Hunted (Reeve Leclaire 2) (11 page)

“Here it is,” he says. “Hmm, this is interesting. Flint’s mother used to visit about four times a year, but she visited fifteen times in the last year, twelve times in the last five months.”

“Really? So what changed?”

“I’m wondering the same thing. I’m sure the bureau is looking into it.”

She rubs her forehead. She’s getting a headache. “So, why are you working on this? I thought you said you were retired.”

“I am. But the FBI stays on you like a tattoo, I’m afraid. And I’m the one who’s most familiar with Flint’s case.”

“Unfortunately for you, right?”

He utters some agreement as she spies a news crew lurking beside Sather Gate. They don’t spot her as she veers away. “Sorry I can’t be more help, but, uh, I’m afraid I’m going to be late for class. I really need to go.”

“One more thing. Where do you think Flint might head next?”

Dark recollections wash through her, but the past has faded. “I’ve no idea,” she says at last. “He has a plan, I’m sure. But he won’t go to his mother’s.”

“So where?”

“Maybe someplace off the grid, like a hideaway in the mountains, like a fishing cabin.”

“Fishing cabin? What makes you say that?”

She closes her eyes, trying to conjure a memory, but the connection has slipped away. “I don’t know, it just popped out.”

Their conversation bothers her for the rest of the day. It dogs her around campus. It nags her on the way home. It worries her as she orders a take-out dinner from a Thai restaurant. And just after she enters her door, as she’s lifting the fragrant meal out of its paper sack, the realization sinks its claws into her chest.

Her breath stops. She goes utterly still, weighing the cost of struggle, but sees no option but surrender.

R
eeve’s father, who often consults for Microsoft, has flown to Seattle on Alaska Airlines so many times that he’s on a first-name basis with nearly every flight crew flying out of SFO. He claims an excessive number of frequent-flier miles, and repeatedly offers to fly his daughters to Hawaii or Florida. (Reeve always declines, preferring chilly San Francisco, where she can comfortably wear long sleeves.) Nevertheless, she knows her father won’t be happy with her request.

She tries to keep her voice steady as she sits at his table and relays her conversation with their old friend, Agent Bender. “The thing is, Dad, I know Flint better than anyone. I knew he would head to Dr. Moody’s. Nobody else expected that.”

He makes a noncommittal sound.

“And now there are news cameras stalking me all over campus. And it might sound crazy, but I can’t sleep or study or think of anything except that he’s out on the streets again.” She takes a breath. “So, the thing is, I think I need to go to Seattle.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I hate to ask, but I can’t just sit around here and hide from reporters. And this story isn’t going away until he’s caught.”

“You want to go up there
now
? I don’t think that’s a good idea. What does Dr. Lerner say about this?”

“He’s out of the country, so I haven’t actually spoken to him,” she answers carefully. “But the FBI thinks that maybe I can help.”

“But it’s not safe for you up there, is it? Besides, it’s unnecessary. They’ve got a full-scale manhunt underway.”

“Which Flint has completely evaded. He’s smarter than they think he is.”

“But you said you never wanted to go back there.”

“I know, but now that he’s out, things have changed. I’m having nightmares again. I just feel like I need to do whatever I can until he’s caught. You can understand that, right?”

“But . . .” He shakes his head. “No, actually, I can’t.”

“Dad, I can’t concentrate on my classes, anyway. Besides, it’ll only be a couple of days. I won’t lose much time.”

“I just don’t think this is a good idea.”

“You said yourself that they’re going to catch him. And I’ll be with Milo Bender. What could be safer than that?”

His face creases with concern. “Reeve, call me overprotective, but I hate it that you’re even considering this. What point is there in you going up there? What good can possibly—”

“But Dad, that’s exactly it! If anything good can come out of those years I spent locked in that basement, if I can squeeze anything positive out of all that misery, then I’ve got to try. I’ve got to do something. Besides, I can’t move on with my life with this hanging over my head. And I’m the only one who really knows what he’s capable of.” She’s pleading, she’s talking too fast but can’t stop. “Maybe I know more than I think I do, maybe I can jolt something loose that I’ve blocked out, maybe I can help catch him.”

