Hunted (Reeve Leclaire 2) (8 page)

E
fficiency and punctuality define forty-two-year-old Mrs. Simms, and for this she’s being well compensated. As Dr. Moody’s new assistant, her salary is nearly twice what she formerly earned teaching history to ungrateful adolescents. This job is proving to be a joy in comparison.

Mrs. Simms arrives at the office each weekday morning well before Dr. Moody and she makes sure the relevant papers are organized and the coffee is hot by the time he reaches his desk at 9:00 a.m. This Monday is no different than usual except for two things: First of all, the phone begins ringing the moment she steps in the door. Reporters, reporters, and more reporters.

Mrs. Simms handles these adroitly, saying nothing quotable and belying none of the anxiety she feels about the escape of Dr. Moody’s most notorious patient. The instant she first heard the news, she’d anticipated this unpleasantness. Now she can hardly wait to see how Dr. Moody will deal with these vultures.

Much more troubling is the second thing: She has received no word from Dr. Moody himself. On the few occasions when Dr. Moody was running late, he has always called to let her know why he was detained and when to expect him. Always.

She checks her cell phone as well as the appointment calendar, but finds nothing to explain this lapse.

Mrs. Simms doesn’t usually touch the coffee until Dr. Moody has finished his first cup. But when the doctor hasn’t arrived by 9:30, she fixes herself a mug with sugar and sits at her desk, sipping the excellent Kona coffee while debating what to do.

Should she call his former assistant and ask the correct protocol? No, better to call Dr. Moody, though she hates to bother him. There could be some kind of emergency. He could be in deep consultation with an important client or a suicidal patient. Or perhaps he just forgot, with all this bother about Daryl Wayne Flint.

More likely, he’s having another dispute with that ex-wife of his. That’s certainly possible. After all, the woman seems terribly obstreperous. Mrs. Simms even suspects that Dr. Moody’s ex is the culprit responsible for that nasty gouge in the doctor’s beautiful new car. She can’t understand why Dr. Moody won’t confront the woman. In her experience, bad behavior needs to be nipped in the bud. Otherwise, it blooms into something worse.

At 9:40, having heard nothing from her employer, Mrs. Simms decides she must act. She mentally prepares a carefully worded apology and calls the doctor’s cell phone.

No answer.

When the phone switches over to voice mail, she leaves a brief and polite message reminding him of his ten o’clock appointment. Then she gets up, smooths her skirt, and carries her coffee mug to the small kitchen, where she washes it out and sets it in the drainer to dry. She debates whether to pour out the coffee and make a fresh pot, but decides to wait until after the doctor’s first appointment. She hates to waste expensive Kona coffee.

Mrs. Simms handles two more phone calls from reporters, then considers whether to call Dr. Moody again. Perhaps there’s something wrong with his cell phone. Or perhaps he’s ill.

She checks the time. What’s the best way to handle this?

With a growing sense of foreboding, she sends a text message. When she gets no response, she phones Dr. Moody’s home.

The phone rings three times before Dr. Moody’s recorded prompt to leave a message. “I’m very sorry for the intrusion, doctor,” she says, “but it’s now nearly ten, and you have a patient scheduled, and I’m concerned that I’ve heard no word about why you are, uh, detained.”

She hangs up and frowns at the phone as if it has committed some offense, then turns her attention to her computer.

A moment later, Dr. Moody’s first appointment, a sloppily dressed young man wearing expensive shoes, enters the door, states his name, apologizes for being early, and makes himself comfortable on the couch.

At 9:58, she explains that Dr. Moody hasn’t yet arrived and offers the young man coffee, which he declines, asking for green tea instead.

In the kitchen, while preparing the young man’s tea, she pours herself another mug of coffee and has a taste. It has gone bitter. She pours it down the sink and rinses out the pot, then serves the tea and retakes her seat.

The phone has stopped ringing and the atmosphere in the office grows tense as Dr. Moody’s absence lengthens. Mrs. Simms offers the young man a copy of the
Wall Street Journal,
which he declines, pulling out his smart phone.

Mrs. Simms tries to concentrate on bookkeeping, but now her worries have gained an appetite. Her mind reaches from one scenario to the next, trying to find some explanation for Dr. Moody’s uncharacteristic behavior. Has she neglected something?

