. She tries to shriek but manages only a strangled cry. Her face is wet, and she’s choking on tears that make it hard to breathe.

Stop it!

She must not to panic.

She must not hyperventilate.

She inhales through her nostrils, taking deep, shaking breaths, telling herself to calm down, forcing herself to concentrate.

She can tell that the vehicle is moving fast through minimal traffic. A freeway late at night? Flint has a destination in mind, she’s sure of that. She tries to calculate direction and figure distance. But north or south, it doesn’t matter. Because once he has her locked up, escape becomes impossible.

Lurid memories of being held captive flash through her mind.

No, don’t think about that.

The vehicle rolls on into the night for what seems like hours. She can’t help but pray for someone to come and save her, but knows it’s futile. She spent four brutal years hoping for rescue, but was saved only by accident. No one will come. Her picture will be pinned up on a crowded wall with countless others who are missing and presumed dead. Her photo will fade and she will wither and perish.

She suffers an image of a plant with bound roots.

Stop it! Figure it out.

She’s still wearing her bra, her jeans, her boots. At least she hasn’t been stripped.

She hears him talking. From the cadence, it sounds like a phone conversation, but she can’t make out the words.

There’s silence for awhile, and then he seems to be muttering to himself— something unintelligible—over and over, in sets of threes.

If only she could speak with him, concoct some sort of lie, create a diversion.

There’s a sudden change in road noise and her weight shifts sharply as the vehicle turns. A freeway exit? She jostles for comfort, struggling against the ties that cut into her wrists, wishing bitterly that she had some kind of weapon.

Yes, a weapon must be her first priority. Somehow, she must find an opportunity, act fast, and gain the upper hand. But how? If only she had more skills, more strength . . .

She pictures that wicked stun gun, probably tucked into the pocket of his cargo pants. He’s right-handed, so right side.

And the gun that he used to shoot Milo Bender?

She squeezes her eyes shut and suffers a wave of emotion before she can force herself to think about the gun. She’s certain it is somewhere in this vehicle, likely up front, perhaps under the seat, somewhere handy. And Flint will have knives or scalpels. He always loved sharp blades.

Flint’s elaborate designs flash across her vision. She feels him cutting into her skin, slicing a pattern here, an embellishment there. . . .