She grips her hands in her lap, waiting for him to respond.

He says nothing for a long moment, then his eyes meet hers. “How about if I go with you?”

“No Dad, I need to do this alone. I’m not as fragile as you think I am.” After a beat, she adds, “But if you can’t get me a ticket I’ll—”

“Reeve, if you insist, then of course I can get you a ticket.” He shakes his head sadly, cupping her hands in his. “But I’m worried about you. So don’t take this the wrong way—I know you’re not a fragile little girl anymore—but you and I both know that your desire to go back to Seattle has more to do with your own issues than with actually helping to catch that madman.”

M
ilo Bender arrives at the airport a bit early and finds a good spot in the parking structure. He checks his watch, then spends a few minutes reviewing the file.

An old photograph catches his attention. Regina Victoria LeClaire. Her thin face, her solemn expression. At the age of sixteen, she wore the haunted look of a refugee.

He remembers how brave she was at Daryl Wayne Flint’s trial, sitting on the stand and recounting what she’d endured. Every detail still pains him. He hates to think of what she suffered during those years in her kidnapper’s basement. And he hates himself for not having stopped it.

There must have been something that could have led him to Flint’s lair— the guy didn’t suddenly appear out of thin air; he must have made mistakes somewhere along the line—but what? Other victims always seemed probable. A predator like Flint would typically evolve over time. He would have practiced his appetites on others before Reeve, but either the girls disappeared or they suffered in silence. Sex crimes are notoriously underreported. But Milo Bender still believes there was something they’d missed.

He heaves out a sigh and puts the file away, then checks his watch. Still early.

Reeve’s call had taken him by surprise. “You want to come up here? Are you sure?” he’d asked.

His first suspicion was that Stuart Cox had been unhappy with his report and had then resorted to other means of prying information out of her.

“Honestly,” he asked, “is this your idea, or did someone from the bureau call you?”

But Reeve had insisted it was her idea. And then she’d surprised him further, saying, “I want to check out the mental hospital.”

That struck him as odd. “Olshaker? Really? Why?”

“Maybe if I look around, I can get a sense of what Flint was thinking. Maybe I’ll remember something important. Maybe I’ll have some kind of insight.”

He’d smiled and said, “Maybe you will,” without adding, “but I doubt it.”

It was gutsy of her to want to help, but he didn’t understand it. She’d suffered so much here. Why return to the scene of such dark events? He could scarcely imagine the emotional toll. Still, if Reeve had some deep reasons for coming, even if she just wanted to confront her personal demons, the poor kid would need an ally. So, he’d called Cox, who quickly warmed to the idea of having Flint’s former captive close at hand.

Bender insisted on handling the logistics on his own, without involving the case agent. No pressure, no expectations, no formal interviews. And no bloody protocols.

Then he’d called the hospital and arranged their visit, telling Dr. Blume that he was consulting with the FBI and that they were hoping that perhaps Reeve LeClaire—whose name Dr. Blume instantly recognized—could shed some light on Flint’s psyche.

She was skeptical at first, but he’d persuaded her, saying, “The investigation has stalled, so why not try unconventional methods?”

He checks the time, locks up his vehicle, and heads into Sea-Tac airport, wondering if he’ll have trouble recognizing Reeve as a young woman of twenty-three. He hopes she’s not covered with tattoos and studded with piercings, like so many young people these days.

He’d last seen Reeve when he’d flown down to San Francisco for her mother’s funeral. Her teeth had been fixed, her hair had filled in, and she was meticulously groomed. But she was still as thin as ever. And what he noticed most was her shell-shocked demeanor.

The death of a parent can do that to you. What was the term Dr. Lerner had used?
Secondary wounding?

He checks the board for arrivals and finds that her Alaska flight from SFO has arrived ahead of schedule, so he’s already late. He hurries toward their rendezvous point and spots her immediately.

Her hair is longer, colored an attractive shade of red, and she is turned away from him, yet she’s unmistakable. Look for the girl in any crowd who moves most gracefully, and that’s her.