She wonders what the psychiatrist’s previous assistant might have done in her situation. She double-checks the calendar, wondering if she could have overlooked a court date.

The young man coughs, setting aside his empty cup of tea, and Mrs. Simms offers another apology for Dr. Moody’s tardiness. She again checks the time, and at that moment—10:11—the phone rings.

Mrs. Simms blurts, “That must be him,” and quickly answers.

But the voice that replies is not her employer. “This is Dr. Wanda Blume at Olshaker Hospital. I must speak with Dr. Moody immediately.”

Mrs. Simms recognizes the name of the hospital’s chief of psychiatry. “I’m so sorry, Dr. Blume, but Dr. Moody unfortunately is not in the office.”

“No? Well, he’s supposed to be
here
for this morning’s meeting. But since he hasn’t appeared, I thought—”

“What meeting?”

“He didn’t tell you?”

“No. Tell me what?”

“He didn’t call you yesterday?”

“On Sunday? No. Is something wrong?”

The young man on the couch sets his phone aside and gives Mrs. Simms a curious look.

“This is strange. I talked with him Saturday evening,” Dr. Blume’s voice rises as she continues, “and he said he would instruct you to cancel today’s appointments.”

“But he didn’t call, and I’ve been trying to reach him all morning.”

“When did you last speak with him?”

“Friday afternoon, when we closed up the office. What’s wrong?”

Dr. Blume says nothing.

“Does this have to do with that man who escaped?”

“Oh my god.”

“What is it?”

Dr. Blume chokes slightly. “I’m afraid someone needs to check on Dr. Moody.”

W
hile white Hondas are still being scrutinized on every highway across the state, Dr. Moody’s dark SUV is speeding east with Daryl Wayne Flint at the wheel. A steady rain turns the interstate into a slick ribbon, but he’s soon through the pass.

He exits the highway, and the road narrows as it skirts Cle Elum Lake. He winds deeper into the mountains until he spots Granite Reach Mini-Mart, looking every bit as dingy as he recalls. This is his last chance for a pit stop, so he parks and hustles inside where he selects a few provisions, including fishing line, beer, cigarettes, and a weatherproof camouflage hat.

As the pimply faced teen is ringing him up, Flint studies a display of faded photographs of happy fishermen. “What’s biting these days?”

“Hell if I know,” the kid responds. “My dad says I couldn’t catch a cold in a kindergarten.”

“You mean catch a cold in a storm.”

The kid rolls his eyes. “Whatever.”

Flint notices a map on the counter—Granite Reach Wilderness Area— but resists picking it up. Not good to look like an outsider. Besides, he figures he can remember the way.

But three turns later, he’s wondering if maybe his memory got dented in that car crash years ago. Or if all those meds they fed him damaged his brain. Because these rain-drenched surroundings sure look different than he remembers. Nothing familiar. Nothing but forest, with thick green moss hugging rocks and trees.

The windshield wipers beat back and forth. Maybe he missed the turn. Another mile, he thinks, and then he’ll have to turn around, get reoriented, take another run.

Something up ahead on the left catches his attention. He brakes, slows, and sure enough, there’s the one-track bridge crossing Shadow Bark Creek. Old and weathered, just like he remembers.

Farther along, the road narrows and cuts into a rocky hillside. A bullet-riddled sign warns of falling rocks.

Twilight arrives early as the sun dips below the crags to the west. A rare set of headlights appears up ahead, cutting through the rain. Flint eases over to the shoulder to make room, but doesn’t look at the other driver as the pickup rolls past. His eyes are focused on the sign up ahead.

Granite Reach Wilderness Area.

Flint makes the sharp turn into the forest, and the rutted road begins to feel familiar. When he recognizes the old fallen tree, he slows for a good look.

The tree doesn’t seem near as big now, but it’s surely the fallen fir that blocked the road that first day his father brought him to Granite Reach. His father had jolted to a stop, cursing. But then a strong young man named Walter Wertz had shown up. Pretty soon there was a noisy competition, his father wielding a chainsaw on one side of the road, Wertz working on the other, sawdust flying.

