Hunted (Reeve Leclaire 2) (7 page)

He turns on the television in the living room and finds a news station, but there’s nothing interesting at the moment, so he leaves it blaring while he heads back upstairs.

The robe falls to the floor. The oversized shower draws a flicker of interest, but after sniffing the fancy soaps, Flint decides he prefers his own scent. He enters Moody’s walk-in closet. The choices make him smile. Ignoring the wool suits and crisp shirts, he selects a pair of jeans. He is not as tall and long-limbed as Moody, but the fit isn’t bad, so he grabs several more items and piles them onto the bed.

What else?

Back in the closet, Flint eyes Dr. Moody’s collection of hats. He tries on a few, laughing at his reflection, and adds two to the pile. Halloween is coming, after all.

Next, he runs his fingers along a selection of leather belts and lifts out three, each of which he snaps in the air. One does not snap to his satisfaction, so he replaces it and finds another.

He leaves the closet and approaches a large chest of drawers, where he finds underwear and socks, plus a Rolex watch, a diamond ring, and a wallet containing six crisp hundred-dollar bills. He tosses these onto the bed as well, then stands there with his hands on his hips, realizing that there’s no way he can fit all this into the backpack he brought with him.

He finds a black rolling suitcase in a closet, sets it on a chair, opens it, and discovers a neat toiletry bag that contains an assortment of stuff, including vials of pills. He reads the labels with a smile. Viagra! He doesn’t anticipate any problems in that department, but, hey, it might be fun.

Flint returns to the bathroom and searches the medicine cabinet, which yields a few more medications worth bringing. After adding them to the suitcase, he checks out Moody’s shoes. Most are too big, too fancy, but the sneakers will be okay. And these soft, woolly slippers? Why not?

He tosses everything into the suitcase, zips it closed, and carries it downstairs to the den.

Files, notebooks, and papers are still strewn across the desktop where he left them. He hurries over to gaze at the evidentiary photographs of the girl’s back. His fingertips hover over the small, careful whorls and intricate lines. The long slashes, beautiful as impressionistic art. He hungers over them for several long moments before gently slipping the photographs into a protective sleeve.

Next, he turns his attention to the files. She has moved to California, which will require—what?—a twelve-hour drive? It will take some planning, of course, but later, once Plan B is rolling . . .

He sucks his teeth.

He’ll want to spend more time reading through all this before destroying what he doesn’t want, so he shuffles pages back into their files, amazed at how much Dr. Moody has accumulated over the years, and chastened by how much he blabbed. Why had he ever talked about his father’s burial? And how could he have been so stupid as to mention Walter Wertz?

“Risky behavior, Daryl. Risky, risky, risky,” he says, mimicking Wertz’s voice.

Truth was, he’d been showing off for his shrink, watching the color spread up Moody’s neck. The old goat was turned on by it all, scribbling away in his notebook while his forehead glistened with that telltale sheen.

Flint locates a briefcase and fills it with Moody’s papers and notebooks.

What else? He looks around. The door to the safe is still wide open.

He smirks, recalling how Moody’s cranky behavior last night had turned quite reasonable once he’d revealed the gun. With a moment’s encouragement, Moody had shown him the safe, which was hidden behind a false front in the closet, just like in the movies.

After spinning the combination and opening the door, Dr. Moody had said, “You can just take the money and go. There’s nearly ten thousand dollars here. How’s that?”

“Are you sure? That’s a lot of money, Terrance,” Flint said, looking over Moody’s shoulder while stroking the man’s ear with the gun barrel’s tip.

“You can count it,” Moody said, his voice going up a notch. “I was planning on . . . never mind. Take it. It’s yours.”

“That’s generous of you. How about we leave it right there for the moment, and I’ll count it later.”

“And you can take my car,” Moody continued, speaking rapidly. “You could be over the border into Canada before dawn. The car has GPS, and I know a way you can get across without even a passport, no border guards, nothing but open road. You can simply disappear and no one will even know you were here.”

“That’s a fine idea,” Flint said, playing along. “And I sure appreciate your generosity.” He stepped back and lowered the handgun, grinning. “In fact, I think that kind of plan deserves a toast, don’t you?”

