Hunted (Reeve Leclaire 2) (5 page)

The wine steward eases the cork out of a bottle of Silver Oak cabernet and offers it on a white linen napkin for Dr. Moody’s approval. A sniff, a nod, a taste of the ruby liquid, and Dr. Moody’s world is near perfection. He gazes out the window at the lights sparkling on Lake Union, savoring the wine’s satin texture, the subtle flavors of sandalwood, cherry, and cassis in this wonderfully complex vintage. He is so relaxed, so lost in the moment, so enjoying the wine and the skill of the pianist in the adjacent room, that he almost doesn’t hear his cell phone ringing.

He regards the call display with some surprise. Dr. Wanda Blume. It has been several weeks since he last spoke with the chief of psychiatry at Washington’s largest mental hospital.

Their relationship got off to a rocky start. Shortly after Dr. Blume assumed her new position, one of Dr. Moody’s patients was alleged to have broken a condition of his lowered security status by placing a call to his former victim, that LeClaire girl. No real proof of this arose, however, so ultimately it was decided that Daryl Wayne Flint could remain in the forensic unit’s medium-security wing on probationary status. Still, Dr. Blume has been waspish since.

The whole point of hospitalization, in Dr. Moody’s view, is treatment, not punishment, even in the forensic unit, which houses a handful of his most interesting cases. He and Dr. Blume have strong philosophical disagreements, and he considers ignoring her call . . . but, as an attending physician at Dr. Blume’s hospital, he has an obligation to keep the peace, even if she interrupts a fine meal.

Dr. Moody sighs, lifts his wineglass, takes a sip, then picks up his phone and answers. “Dr. Blume, how diligent of you to be working on a Saturday night.” He means this—as he’s certain she’ll understand—as a mild rebuke, since her call can surely wait until Monday. Still, he keeps an even tone, adding, “How are things at Olshaker?”

“Not good, Dr. Moody,” she begins curtly. “Your patient, Daryl Wayne Flint, has escaped.”

“Really?” Dr. Moody lets the skepticism leak into his voice. “But no one ever escapes from Olshaker, Dr. Blume. Perhaps you’re mistaken.”

“He’s killed someone, Moody.”

Dr. Moody pulls the phone away from his ear as if burnt. He glares at it for a beat, partly missing Dr. Blume’s accusatory rant, “. . . despite your assurances that he was not a threat, and despite that you argued so persuasively about lowering his security status last December so that the judge—”

While she talks, Dr. Moody fills his mouth with cabernet and swallows, tasting nothing. When she pauses for air, he asks sharply, “How could you possibly have allowed someone like Daryl Wayne Flint to escape?”

“Aren’t you listening? He took the man’s clothes and walked right past our security cameras as if—”

“That’s an excuse? That he wore a disguise?”

“You said he wasn’t dangerous, which was clearly—”

“He’s been controlled on medication for years. I don’t understand how a patient who is not fully functioning, and who is certainly not hard to identify, could be allowed to simply walk away. His beard alone—”

“He shaved, goddammit!” Dr. Blume shouts. “Or, to be more precise, he killed the barber who did it for him.”

Noticing that other diners are casting disapproving glances in his direction, Dr. Moody forces himself to pause and lower his voice. “Have you alerted the sheriff?”

“Of course we’ve alerted the sheriff. And the FBI. They’ve launched a search and they’re setting up roadblocks right this minute.”

“Wanda, calm down. I’m sure you have search dogs that—”

“Search dogs? Don’t be ridiculous. He took the man’s car, Moody. They’ve put out an APB, but so far it’s turned up nothing. The man has vanished.”

“I see.”

“Either Flint has gone to ground or he’s already slipped through.”

Dr. Moody takes another gulp of wine before saying, with ice in his voice, “You’ve unfortunately got a very serious security breach on your hands.”

“Yes,
we
certainly do,” she snaps. “For Christ’s sake, Moody, you assured me he was fit for his lowered security status. You said he tested low in dangerousness and risk assessment, but clearly—”

“Predicting the behavior of the mentally ill is an inexact science, Dr. Blume, as you very well know. And Flint’s history, coupled with the brain trauma he suffered, makes him a unique case.”

