The Edge of Normal (11 page)

Glowering, she mutters, “Anyway, Flint is locked up … and a psychiatric hospital is just as secure as a prison, right? So I guess that’s all that really matters.”

“He’ll stay locked up for an extraordinarily long time, if I have any say about it. You can bet that I’ll keep flying up there every time a petition is sent to the judge.”

“The next hearing is coming up, isn’t it?”

“The Risk Review Board hasn’t gotten back to me with the date yet, but they will soon. It’s usually in January.”

Reeve forces Daryl Wayne Flint from her mind, sets aside her fork, and looks around. They had opted for convenience, walking over from the hotel to a chain restaurant with pulsing music and a bar spilling over with a boisterous crowd. Regretting their choice of dining establishment, she tries to figure out what seems so different from San Francisco. The people here are more casually dressed, no surprise. But there’s something other than the preponderance of flannel that’s unsettling.

“How’s your salad?” Dr. Lerner asks.

“Okay. But I kind of wish I’d ordered the salmon. How’s your pasta?”

“Bland. And I definitely wish I’d ordered the salmon,” he says, making a face.

Reeve turns her attention back to the singles scene churning around them, noticing two men dressed in camouflage, and several wearing baseball caps. Indoors. At night. It strikes her as odd.

“Are you okay?”

“Sure,” she says, glancing away from a heavily bearded mountain man who grins at her from the bar. As she looks from man to man, trying to figure out what’s nagging at her, it dawns on her that it’s Friday night—date night—yet most of these guys have no apparent interest in razors or personal grooming. Maybe she’s not one to judge, since it’s rare that she would find herself out on a Friday night, but is there some kind of message in all this facial hair?

“So,” Dr. Lerner says, interrupting her thoughts, “Jackie Burke intends to interview Tilly at home tomorrow.”

“That’s what she says. But I’m kind of surprised that any lawyer would want to work on the weekend, aren’t you?”

“No, this is a big case, so everyone will be working nonstop until all the evidence is in and the trial is over. Anyway, the Cavanaughs want us to come, too.”

“They do?”

“Since Burke is going to be interviewing Tilly, they’d like us to be there.”

“Well, I’m sure Jackie Burke will be thrilled to see me.”

“Tough. It’s what Tilly wants.” He studies her for a moment. “You don’t mind, do you? I’m sorry to drag you into this.”

“No, I get it. Talking to a lawyer is like feeding a crocodile.”

“And you realize that it’s a positive sign that Tilly has asked us to be there, that she already feels that kind of trust.”

“Sure, I understand. It’s just that I wasn’t really planning … uh, but anyway, if Tilly wants moral support, I’ll be there.”

Another quick glance at the mountain man at the bar, and a connection snaps into place: He reminds her of the guy with the smeared raincoat who hangs out by the BART station. She looks around, thinking that most of these whiskered faces remind her of the scruffy guys pushing carts around San Francisco.

“What?”

“Nothing,” she says, shaking her head.

“Ready to go?” Dr. Lerner pushes aside his unfinished bowl of pasta, and a few minutes later they’re outside in the wintery night air. The pulsing music fades behind them as they walk across the asphalt parking lot toward their hotel. The cold bites through Reeve’s clothes, and she jams her fists into her pockets.

“I probably don’t need to remind you,” he says, “but we need to take a back seat while Burke is interviewing Tilly tomorrow.”

“Of course. Quiet moral support, no smart remarks, I promise.”

“Although the truth is,” Dr. Lerner says, “I’ll be dying to ask about the dogs.”

“What dogs?”

“The cadaver-sniffing dogs.”

“What? You lost me.”

“Didn’t you hear? Crime scene investigators are searching both of the houses that Vanderholt rented, looking for those other missing girls.”

She jolts to a stop. “What missing girls?”

*   *   *

Back in her hotel room, Reeve boots up her computer and does a search. Tilly’s rescue and Vanderholt’s suicide attempt dominate local headlines, and it doesn’t take long to scan the news coverage and find more about the abductions bracketing Tilly Cavanaugh’s.

Hannah Creighton disappeared more than two years ago, a few months after turning twelve and several months before Tilly was taken. She was last seen on a golf course near her home, in the evening, practicing alone at the driving range.

Fourteen-year-old Abby Hill disappeared just ten weeks ago while camping at Jefferson Lake with her family. A rescue team searched the surrounding terrain and dragged the swimming area, but found no sign of Abby.

