The Edge of Normal (14 page)

“Everybody’s a detective,” he says in a mocking tone.

“Same MO, obviously,” she retorts. “Similar girls, same body types, all of them taken around dusk, while doing some kind of sporting or outdoor activity, no witnesses.” When Hudson doesn’t respond, she adds, “According to Tilly, Vanderholt never mentioned any other girls, so if there’s a connection, you haven’t found it.”

“Not yet. Unfortunately.” Hudson keeps his eyes on the road.

“But what do
you
think? Did he kill Abby Hill and Hannah Creighton?”

“Hard to say.”

“Well, what do you think about the copycat theories?” she persists.

“They’re theories.”

“Can’t you tell us anything?”

“There are lots of theories being pursued.”

“How enlightening,” she says flatly. “Well, your detectives better find some kind of evidence soon, because I’m sure those girls’ parents are going nuts.”

“It’s got to be tough on them,” Dr. Lerner remarks, “getting their hopes up, and then having no answers. No matter how bad the news might be, they’ve already been through hell.”

“Of course they want answers, and we want to provide them.” Hudson’s tone sharpens. “It’s just not that easy. And now there’s a rumor about some new strategy coming from Vanderholt’s attorney.”

“What?” Reeve sits forward. “What kind of strategy?”

“Don’t know. But he’s bringing in his top investigator, a tough guy named Molland.”

“But Vanderholt already confessed.”

“Exactly. That’s what’s got us all scratching our heads. Because Pierson—the defense attorney—is a veteran public defender. He’s smart. And he’s not one to blow smoke.”

“So what does that mean?”

“Who knows? Whatever it is, it can’t be good. So whips are cracking. The DA is snapping at Burke, and she’s barking at her investigators, and the whole department is screaming at JSOTF.”

“Screaming at what?”

“The Joint Special Operations Task Force,” Dr. Lerner and Deputy Hudson respond in unison, and then flash each other a grin.

“What exactly is this special task force supposed to be doing?” she asks Hudson.

“They better rev up their investigation, for starters. The goal is to put the HRT in action.”

“The HRT?”

“The Hostage Rescue Team.”

“You like acronyms, don’t you?”

“Sorry. Anyway, I think they’ll probably take another stab at rounding up registered sex offenders.”

“Oh, great,” she scoffs. “That approach sure helped find Vanderholt, didn’t it?”

*   *   *

Reeve carries two mugs of hot chocolate down the hall to Tilly’s bedroom, wondering if she’s really prepared for this new role. The door is ajar. She nudges it open and finds Tilly sitting up in bed, wearing plaid pajamas, her new hairdo in a mess. She’s busily drawing with a charcoal pencil, but closes her sketch pad and tosses it aside to accept the offered mug.

Tilly sips the liquid and scoffs, “Cocoa? Really? I’m not a little kid, you know.”

“Sorry. I thought you’d like it.”

“Well, I prefer coffee now. For future reference.”

“The adult beverage. So noted.” Reeve takes a seat at the foot of the bed and sips her hot chocolate before softly asking, “So, you had a bad night, huh?”

Tilly hums an indifferent note. Her eyes look almost bruised, and her skin seems very pale against her newly dyed hair. “I mean, I’m home in my own bed, with good food every day, with my family taking care of me. What could I possibly have to complain about?” She sips more of her hot chocolate, scowling.

Reeve looks around the room, letting the challenge settle. She sees that Tilly has added some drawings to her bulletin board.

“It’s just that I’m not a stupid little kid anymore, okay?” Tilly says hotly. “But they’re treating me like some kind of baby. So here I am, with no TV and no computer and no phone. Plus, I have absolutely no friends anymore, because whenever they call, they treat me like I’m some kind of freak.” She takes a gulp of her hot chocolate. “But what do we have to talk about, anyway?”

“It’s tough, I know.”

“I mean, I’m glad to be home and everything, but I’m sick of how everyone is treating me. And I’m sick of being stuck inside watching Harry Potter movies.” Tilly rocks back and forth, an angry woman-child with her knees clutched to her chest.

“I understand that.”

“I mean, after spending, like, a year locked up in a dungeon, getting raped and sucking cock, do they really think I can’t handle TV?”

Reeve absorbs the rough talk. She tries and fails to find any words of comfort to offer across the bed of twisted sheets. Standing, she carries her mug of hot chocolate to the other side of the room and looks at some artwork on Tilly’s bulletin board. Charcoal sketches and watercolors.