“Uh, sure. What’s your drink of choice? Vodka? Gin? I have a full bar, and I’d be happy to serve whatever you’d like.”

“Well, I’m not really in the mood for hard liquor.”

“Beer then? I’ve got some good pilsner.”

Flint began to stroke his beard, forgetting it had been cut off, so he rubbed his chin. “Don’t you have a wine cellar?”

Dr. Moody’s expression dimmed. He swallowed and said softly, “Yes, I do.”

“Let’s go down there and get a nice bottle,” Flint said, gesturing toward the door with the gun. “You pick it out.”

Dr. Moody then led him downstairs, through the basement, to a door at the back. It was a cold room with a musty smell.

Flint stood back and whistled. “That’s a nice selection of wine, Terrance. How many bottles have you got there?”

“Nearly four hundred, I believe.” Dr. Moody faced the racks, lifted a hand, and asked, “What would you prefer? Red or white?”

Flint shot him in reply.

Then he stood there for a long moment, letting his ears recover, studying the way the light reflected on the rows and rows of bottles. The pattern was pleasing to the eye.

Flint had tilted his head from side to side, interested in how the gleam on the bottles changed as he did so. Then he stepped back, watching Moody’s blood spill across the floor, appreciating how its ruby color contrasted with the stark whiteness of the shirt stretched across the man’s back.

Now Flint smiles at the recollection and turns his attention back to the safe.

Using both hands, he lifts out the bundles of cash and gold coins and places them on the desk. Then he lowers himself into the soft leather chair while savoring one final memory: In a nice trick of light, Dr. Terrance Moody’s pooling blood had looked dark as wine.

I
t’s obvious to Reeve that her father and Amanda are trying their best to distract her. But while lingering over the kitchen table and then watching a charming film on their big-screen TV, Reeve itches to grab her phone and check the news. She fidgets on the sofa, doing her best to be genial while inwardly obsessing over Flint’s escape. Because a man like that won’t just fade away. He’s a kidnapper. He’s a sadist. She can’t just sit here pretending that he’ll slink off and vanish. She has to do
something.

She excuses herself and slips back into the guest room, where she scrolls through the headlines for the hundredth time. It’s just a repeat of the same news.

Frustrated that Flint hasn’t been caught, and angry at herself for failing to call earlier, she finds the number of the sheriff that Otis Poe mentioned. The phone rings and again a recording advises her to call 911 in an emergency, but this time she endures the full spiel until an actual human being answers.

When she explains that she’s calling about Daryl Wayne Flint, the man who escaped from mental lockup, a woman’s voice responds, “State your name, please.”

“I’d rather not.”

A pause. “Are you calling to report a sighting?”

“No, not a sighting. I just think I know where he’s headed.”

“You think you do. Okay, what makes you think that?”

“I’d rather not say.”

Another pause. “Do you have something specific for me or not?”

“Well, the thing is, I believe I have some insight into this case.”

“Uh-huh. And why is that?”

“I’d rather not say.”

The woman’s tone sours. “Listen, we deal in facts here, and we’ve had our share of psychic readings for today.”

“It’s nothing like that.”

“Well, if you have any solid information, I’d love to hear it.”

“The thing is, you need to make sure that you watch Dr. Moody’s house.”

“Whose house?”

“Dr. Terrance Moody’s. He’s the psychiatrist who testified at Flint’s trial.”

“Okay, and why do you think that?”

“Well, it’s just a hunch, really.”

“A hunch?”

“That’s what I said.”

“That’s it?”

Realizing this is going nowhere, Reeve steels herself and tries to explain in simple terms who she is.

“Seriously? You’re that girl? The one he kidnapped? The one he kept locked up in his basement?”

“Correct. Regina LeClaire, and I think—”

“Edgy Reggie, right? Isn’t that what they called you?”

She stiffens. “I changed my name.”

“Well, that’s good, because it wasn’t a very complimentary—”

“The point is,” Reeve interrupts, “you haven’t found him yet, have you?”

“Not yet, no.”