First Hannah, then Tilly, then Abby. No wonder the prosecutor was being such a bitch.

Reeve scrolls through the newspaper’s archives and reads everything she can find, hoping for some insight into how these three girls might be linked. They were all small girls, roughly the same in physical appearance, and vanished under similar circumstances. All three disappeared from an outdoor location, with no witnesses.

Most of the news stories were written by a reporter named Otis Poe, and Reeve follows a link to his blog. She scrolls down, skimming.

The guy seems obsessed with finding a connection between these three cases. He rants that Vanderholt is the obvious perpetrator, yet has not been named as a suspect in the abductions of Hannah Creighton and Abby Hill. And Poe eviscerates the copycat theories floated by an unnamed source at the FBI.

While reading, Reeve keeps flashing on Tilly’s burns and is relieved that details of the girl’s injuries haven’t been mentioned in any articles. At least not yet. It’s terrible reading personal facts about yourself in the news. But of course it’s even worse reading lies.

Exhausted, she stands and stretches, easing the stiffness in her back. She opts for a quick shower, then turns out the light and crawls between the clean, crisp sheets. The bed is soft, the pillows are just right, but she lies there, wide-eyed and alert.

If Vanderholt kidnapped all three of them, where are the other two?

Dead, most likely. But if that’s the case, why would he spare Tilly? Because she was the smallest? Because she didn’t fight back?

She tosses and turns, but sleep won’t come, so she gives up and finds the remote, hoping for some mind-numbing television. Instead, she finds the local news.

Here is a reporter standing outside taut yellow lines of police tape, gesturing to the house cordoned off behind her. “Crime scene investigators brought specially trained dogs to both residences where Randy Vanderholt allegedly held young Tilly Cavanaugh captive in two different basements.”

The video changes to a German shepherd jumping out of a pickup truck, and then to a black lab, nose to the ground, with a police officer trailing after it. The voice-over says: “Sources confirm that these dogs will be searching for any sign of two other missing girls, Hannah Creighton and Abby Hill, whose disappearances may be linked to Tilly Cavanaugh’s kidnapping.”

Next, a man with gray skin and a bushy moustache is saying how shocked he is that Randy Vanderholt, the ordinary-seeming guy he hired to work as a janitor at Three Rivers Mall, is under arrest. “You just wouldn’t think he had that kind of evil in him,” the man says.

“Yeah, right,” Reeve scoffs.

“Randy was quiet,” the manager continues. “Maybe not the brightest guy around, but I saw him helping old folks, people in wheelchairs, things like that.” He shakes his head. “It’s awful creepy to think of him as a kidnapper. But I guess it’s always the ones you least expect.”

Next, a reporter interviews the girls’ mothers, who are clearly distraught. Mrs. Creighton, a worn-looking woman with haunted eyes, says in her wispy voice, “We’re still hopeful, of course. But any news would be better than not knowing.”

A minute later, Mrs. Hill is saying essentially the same thing, but her face is tense and she stands with her fists clenched.

Reeve clicks off the news and turns out the light, but can’t sleep. She keeps seeing the bald pain in those faces, picturing her own parents in that same situation: having a child missing for so long that even finding a corpse would come as relief.

EIGHTEEN

Saturday

Duke opens a thermos of coffee and pours himself a fresh cup. He was up early, pasting on a thick moustache before loading gear into his van and driving up into the hills overlooking the Cavanaughs’ home.

Visual surveillance is another of his specialties, and the hilly, wooded terrain that rims the town of Jefferson makes it a watcher’s paradise. Over the years, he has staked out several choice locations around town. He found this secluded spot, wedged between a thick copse of trees and a granite boulder, long ago, when Tilly was still a carefree kid, just one of a few select targets.

The heavy cloud cover that obscures nearby mountaintops gives the scene below him a flat, even light. No rain, just a damp, cold threat. He lifts his binoculars and peers down at the L-shaped house. No activity yet. And he’s pleased that no reporters are congregating at the gate this morning.

He adjusts the volume on his earbuds, hearing nothing.

In Duke’s experience, the distraught parents of a freshly kidnapped child are in a panic to cooperate with law enforcement. It had been almost as simple to take control of the Cavanaughs’ cell phones as it had been to bug Tilly’s bedroom. Regrettably, Mrs. Cavanaugh’s cell has since been broken and replaced, but Mr. Cavanaugh’s is still working like a demon. So, just in case Mr. Cavanaugh has carelessly left his phone in a coat pocket or on the charger, Duke now dials his number and listens to it ring. And ring.

