The Edge of Normal (34 page)

Farther still, the road narrows, fences lose their paint, and lawns turn to untamed lots of thick brush and tall pines. The wet gloom thickens and the river remains out of sight. The few street signs are shot through with bullet holes.

At last she finds the address, a number branded into a post. She stops outside the broad, painted gate, noting with relief that there are no news vans. The Hill family has found a refuge.

She rolls down the window and punches the button on the intercom to introduce herself.

The man’s voice says, “Come on in,” and the heavy gate rolls open.

SEVENTY-THREE

Duke sees her coming. He has been watching her progress on one of his screens, thanks to the trusty little GPS locator, still emitting a signal from its hiding place inside the Jeep’s bumper.

The irony of it all couldn’t be better.

Duke has already sent congratulatory e-mails to half a dozen individuals, including Otis Poe, who is gleefully blogging about his upcoming book. And to Kim Benioff, who is still in shock over all the sordid revelations about the man she once considered a friend, the late Tomas Montoya.

It has worked so sweetly, Duke’s teeth almost ache.

His three insipid keepers are history. His three spoiled pets have been returned to their weepy families. And Montoya, that grinning ape, has been very conveniently eliminated.

The pressure is off.

Setting up Montoya had worked like a dream, even better than planned. The big lummox seemed genuinely flattered when Duke stopped by out of the blue “to show him something on the computer.” As if they were more than just fellow smokers, as if they were buddies. As if Drew Eubank, the department’s computer wizard, might actually believe that Tomas Montoya had the intellectual capacity to follow anything more complex than a basic download.

It had played out exactly as he’d imagined, with Montoya sitting at his computer, keying in any nonsense he was given, while Duke stood behind, quietly putting on his gloves and slipping the weapon out from beneath his coat.

Just before putting the pistol to Montoya’s temple, Duke asked him to tilt the computer screen just a bit, and as Montoya raised his right hand out of the field of spatter and close enough to the muzzle so that it would catch a fair blast of gunpowder, Duke fired.

A suicide. So neat.

It was simple to press Montoya’s fingertips onto the Glock, then drop it to the floor, and put the phony suicide note and map in place. Next, he dropped the cell phones that had been used to call Pelt and Orr in a drawer. Once the M24 sniper rifle with a few boxes of cartridges were stashed in Montoya’s closet, he was done. Out the door and gone without leaving a single loose thread.

Now the only shred of evidence linking Duke to any of this particular set of crimes is his damned tattoo.

He rolls up his sleeve and considers for the hundredth time the dilemma of either having it removed or having it altered. He hates it. But it was a stroke of luck when Montoya had come back from his Mexican vacation with photos.

“A tattoo, man? Really?” Duke had scoffed.

Montoya had turned sheepish. “Just the one. Hurt like a snakebite, I’ll tell you.”

And so, with Hannah Creighton barely two weeks past losing her virginity, and the other girls not yet in his sights, Duke had been forced to act. He made a quick trip out of town, gritted his teeth, and got an identical tat. Because Montoya had always been his choice of patsy. Right height. Right coloring. Right build. Right IQ.

Duke had set it all up in advance, planning every move, right through the fake ID he’d used when signing legal documents with Yow in Reno.

Montoya’s voice, of course, could not be duplicated. And there was no way to completely fool his keepers, regardless of their low brainpower. But Duke had taken care of all of that.

Dead, dead, dead, and dead!

He paces, lights a cigarette, takes a long draw, then exhales the smoke, regarding the smooth, white, cylinder between his fingertips. Now that Montoya has been taken care of, he can switch back to his regular smokes and stop buying Montoya’s brand. He was careful to plant cigarette butts with Tom-Tom’s DNA, but he’s sick of these damn Marlboro Lights.

Duke’s main problem is that his sexual needs have been neglected for far too long, but—he steps to the window, watching for the Jeep’s headlights—a solution is glimmering on the horizon.

This is his chance to gain some benefit, some compensation for everything he has sacrificed. His keepers. His girls. And every painstaking step in setting up Montoya, from hacking his computer, to copying his damn tattoo.