Daryl had stood back to watch the two slicing fat rounds out of the fallen tree, impressed with their skill, envying their strength. Soon they’d removed enough of the big fir to make the road passable.

The tree doesn’t look as impressive now, settling in decay, but the way it brackets the road is unmistakable. He recalls patting the pattern of freshly exposed rings, then helping to roll the fat rounds off the side of the road, where they were later split into firewood.

He smiles at the memory of that first meeting with Wertz, and knows he’s getting close.

Soon he spies the moss-covered boulder and the turn.

The driveway is little more than a path, overgrown and muddy. Flint cranks the wheel hard, dodging trees and splashing through puddles.

There’s the old shed up ahead. It looks the same as always, years past decrepit. He slows and stops, angling the SUV’s headlights to illuminate the padlocked door. The rain has eased to a drizzle, but he puts on his new weather-proof hat and climbs out, leaving the engine running.

The keys are easy to find if you know where to look, hanging on a nail beneath the eave. He lifts them off and pockets all but the smallest.

It fits into the padlock which clicks open, and he chuffs a laugh.

The inside of the shed is dusty, but he finds exactly what he remembers: two shovels, a pickax, a hatchet, handsaws, duct tape, a knife, and a snake-bite kit.

He hurries back to his vehicle, checking the ground for signs of recent tire tracks. You can never be too careful. Finding none, he climbs back into the SUV and leaves the shed behind.

As he eases along the winding, bumpy drive, he glances sideways at the overgrown footpath that leads past the graves to Shadow Bark Lake.

The road has become so rugged it’s scarcely navigable. Saplings brush the doors and windows as the SUV winds through the trees. Uphill . . . downhill . . . uphill again.

At last, the SUV’s headlights glare on the cabin’s front windows. He parks, angling for the best illumination, and leaves the lights on as he climbs out. A layer of wet pine needles cushions his tread until he steps onto the front porch, where he fits the key into the lock and the door creaks open.

Except for the splash of headlights, the inside lies in deep shadow. Flint gropes along a table, finds a box of matches, and lights a kerosene lantern. He holds it high. The place is cold and dusty, but everything is pretty much as he remembers: woodstove, sofa, table, chairs.

His eyes go to the floor. He sets down the lantern, peels back the rug, and locates the seam in the floorboards. It takes a knife and some effort, but the floorboards come free. He sets them aside.

Inside, he finds the stun gun, a set of handcuffs, and two types of high-powered binoculars. Here’s the rifle with plenty of ammunition, and a full selection of fine knives, still sharp. He pauses to admire the blades, glinting in the light. A knife is not as good as a scalpel, but these aren’t bad.

“Ultimately, none of this stuff is going to do me any good,” Walter Wertz had said to him one day long ago. “I might as well enjoy it while I can, right? Because once the dialysis starts, it’s all downhill. They won’t put me at the top of any donors list. And when my kidneys start to fail, I’m a dead man.”

“Come on, you’re not that old,” Flint had said. “Don’t be fatalistic.”

“Realistic. We both know it’s the truth. I saw what happened to my father. It’s genetic, Daryl. The same thing’s gonna happen to me.”

Flint’s antennae had gone up. He smelled opportunity. His older partner had money, property, resources. Why let it all go to waste? So, over the next few weeks, Flint had coaxed him along. “You’re the end of the line, eh? That’s a shame, isn’t it? If only there was a way of passing along the family legacy, you know? I mean, you worked hard for all this.
We
worked hard for all this.”

Flint planted the seeds so subtly that Wertz thought it was his idea. “What would you think of taking over once I’m gone, Daryl? You’d be, like, my heir. That would be fitting, wouldn’t it?”

Flint had feigned surprise. “That’s hard to imagine. But if anybody could make a crazy idea like that work, it’d be you.”

It hadn’t taken much effort to draw Wertz along, one detail after another, until the idea began to take form.

“It’s the ultimate bug-out plan,” Wertz announced one day, handing him a large metal box. “When my kidneys give out, you can just step into my shoes. No paperwork, no trail. What do you think? We’ll call it Plan B.”

This was classic Wertz. He always had a plan. Plan A was business as usual; Plan B was the bug-out plan; and Plan C was always ready in case they had to drop everything and run north across the border to Canada. Three plans ready, just in case.