“These are new.”

Tilly glances over. “Yeah.”

Reeve bends to take a closer look at a black, purple, and orange version of a famous painting. “This is called
The Scream,
right? By Munch? It’s really good.”

Tilly gives her an unreadable look, drains her mug, sets it aside. “Did you talk to my parents, like I asked?”

“About moving? Your folks sound pretty serious about visiting your aunt down in Fresno.”

“Visiting isn’t moving.”

“Well, with the trial coming up—” Reeve gestures with empty palms.

“But I told that lady lawyer everything that I was, that I … I told her everything. So now she can just leave me alone, right?”

“I wish that were the case.”

Tilly crosses her arms and scowls.

“Sounds like your parents might be open to moving after the trial.”

“That’s not soon enough.”

“You could be homeschooled for awhile. That’s what I did.”

The girl shoots Reeve a look of disgust, snatches up the charcoal pencil, and grabs her sketch pad, holding it closed in her lap.

“Listen Tilly,” Reeve approaches, sits on the edge of the bed, “I’ve been thinking about those two other missing girls. Can you think back a couple of months ago? Did Vanderholt start acting weird, or different in any way?”

“No. I keep telling everybody, he moved me to that other dungeon. That was the only thing that changed.”

“Did he say anything about another girl?”

“I told you, he’s not the one that took Abby or Hannah,” she says, opening the sketch pad. “Now go away.”

Reeve purses her lips and carries the two empty mugs out to the kitchen, where she hands them to Mrs. Cavanaugh.

“Thank you so much for your help, Reeve,” the tall woman says, setting the mugs in the sink. “I can’t tell you how much—” she chokes on her words, clears her throat. “Well, I’m just so glad to have your help in getting my little girl back to normal.”

Reeve can only shrug, thinking that Tilly is no longer her little girl, wondering if any of them can ever hope to be “normal.” She approaches the group gathered around the kitchen table: Mr. Cavanaugh, Deputy Hudson, and Dr. Lerner. They are silent, all eyes upon her, as if she has interrupted something.

“She dismissed me,” she says, feeling like a failure.

Mr. Cavanaugh groans.

“Oh, no. I’m so sorry,” Mrs. Cavanaugh says. “I don’t know why she would do that.”

Reeve puts up a hand. “Believe me, I completely understand. I was exactly like that, up and down, for a long time.”

“She had a bad night.” Mr. Cavanaugh shares a look with his wife.

Mrs. Cavanaugh grasps her husband’s arm. “She woke up screaming.”

Reeve feels their eyes fix on her. It’s clear they’re hoping for more, but her tongue fails to find a single adequate sentence.

After a beat, Dr. Lerner volunteers, “It’s a difficult time, especially after talking with Burke on Saturday, having to recount all those details about what happened.”

Reeve shoots him a look of gratitude.

“I can prescribe something to help her sleep,” Dr. Lerner continues. “And there’s no reason to rush today’s session. We can postpone it until she’s comfortable, but let’s give her a few minutes. She’ll come around.”

And sure enough, Tilly pads into the kitchen moments later, saying nothing as she loops her arms around her mother’s waist.

TWENTY-THREE

Reeve climbs into the front passenger seat of Nick Hudson’s SUV and buckles her seat belt. The Cavanaughs are having an extended session with Dr. Lerner, but since Hudson needs to return to work, he has offered to take her back to the hotel. She scrunches down low in her seat and hides from the hungry eyes of the news teams clustered at the gate. But after the first turn, she sits back up, paying close attention to street signs, noticing landmarks and distinctive Christmas decorations. If she wants to go shopping, she’ll need to learn to navigate around Jefferson.

He fiddles with the radio as they head into town, turning up the volume on country songs with forlorn, heartbreaking lyrics. Meanwhile, he keeps glancing over at her.

“You know,” he says finally, “I’ve been wanting to apologize.”

“For what?”

“For my lame comments about Stockholm Syndrome.”

She scoffs. “Why? It’s not like it’s all that common in law enforcement.”

“That’s no excuse. I’ve studied some psychology, and I know a few things about PTSD, so I should be up to speed.”

“Well, I’m sure you don’t come across it every day.”

“The thing is, I’ve seen some real mean behavior, where the husband beats his wife until she’s as good as trapped and he’s nothing but a jailer.”