The toughest decision was whether to let Abby live, but Duke has no doubt that he made the logical choice. It served his purpose. It lessened the heat on him, while confirming the psychological profile he’d so carefully crafted for Tom-Tom Montoya: The corrupt-but-cornered cop eats his gun, or whatever.

Everyone in authority had behaved just as Duke had predicted. They’d expressed the briefest shock before breathing a collective sigh of relief, satisfied that the evil predator was dead, delighted to give themselves credit.

Was this tidy box of poetic justice too neat to be believed? No. Officials never second-guess the luck that saves the cost of a trial.

He takes one last suck of his cigarette and extinguishes the butt. He has had enough of children, with all their bloody whining. He hungers now for someone a bit more seasoned, and so has improvised this diversion with Edgy Reggie.

And afterward? On with his next plan. He chuckles at his own ingenuity.

No more children from Jefferson County. That raises too much heat. Instead, he’ll take a few trips up to Oregon, cruise the streets, pick out a coed or runaway. Any girl even an inch into adulthood will raise far less fuss than an underage target. And hookers, of course, disappear all the time.

In the meantime, Duke will pursue this personal project on the side. A bit impulsive of him, perhaps, but he has everything ready. He has cleaned and oiled his gear. He even has a pan of cocoa prewarmed on the stove.

He pictures how it will go: Little Edgy Reggie will come in, eager to help with poor Abby. He will be anxious and apologetic and—what?—grateful! Yes, so grateful that she has come to see his traumatized daughter. He will say that his wife and Abby are together in her bedroom, just down the hall, and that he was just about to bring them some hot chocolate. Would she like a cup?

He will worry that it’s not hot enough and ask her to take a sip. And once she has swallowed and told him it’s fine, it’s delicious, he’ll escort her down the hall.

When they get to the door, he will continue the charade, knocking and calling out, “Reeve is here, sweetheart,” stalling, letting the drug enter her blood stream, watching for that telltale slump, that first stumble.

Maybe she’ll even giggle, tell him she’s feeling woozy.

It will be so easy. He’ll open the door and sweep her up and lock her down. The handcuffs are ready.

Duke peers through the streaked window and watches Reeve’s headlights glinting through the rain. The beams jerk and sway as the Jeep makes slow progress toward him, bumping along the driveway, growing brighter.

At last, she has arrived.

He is erect with anticipation.

He watches her park the Jeep in the carport next to his Chevy Tahoe, just as he’d instructed. He hears her car door slam. Slowly, he stirs the pan of cocoa on the stove, turning down the gas so that it doesn’t burn.

SEVENTY-FOUR

“Mr. Hill?”

“Call me Ernest,” the man says, opening the front door and showing her inside. He thanks her for coming, takes her jacket.

“Abby and her mother are in the back,” he says, gesturing vaguely. “I was just making Abby some cocoa. Would you like some?”

“Yes, thanks, that would be nice.”

He leads, she follows. The house is so dark and quiet it seems cavernous. The living room appears clean, but what’s that lingering smell? She pauses at the dining table and sets her purse on a chair before entering the kitchen, which is functional and well-equipped, with a wide butcher-block surface and a sturdy rack of knives. There are no feminine touches that she can see.

He lifts the pan from the stove and pours equal amounts of the steaming liquid into two red mugs set out on the counter. “I hope it’s okay,” he says, handing her one.

She sips the chocolaty beverage. “It’s perfect,” she says. She takes another sip so that the mug will be less full and easier to carry. It’s tasty, but there’s something off.

It’s just the odor of cigarette smoke, she tells herself. You need to get over your prejudice. Smokers have a habit, an addiction that is hard to break.

She glances around. The kitchen opens into what appears to be a utility room, with a washer and dryer near a side door. There are windows but no curtains. “You have a nice home,” she says, trying to be polite.

He smiles at her and lifts the other mug. “Let’s go back to Abby’s room. They’ll be so glad you’re here.”

He turns and exits the kitchen, and she follows him through the house, thinking he looks nothing like his daughter. He’s tall, while Abby is petite. He has black hair and caramel coloring, while Abby is blonde and fair.