“Reeve!” he calls, and when she turns around, he’s struck by what a lovely young woman she has become. Her mother would have been so proud.

She comes toward him with a backpack slung over one shoulder, pulling a rolling suitcase behind her. “Thanks for meeting me, Agent Bender.”

“Milo,” he corrects her. “I’m retired, remember?”

“Milo?” She dimples one cheek and rolls her eyes. “I’ll never get used to that.”

“Just Bender then, how’s that?”

“Okay.” She cocks her head and gives him an appraising look. “You look just the same.”

But he knows she’s just being polite. “And you look all grown up,” he says, because it would seem frivolous to say she looks pretty.

“Let me help you with that.” He stoops to take the rolling bag and is glad that she lets him without protest.

Bender steals sideways glances at her while they head toward the parking structure, talking. She wears the same worried expression he remembers. Always so pensive.

So he’s not surprised when, after only a few minutes, she drops the small talk and asks, “How long will it take us to get to the hospital?”

T
he sturdy woman who heads up this mental institution is nothing like Reeve’s psychiatrist. There is no scent of citrus, no delicate orchid blooming from a cobalt pot as Reeve and Milo Bender enter the office of Dr. Wanda Blume. She wears a somber suit and sits behind a heavy walnut desk stacked with files, giving the impression that she’s anchored in administration rather than psychiatry. Her salt-and-pepper hair is pulled back in a no-nonsense bun, and the dark circles around her eyes bespeak a run of sleepless nights.

Milo Bender thanks her for meeting them. “I’m sure these past few days have been stressful. I hope it’s not too much of an imposition.”

Without getting up, Dr. Blume gives them a tight smile and waves them toward two leather chairs. “I took a look at your file notes after you called, Agent Bender. Given the work you’ve put into Flint’s case, I can surely spare a little time.”

“I’m not an agent anymore. You can call me Milo,” he says.

Reeve scans the walls of books, recognizing several, and then spots an excellent model of the human brain. Resisting an urge to pick it up, she takes a seat.

“Are you just moving in?” Bender asks, nodding toward several framed paintings leaning against the wall beside a bookcase, apparently waiting to be hung.

Dr. Blume flashes a look of surprise. “I’ve been here since January, but I’m afraid it’s taking me awhile to get settled.”

All the walls are bare save one, which is crowded with framed diplomas and certificates. Reeve studies the scrollwork. “You moved here from Nevada, is that right? Are you getting used to the rain?”

Again, the flash of surprise. “Let’s just say that the greenery here is a nice change.” Dr. Blume spreads her hands on the desk. “Now, Miss LeClaire, I of course understand that you have a personal interest in seeing Daryl Wayne Flint apprehended, but it seems unusual that a former victim would make the effort to become involved in an ongoing investigation.”

Reeve holds her breath, sensing that something unpleasant is coming.

“And as you are surely aware, there’s very little I can tell you.” Dr. Blume lifts her palms off the desk and holds them up, empty. “There are confidentiality issues and protocols involved.”

“We’re not here to violate anyone’s privacy.”

“This is an unofficial visit,” Bender says. “We’d merely like to look around.”

“Well, you know that everyone here has already been questioned extensively. All our security tapes have been examined. Individuals at every level, employees and patients alike, have been interviewed and exonerated.”

“Of course. That’s understood,” Bender says.

“How long did you work on Flint’s case, Mr. Bender? Four years?”

“Let’s see . . . From the time of the kidnapping, right through his trial and sentencing. More than five.”

“He knows Flint cold,” Reeve interjects.

Dr. Blume sighs. “Well then, perhaps you might have been better than Dr. Moody at predicting Flint’s propensity for violence.”

“
I
certainly would have,” Reeve mutters. She shifts in her seat and notices a tower of books stacked neatly on the floor beside Dr. Blume’s desk, with Dr. Moody’s most recent on top. Glancing back at Dr. Blume, she catches the woman studying her with interest.

“Reeve is the one who seems to have the most insight into Flint,” Bender is saying.

“Because of your years as his captive?” Dr. Blume shakes her head sadly. “That’s a very unfortunate way to gain insight.”