The Edge of Normal (20 page)

THIRTY-SEVEN

His chin itches but Duke is careful not to scratch at the fake beard while he drives. He wears sunglasses, despite the overcast weather, plus a baseball cap, so he’s confident that no one will recognize him. Or the white van, which he has rented using one of his fake IDs. He eases through traffic, following just a few cars back as Mrs. Cavanaugh winds her way through downtown traffic with Tilly riding shotgun.

Traffic lights seem to be in sync with his wishes, beaming green or red as needed. Things are going smoothly, but Duke realizes that, being tired and cranky, he might be prone to mistakes. He must remain vigilant. After listening to yesterday’s recording of little Miss Tilly’s detailed confession to Reeve, he decided to waste no time.

Mrs. Cavanaugh turns her gold Infiniti SUV into the supermarket parking lot, and Duke wheels in behind, steering left to her right, circumnavigating the lot until she has parked. He watches while the pair walks inside, then parks in a slot that opens up nearby. Perfect.

He turns off the ignition, puts on his black leather gloves, and fetches the plastic bag from the floor, glad to be getting it out of this vehicle before it begins to smell.

He climbs out of the van, just another guy in a heavy plaid shirt and jeans making a quick run to the store. But as he approaches the front of the supermarket, he stops and gently knocks his head with the heel of his hand, in that universal gesture of just remembering something. He turns, heads back through the parking lot, and raises his key fob, aiming it at a vehicle. The gold Infiniti chirps as the doors unlock.

Casually, he opens the driver’s side door, climbs inside, and settles behind the wheel, placing the plastic bag on the floor. He glances around, checks the mirrors. No one is watching. In one quick motion, he opens the bag and spills the dead animal onto the floor, just where Tilly will be placing her feet. He shoves it far enough under the passenger seat so that only a bit of the tail protrudes. Dark tail, dark floor mat. Not enough to be noticed unless you really look.

Satisfied, he climbs out of the vehicle, purposely leaving the doors unlocked, and doesn’t even glance behind him as he walks away. He’ll toss the plastic bag in the trash, make a quick purchase of Marlboro Lights, and then head to the other side of town, where he has a date to keep with Edgy Reggie.

THIRTY-EIGHT

Reeve rationalized that she hadn’t exactly lied to Dr. Lerner. She’d answered a question with a question, which seemed just enough of a difference to shade the ethics of the whole exchange. “Don’t you think Tilly is freaked out by all the cops and all the reporters?” she’d responded, heart thudding, to his question about the source of Tilly’s fears. “Don’t you think that’s why she keeps saying she wants to move?”

Luckily, Dr. Lerner had been under a tight schedule, so the conversation was cut short. Once he’d said good-bye, she wasted no time in taking the envelope upstairs to her room.

Reeve knew she shouldn’t, but she couldn’t resist opening the envelope and slipping out the pages. She flipped through quickly, then sat cross-legged on the bed and fanned them out before her, poring over every page. There were full descriptions of both houses, plus details about the searches, but most of what she found wasn’t particularly helpful. The file was clearly incomplete, with sections blacked out and big gaps in sequence, so it was impossible to guess what was missing.

Vanderholt’s “confession” was given verbatim, however, and she read it twice. But there wasn’t a single mention of a colleague or partner. At one point Vanderholt had said, “I may not seem that smart, but this kind of thing, you know, it just takes dedication.”

Was she imagining it, or did his words sound artificial? She rubs her eyes, wondering if Vanderholt had been coached.

And didn’t Tilly also say something odd? What was it?

The notion flits away. Probably nothing.

She gets up, stretches, then hurries downstairs to the front desk, where the clerk provides a map of Jefferson. It’s a ridiculously imprecise, cartoonish image covered with advertisements, but it will have to do. Back in her room, she boots up a computer search, studies the screen, finds some paper, and jots down notes starred with questions. A few minutes later, she slides Vanderholt’s file back into its envelope, grabs her jacket, and heads out.

Cold needles her face as she exits the hotel, hustles around the building and across the parking lot. Turning the corner, she glimpses something odd: a bearded guy in a baseball cap standing next to her Jeep. The hair on the back of her neck stands up.