“Sure. Okay, so I forgive you.” Her tone is so flip that she fears he’ll think she’s flirting.

A minute later, he says, “Um, if you don’t mind my asking, whatever happened with your kidnapper?”

Her stomach tightens, but she says lightly, “He’s in a mental lock-up facility.”

“Not a prison?”

“Nope.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“That’s Washington state.”

He grunts his disapproval. “So, not guilty by reason of insanity?”

“You mean NGRI?” she quips. “See? I know some acronyms, too.”

He tips his head in her direction.

“But that might have been better than what actually happened.” She sighs.

“So, they decided he was culpable?”

“Right. Crazy, but culpable.”

“So he was aware that what he was doing wrong, but … Tell me what happened. I mean, if you don’t mind.”

“Well, by the time the defense team had put on their whole song and dance, Flint’s sentence was a lot less than we expected. And the truly bizarre twist was that once he was behind bars, the DOJ didn’t know what to do with him, he’s such a sick excuse for a human being. So, since he’s
psychologically unsound
,” she says, making quote marks with her fingers, “the prison ended up sending him to a mental hospital anyway.”

“What? That’s messed-up.”

“Like I said, that’s Washington state.”

He brakes at a red light and turns toward her. “Hey, I’ve been meaning to tell you that it’s pretty darn amazing how well you’ve adjusted.”

“Well now, doesn’t that sound condescending?”

“No, no, please don’t take it that way. I just mean that it’s amazing to see how well you interact with Tilly. I mean, you’ve been through so much, but look at you, you’re so poised.”

“Poised? That’s a first.”

“I doubt that.”

She shakes her head, saying nothing. But the moment she resumes watching for landmarks, an idea occurs to her. Keeping her voice calm, she asks, “Is there any way I could take a look at Randy Vanderholt’s file?”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“I’m just thinking about those other girls, wondering if—”

“No way. It’s an ongoing investigation.”

She gives him a look.

“I can’t believe you’re even asking this,” he grumbles.

“Why not? Dr. Lerner has seen it, hasn’t he?” She crosses her arms. “It has been my experience,” she says, taking a high tone, “that members of law enforcement are sometimes inclined to be helpful in unorthodox ways.”

He snickers. “Nice little speech.”

“And absolutely true.”

“Really? So give me one single example. What has been your experience of unorthodox-type help?”

“You’re skeptical?”

“One example,” he repeats.

She briefly closes her eyes. “Okay. In Washington, after the trial, the investigator told me that there’s a universal key that works on all handcuffs.”

“Yeah, so?”

“So I asked him for one, and he gave it to me. As a gift.”

“Well, he shouldn’t have.”

“So? Wasn’t that unorthodox?”

“Okay, point made.”

“All right. So, can I read Vanderholt’s file?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“It’s ridiculous to even ask.”

“Why? It might help me with Tilly.”

He drives on without answering.

“I’m trustworthy, I’m quiet, I’m anonymous. No one even knows I’m here.”

At a stoplight, he gives her a sideways glance. “I’ll think about it.”

“Great.”

“But I’m not promising anything,” he adds quickly. “Because listen, I don’t know what your arrangement is with Dr. Lerner, but I can guarantee that Jackie Burke would go absolutely ape-shit if she found out we were sharing that kind of information with you. Totally, unequivocally ape-shit.”

*   *   *

The Three Rivers Mall looks like any American sprawl of franchises surrounded by acres of asphalt. There are no rivers nearby that Reeve can see as she circles around, searching for a spot to park. Finally, she angles her father’s Jeep into a slot and makes a dash through the cold to the main entrance.

She’s on a mission, her jeans and jacket being no match for the glacial temperatures sliding down from the snow-covered mountains. An hour later, her shopping bag is full of warm clothes: three sweaters, a scarf, a pair of corduroys, gloves, and five pairs of socks. She’s wondering what she has forgotten when she spies Victoria’s Secret. Usually, the lingerie-clad mannequins seem ridiculous to the point of surrealism, but today a stream of holiday shoppers carries her through the doors, and she reemerges thirty minutes later with a sack of undergarments that are all black, all practical, yet all more feminine than anything she has ever owned.

A rare memory of shopping with her mother strikes her. “Merry Christmas to me, eh Mom?” she murmurs, searching for an exit.