“Spare me your justifications. You’ve misdiagnosed this man. Badly. I’m looking at your report right now, which states that Flint’s fixation on that LeClaire girl renders him unlikely to commit violence in an institutional setting. That’s a false reading if I ever saw one.”

Dr. Moody clears his throat, unused to having his judgment challenged. It’s time to steer this conversation in a more constructive direction. “An APB has gone out, correct? And his mother’s residence is staked out?”

“Absolutely.”

“Good. If law enforcement does their job and watches Tacoma like they should, Flint ought to be back in custody before tomorrow morning.” Dr. Moody remains outwardly calm, but he’s starting to sweat. He listens grimly while Dr. Blume summons him to her office for a Monday morning meeting.

She won’t take no for an answer.

He loosens his tie and reluctantly agrees, grumbling about the inconvenience of having to contact his assistant over the weekend in order to rearrange his scheduled Monday appointments.

“Well, too bad for your
inconvenience,
Moody, because even if Flint is caught within the hour, this episode is going to blow up into a disaster. And if I get burned, you can damn well expect to share the heat.”

He’s about to respond when he realizes that she has hung up on him. He stares at the phone. How dare that unqualified, bureaucratic bitch speak to him this way!

He sends his Caesar salad away uneaten and tears off a crust of bread, which he washes down with a gulp of wine.

Unfortunately, Dr. Blume is correct about the coming criticisms. A board review, a scathing report . . . How could she possibly have let Flint slip away? It’s inexcusable!

He pours himself another glass of wine and struggles to put her call into perspective.

Flint’s escape is sure to make headlines. But it’s also certain to be Wanda Blume’s headache. She’s the one who will have to face the cameras. He resolves to stay in the background and provide only limited information. He must choose his words beforehand and carefully consider what, if any, public role he’ll play.

Dr. Moody gained his national reputation because Flint’s defense attorneys had wisely retained him as an expert witness. He was the best possible forensic psychiatrist available for such a high-profile case, particularly since Dr. Ezra Lerner had been retained by the prosecution.

Flint’s case had been complicated by the head trauma he suffered in the car crash the night he was apprehended. Now Dr. Moody ponders how the damage to Flint’s frontal lobe might explain this unexpected violence.

Of course, everyone understands that an advocate for a mental patient in a criminal case bears no responsibility for the failures of the institution subsequently tasked with confining said criminal. Forensic patients can be unpredictable. That’s obvious.

By the time the waiter sets before him a perfectly cooked medium-rare Porterhouse steak with green peppercorn sauce and steaming baked potato, he is feeling somewhat better.

More than an hour later, after drinking nearly an entire bottle of wine, Dr. Terrance Moody leaves the restaurant and climbs into his classy new Audi R8.

When his wife moved out, the bitch took the Mercedes, leaving him with the Toyota. But the instant their divorce was finalized, he bought the gorgeous Audi coupe he coveted. It was well worth the cost . . . although it did pain him to have to have it repainted. He felt sure he knew the identity of the culprit who had keyed his car doors, but he couldn’t prove it.

In any case, the paint is again perfect. The Audi R8 is a spectacular automobile. And Dr. Moody has taken several beautiful women home in it, though tonight he’s alone as he wheels along the rain-swept roads. The familiar drive is so automatic that, despite the wine, he obsesses the entire way home about the trouble he’s about to face.

He will have to call his new assistant, Mrs. Simms, early tomorrow morning and instruct her to reschedule all his Monday appointments. He groans aloud, but any dent in his schedule is nothing compared to how he fears he might be portrayed in the coming news cycles: The clueless forensic psychiatrist who didn’t understand the risk presented by his star patient. The expensive expert witness who billed the state of Washington an ungodly sum for his testimony. The coddler of a hardened criminal. And the author of several formerly respected books that will now be tossed into the trash.

He stiffens at the thought.

Dr. Moody has worked hard to gain the respect of his peers at each stage of his career, but it wasn’t until Flint’s sensational trial—now nearly seven years past and many cases distant—that he’d attained a national reputation. He had been instrumental in getting Flint a relatively light sentence (far less than the decades in a maximum-security prison that the prosecutor wanted).