The bearded man is hunched, looking down at the ground, and then he disappears.

She hurries over. As she gets closer, she finds him crouched down in a squat with his back to her. “Hey,” she says, hitting a note halfway between greeting and warning.

He stands up and turns around. A tall guy, squinty eyes, compressed mouth. “Oh, hey, sorry, is this your car?” He gestures helplessly toward the ground with his blunt, square hands. “Sorry. I’m such a klutz.”

The man drops back down into a squat and continues picking up the coins that Reeve now sees scattered across the pavement. “I’ll be out of your way in just a minute,” he mumbles, turning away.

“Let me help.” Reeve stoops to gather up change. She notices an odor of garlic and cigarettes while handing him several quarters, but forgets all about him the moment he walks away.

*   *   *

According to her map, Redrock Road is within easy driving distance, so Reeve cranks up the Jeep’s heater and heads there first.

The house where Tilly Cavanaugh was first held captive is not hard to find: “Pervert” is spray-painted on the fence, and the house is cordoned off with yellow police tape.

Reeve parks the Jeep on the street, gets out, and pauses on the sidewalk, getting a feel for the layout of the small, white house. It’s an older home on a weed-infested lot. There’s a fractured picture window and an official-looking notice posted on the front door. The house seems empty as a sucked-out egg.

A “For Sale” sign hangs near the mailbox, and the real estate agent’s cheerful placard looks out of place.

Reeve steps off the sidewalk, slips under the police tape, and quickly moves around the side of the single-story house. Dead, dry twigs snap underfoot. It’s cold and she has forgotten her gloves.

A small patch of concrete at the side of the house marks a side door. She approaches, tries the knob, finds it locked, and continues around to the back, studying the footprint of the house. There are no basement windows, not even any vents to indicate there might be a lower level.

Two steps lead up to the back porch. Reeve drops down into a crouch and peers between the wooden steps, searching the darkness. There’s a dank, earthy odor. Something stirs behind her and she jumps to her feet, startling a bird that flies away. She turns back and mounts the steps.

A face gawks at her and she blanches, then feels foolish. She leans in and places her forehead against the sliding glass door, cupping her hands around her mirrored reflection and holding her breath to keep from fogging the glass. Just inside is a dingy kitchen, open cupboards, a dirty tile floor. Laying a cheek against the cold glass, she tries to see deeper into the interior. In one corner is a heap of what appears to be broken drywall, but a wall blocks her line of sight.

She grips the handle and rattles the sliding glass door in its metal track. The only thing keeping her out is an old-fashioned latch. She bumps the door back and forth, feeling for weakness. The latch taunts her.

She drops into a squat and studies the lock, hoping for a gap wide enough for a tool of some kind, but finds it too narrow. With a cluck of disappointment, she steps back. What would a burglar do? Her eyes travel along the frame, considering how the door slides along the track, the rollers at the top.…

Stepping close, she opens her arms wide, grips the handle in her left hand, the edge of the door in her right, and lifts, straining.

Too heavy.

She drops her arms, reconsiders, and steps in again. With bent knees, putting both palms flat on the glass close to her chest, she inhales and shoves upward. With one hard push, the door lifts in the frame and the lock clicks free.

The door glides open and she steps inside, wrinkling her nose at the smell of old cooking grease. Her steps seem loud in the empty house. She finds the entrance to the basement just off the kitchen. Broken edges of drywall surround the doorway and debris crunches underfoot as she approaches. Ignoring a beat of trepidation, she leans forward and peers into the blackness, then looks around, searching for a light. She finds the switch covered with black powder, the special talc of crime scene investigators. Carefully, with one knuckle, she prepares to flip the light, then freezes. A rustling noise.

She whirls around, stares hard, but sees nothing. Creeping back to the sliding glass door, she searches the yard and locates the sound: the bird is again flitting through dead leaves, hunting for grubs.