The hallway is gloomy to the point of being funereal, and she wishes he would turn on a light. His boots are loud on the hardwood floor.

She realizes that she’s exhausted, far more tired than she believed, and wonders whether it’s safe to drive all the way back to San Francisco in a storm. Maybe not. She should probably stay in Jefferson for one more night.

He stops outside a door at the end of the hall and calls out that Reeve is here. His voice is deep and rough and oddly familiar.

The mug of cocoa grows heavy in her hand.

They wait, but there’s no response from inside.

She leans against the wall.

He’s patiently holding the red mug, watching her.

Still, no response from inside. It’s very quiet.

He’s watching her with a smile that morphs into a sneer. “How is it? How’s the cocoa, Reggie?”

Fear pulses through her. She looks at the liquid with alarm, hurls the mug at him, and spins away, fleeing down the hallway, bouncing off walls.

She pushes herself to run, feeling clumsy and slow, like running in a dream. He snickers close behind as she stumbles through the living room on heavy legs. She lurches into the kitchen, spins, sees the knife rack, and snatches up a big one.

She whirls to face him. The blade glints in the air between them.

His eyes are wary, but his chest is a huge, plaid target that expands and contracts as he breathes.

She lunges at him, slashing. He steps back and she misses but recovers quickly and, waving the knife, backs into the utility room.

He follows and she strikes again, stabbing at him, the point of the blade piercing his jeans and cutting his thigh. He howls, knocking the knife aside and smacking her across the face so that she staggers backward, bumping hard against the washing machine.

He’s on her in an instant. He grabs her by the hair and cracks her cheek against something hard. She whirls and flays, knocking things to the floor, grabbing a jug of bleach and swinging it around. She aims for his face, barely misses his chin, and scrambles away. She’s reaching for the doorknob when she feels the necklace tighten around her throat. She thrashes, the necklace strangling her, digging into the soft flesh under her chin. She spins around, elbows sharp, and suddenly her feet are out from under her. The necklace snaps as she falls, the beads bouncing and rolling away as her skull smacks hard on the tile.

He seizes her by the neck and hauls her to her feet. She skitters sideways, gasping for air, punching but not connecting, kicking and thrashing and hastening the effect of the drug that is racing through her veins.

SEVENTY-FIVE

By the time they reach the back room, she’s barely struggling.

She weighs less than he would have thought, small and feather-light.

He sets her down on the cot, stretches her out, and begins to undress her. He pulls off her black sweater and black bra and tosses them on the floor.

He studies her skin. Her nipples are the color of milk tea, topping firm, small breasts veined with pale blue. Her skin is etched here and there with the pink-white memories of old mutilations. His fingers touch the round, crenulated burn marks that dot her forearms, and then linger over the matching, whorled spots on her shoulders where she was electrocuted by Daryl Wayne Flint.

He murmurs to himself that virgins are overrated.

She moans as he removes her boots and socks and slips off her jeans and panties. He admires her there, small and feminine and spread-eagled on the mattress. Reverently, he traces the strange, shiny scallops on both thighs. Bite marks, he decides. He examines the rings of scars around her ankles.

He flips her over and admires the pattern of scars on her back, long, feathery strips left by a whip, no doubt. He pictures a fresh pattern of burns on her buttocks, now unmarked.

With effort, he restrains himself from unzipping to explore the deeper contours of her body. Later, when she’s alert and frightened, it will be so much better. And afterward, when he’s ready to go again, he’ll take his time adding his own marks to the map of scars on her skin. But not now, not when her eyes are rolling back in her head. Fucking a girl in this state is akin to masturbation, barely better than fucking a dead whore. He likes to watch the fear light up their eyes.

He handcuffs her to the bed frame, noticing the fine scars that bracelet both wrists. He stares at her for a long moment, imagining what he’ll do when she wakes, and then he closes the door.

He gets a bathroom towel, cleans up the spilled cocoa in the hallway, tosses the towel in the laundry hamper.

He carries the mugs back to the kitchen. The one she threw is chipped.

The house has slipped deeper into darkness. He turns on lights, sets the mugs in the kitchen sink and fills them, along with the pan from the stove, with soapy water.