Free Hunted (Reeve Leclaire 2) by Carla Norton

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.”

THIRTEEN
     
Cascade Mountains, Washington
    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