Afterward, he’d been invited to speak at many prestigious events. And of course he’d received acclaim for his book, which correlated Flint’s compulsions and mental peculiarities with a handful of other mentally disordered sex offenders. It was Dr. Moody’s signature field. He’d practically launched his own subcategory in DSM-5, the diagnostic bible used by every mental health professional.

But now his prize patient, who had behaved so passively for so many years, had gone and done something that no one could have predicted. He’d killed someone—that bastard!—and his escape from mental lockup was going to create a media frenzy.

Dr. Moody groans again as he turns toward his large, empty, waterfront home in fashionable West Seattle. He had been looking forward to a relaxing evening. Instead, he’ll have to work on preparing a statement. With luck, Daryl Wayne Flint will be caught—or found dead—and news teams will take the story in an entirely new direction. Because blood is always more interesting than psychology, as any reporter will tell you.

He turns into his driveway, hits the remote-control button. The moment he parks his Audi beside the dusty SUV, he feels less stressed. He gathers his things. While exiting his car, he fumbles and drops his keys.

Perhaps he’s drunker than he thought.

As he bends over to scoop them up, his stomach bubbles. He abruptly straightens, regretting the big meal and particularly the mixture of cabernet and cheesecake. He enters the house vowing to add an extra mile to his run tomorrow morning.

He moves inside, turning on lights. A faint odor greets him in the kitchen, and he casts a scornful glance toward the trashcan, wondering what the cleaning woman neglected to carry outside. His stomach bubbles again, and he decides that whatever it is, it can wait until morning.

But the odor nags at him as he lights up the rest of the house and steps into the dining room, where he empties his pockets onto the table and removes his jacket and tie, which he drapes over the back of a chair. That smell is familiar, but . . .

Dr. Moody lets out an uncharacteristic belch. It sounds loud and startling in the empty house, but he immediately feels better. Lightly pressing his fist to his chest, he’s relieved to think that’s all it was, just a bit of gas.

He surveys his spacious home, looking for some welcoming spot to settle. Television on a Saturday night is often disappointing, but it’s too early for bed. His eye strays toward the liquor cabinet. What the hell—if today’s news about Flint doesn’t warrant a nightcap, nothing does.

He selects a glass of Waterford crystal and uncaps a bottle of Glenlivet. Two fingers, neat. He inhales the aroma, takes a first sip, and smacks his lips with satisfaction. That’s more like it.

He’s not going to let the bizarre escape of Daryl Wayne Flint cast a pall over what has otherwise been a stellar week, which included signing a new, moneyed client, and an invitation to give the keynote address at an important conference. Instead of worrying about a blip of bad publicity or a wrongheaded assault on his professional reputation—worries which might darken his mood for no legitimate reason—Dr. Moody decides to spend an hour or so looking over his investments. He takes another sip of scotch, thinking that, since the stock market has been up nicely the past few days, maybe it’s time to take a little profit and book another trip to the Cayman Islands.

He heads down the hallway toward his den, and there’s that smell again, stronger. What could it be? He’ll have to have a few pointed words with his cleaning woman.

Seeing that a light has been left on, he frowns and turns in the doorway.

“Hello, Terrance.” Daryl Wayne Flint’s face is nearly unrecognizable without the wild beard, but then he smiles, showing his distinctive yellow teeth.

Dr. Moody nearly spills his drink.

“Long time no see,” Flint says, leaning far back in the leather office chair and swinging his boots up onto the massive desk.

Dr. Moody works to keep the shock off his face as he takes in the scene: the files and papers strewn across his desk, the bottle of beer, the plate of crackers and sharply aromatic cheese.

“Sorry to drop in unannounced like this.” Flint rolls his tongue across his teeth. “Bet you thought I’d be heading toward my mother’s place, didn’t you?”

Moody swallows. This is precisely what he’d told Dr. Blume.

“It cuts both ways, doesn’t it,” Flint says, smiling. “All those hours we spent together, I studied you as much as you did me.”

Dr. Moody hesitates as questions flash through his mind—
What are you doing here? How did you get in?
—but he discards these as weak and pointless. Instead, he forces a smile onto his lips and lies: “I’m relieved that you’ve come to see me, actually, because you clearly understand that I can help you.”

“Yep, you sure can.” Flint gestures toward the papers before him. “You’ve got lots of useful information here. It’s interesting to read all this stuff about myself.”