“And there are already people staking out his mother’s place, am I right?”

“Why do you think that?” the woman asks with a suspicious tinge.

“Because that would seem logical. But he won’t go to his mother’s.”

“And why not?”

“Because he’s insane, not stupid,” Reeve snaps. Hearing herself, she tries a softer tone, adding, “He’ll anticipate a trap. But I’ll bet no one is watching Dr. Moody’s place. Am I right?”

Another pause. “And where exactly is that?”

“Somewhere in Seattle, I’d imagine. Don’t you have records?”

“Seattle’s not our jurisdiction, but everyone’s on the lookout for that stolen Honda, so it’s highly unlikely he could drive all the way to Seattle without being seen. It makes more sense that he’s hiding out locally. That’s what I think, anyway.”

“But he won’t do what you expect. He won’t. He has a plan of some kind.” Reeve strangles the phone, realizing that the more urgently she speaks, the crazier she sounds.

As if thinking the same thing, the woman’s tone turns placating. “Thank you for calling with this information. I’ve got it down, and I’ll be sure to relay your suggestion to the investigator in charge.”

Reeve grinds her teeth. “Can I speak to that person directly?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll make sure to relay your information. Is there anything else?”

Reeve hangs up, sinks down on the floor, and plunges her hands into her hair.

Later, wearing her good shoes and dressed in her clothes from last night, she returns to the living room saying, “Dad? Amanda? We need to talk.”

Her father and his wife exchange a look and her father clicks off the television.

“I know you’re trying to help, and I really appreciate it. I do,” she says, settling on the couch. “But I can’t just hide out here like some kind of fugitive. I need to get home. I’ve got classes tomorrow.”

“Are you sure? Because it’s quiet here and your roommates—”

“They’re my friends, Dad. It’s okay. I just talked to them. They understand.”

She couldn’t ask for better roommates, and that’s become clearer now than ever. But she has deeper reasons for wanting to get home.

“I can’t let my past ruin another minute of my life. I’ve worked too hard to get back on track. So now I need to focus on my studies and forget all about Flint. Because whatever he’s doing up in Washington, it has nothing to do with me.”

She nods briskly, looking from one to the other, willing these words to be true.

T
he next morning, Daryl Wayne Flint rises early, eats a large breakfast, and then begins searching through Dr. Moody’s garage. He ignores the expensive bike, the kayak, the snow skis. When he finds an ice chest, he carries it inside, sets it on the kitchen floor, and packs it full. When he lifts it he realizes he should have loaded it in place, but manages to muscle it back out the garage door, where he pauses. The shiny new Audi is tempting, but it’s a showpiece—far too noticeable—so he loads the ice chest into the Toyota.

A black and nondescript SUV. Perfect.

He finds a screwdriver and squats down to remove the license plate, replacing it with one that had been included with the supplies in the storage unit. Finished, he considers the screwdriver for a moment, then finds a duffle bag and selects several more tools to bring along, plus zip ties and a roll of duct tape. He then goes back into the kitchen. A selection of sharp knives and three large plastic garbage bags get added to his stash.

Satisfied, he rummages through the freezer, and opens a tub of ice cream. He admires the design of chocolate swirled through vanilla.

Just as he spoons in, a phone begins ringing.

Has it started?

He carries the ice cream into the living room, where he picks up the remote and flips through channels, searching for news until there he is: a picture taken before the trial, when he was younger and heavier, with his unruly hair and full beard.

He sits on the sofa to watch. Here’s a brief clip from his trial, with just a glimpse of his little cricket. He jerks forward, eager to see more of her, but now the newscaster reappears, describing his “daring escape that was captured by security cameras Saturday afternoon.”

Flint leans in, studying the grainy black-and-white video that shows him exiting the mental hospital. The frame freezes and zooms in. It’s a poor-quality image and he barely recognizes his own features, so pale between the dark beret and dark goatee.

Dark, white, dark. Like an ice cream sandwich, he thinks.

When the news shifts to the next report, Flint clicks off the television and hurries upstairs to the master bathroom, where he stares into the mirror, rubbing his palm over his distinctive goatee.