“Hello?”

Duke says nothing.

A pause, a click, and next he hears footsteps, followed by Gordon Cavanaugh’s voice muttering, “Another damn restricted number.”

Duke smiles, sure the phone is being carried to where it will be close at hand.

Just then a white sedan pulls up at the gate. He lifts his binoculars as the gate sweeps open, and watches the car drive through and park at an odd angle. He gets a glimpse of Jackie Burke, looking crisp and stern, as always, accompanied by one uniformed deputy. They hurry to the front door.

“Here we go,” Duke says aloud.

He hears a weak buzz, voices too soft to be distinguishable. Soon, the signal strengthens. Meaningless pleasantries are being exchanged, and Duke easily identifies the voice of each family member: Gordon and Shirley Cavanaugh, their son Matt, and then Tilly. The deputy, named Chris something, is tasked with recording Tilly’s statement.

“Come on, Tilly-girl,” Duke mutters. “Don’t disappoint me.”

He adjusts his earbuds and sips his coffee.

Another vehicle arrives at the gate, and Duke is so eager to get a good look at its occupants that he nearly spills his coffee as he grabs his binoculars.

The driver wheels through the gate and down the driveway. The dark SUV parks next to Burke’s sedan, and Duke recognizes the young driver as Deputy Nick Hudson, no surprise. The wiry male passenger is clearly Dr. Ezra Lerner, that pseudosophisticated shrink.

Ah, and here is the famous Regina Victoria LeClaire. Edgy Reggie, all grown up and calling herself Reeve. He grins and leans forward as she comes around the SUV. He admires the tight curve of her ass and, with a pang of regret at not having his camera ready, watches her follow the others into the house.

In a moment, Duke hears more meaningless pleasantries, coffee poured and pastry offered. He waits impatiently, feeling bored until Jackie Burke’s grating voice says, “If you don’t mind, let’s get started. Now, Tilly, would you prefer to talk with me privately?”

“Um, no. I want my mom with me. And Reeve and Dr. Lerner, too. Is that okay?”

“Of course,” she says, but Duke chortles, because he can tell from her tone that she’s displeased.

“Now,” Burke continues, “before we begin, I want you to know how much we appreciate your cooperation.” She goes on talking about legal mumbo jumbo, explaining what to expect in the weeks and months ahead, adding, “I know the news coverage is tough, but it should die down soon. And in the meantime, we’ll do our best to guard your family’s privacy. But, uh, do I understand that you’re considering a move somewhere out of town?”

Duke sits up.

“Well, we’re just in the talking stages,” Mrs. Cavanaugh volunteers with a nervous laugh. “We do have family down in Fresno.”

“That idea really sucks, if you ask me,” declares a young male voice, clearly Tilly’s brother.

“But, honey, it would make things easier on Tilly,” says Mrs. Cavanaugh in a placating tone. “Besides, you might like it.”

“But why move? I mean, everything that twisted perv did to her is bad enough. Why does the whole family have to suffer?”

“Don’t worry, Matt,” Mr. Cavanaugh says. “We would definitely wait until the end of the school year, after you graduate. It would be summertime before we’d even consider moving.”

“Will the trial be over by then?” Mrs. Cavanaugh asks.

“It’s hard to say for certain,” Burke responds, “but that might be pushing it.”

“Maybe there won’t even be a trial,” says the son. “Maybe he’ll actually kill himself next time.”

“Matt, that’s enough,” Mr. Cavanaugh says, cutting him off. “We’ll have to see how events unfold.” A pause. “So, Jackie, tell us: Do you expect that the public defender will try for some kind of plea bargain?”

“That would save Tilly an ordeal, wouldn’t it?” Mrs. Cavanaugh asks.

“And then we wouldn’t have to move,” the son says.

“We have to go with the assumption that there will be a trial,” Jackie Burke says evenly. “I realize it’s an ordeal you’d prefer to avoid, but our first priority has to be building a case so that Randy Vanderholt is held accountable.”

“And punished,” adds Mr. Cavanaugh.

“But we can’t plan our whole lives around this trial,” the son complains.

“I’m working on this case exclusively,” Burke says. “I’ll do my best to keep things moving. And with luck, Vanderholt will be arraigned early next week.”