Exasperated with herself, she strides back and flips the switch. Light glares ahead, illuminating the basement stairs, and she heads down. Her boots make disturbingly familiar sounds on the wooden treads, and when they touch the concrete floor, she realizes this is the first time she has confronted a basement since Daryl Wayne Flint unlocked her door.

She stands swaying in the center of the room, absorbing the blank hideousness of the place. The room is tiny, barely the size of a walk-in closet. The concrete walls are painted not the gray of her own prison, but a sickly yellow.

She closes her eyes and begins to hyperventilate as the cruelty of this place registers in her bones. It’s worse than any cell in any prison. There’s no Geneva Convention, no time served. No chance to tunnel out with fellow prisoners, or to bribe a guard into helping you escape. No amnesty. No hope.

She shudders and opens her eyes, chastising herself:
Breathe normally. It’s not as bad as learning to ride an elevator. It’s not even locked.

She turns in a slow a circle, studying the cramped space. When she has seen enough, she spits on the floor and hurries up the stairs, where she pauses just long enough to flip off the light and to wipe the blackness off on her jeans.

THIRTY-NINE

Perhaps it’s logical that Buster Ewing Realty is located near a hospital, since real estate deals surely follow a good number of births and deaths. But the downtown area is a maze of one-way streets, and despite the blue signs directing Reeve to Jefferson Medical Center, despite the small, precise map on her cell phone, the address is seemingly impossible to reach. Each time Reeve thinks she finally has gotten her bearings, she makes a wrong turn and barely escapes oncoming traffic.

After the third mishap, she detours into a pharmacy parking lot.

Close enough. She’ll walk.

She gets out of her car and a winter gust slams her door shut. She hurries into the wind, wondering what exactly she hopes to learn from Emily Ewing.

According to news reports that Reeve has pored over recently, it was this Realtor who first noticed something weird about the Redrock house, and it was her call that eventually led police to Randy Vanderholt’s lair. The articles were vague, but still, Emily Ewing might know something significant that didn’t quite fit into an article or sound bite. At the very least, she might supply a better map than the flimsy handout from the hotel.

Reeve fights the wind for two blocks to the south and two more to the west before spotting Buster Ewing Realty. The business is housed in a plain stucco building that was clearly built as a private residence and later converted into an office. A Lexus sedan is the sole vehicle in the small parking lot.

Reeve follows the sidewalk up to a heavy wooden door with an old-fashioned leaded glass window. The place seems so quiet, it feels appropriate to knock, but a tall placard declares: “WE’RE OPEN!”

The knob turns easily and a chime sounds as Reeve steps into a room smelling of fresh oranges.

“Hello!” exclaims an angular, stylish woman seated at a nearby desk. “Come in, come in! It’s freezing out there, isn’t it?” She stands, folding a napkin around orange peels and bread crusts and neatly tossing it into a wastepaper basket. She dusts her fingers, saying, “Pardon my lunch. I’m Emily Ewing.”

Reeve introduces herself, and as they shake hands, can’t help but notice Ewing’s red fingernails, which match her red, extravagantly high heels. She seems very tall.

Ewing gestures toward a set of brightly upholstered chairs. “Please have a seat. I was just going to make some coffee. Would you like some?”

Reeve has no time to decline before Emily Ewing steps over to a counter and begins scooping coffee grounds into a filter. “I’m a total caffeine addict, I have to confess.”

There are stacks of brochures and magazines, all advertising real estate. Spying a stack of maps, Reeve picks one up, saying, “Well, I guess I have to confess that I’m not really shopping for a house.”

“Too bad for me.” Ewing turns around and flashes a grin. “So, what can I do for you?”

“I’d like to talk to you about Randy Vanderholt.”

Ewing’s smile falters. “You’re not a reporter, are you?”

“No, I’m a friend of Tilly Cavanaugh’s.”

“Oh, that poor girl! Can you imagine?” Her eyes go wide and she presses both palms to her breastbone. “I’m so glad that man is dead. My lord! What an animal!”

Ewing steps toward her and Reeve can’t help but flinch, expecting a hug. Instead, Ewing lightly touches her shoulder and again motions to a brightly upholstered chair, saying, “Please, please sit down.”

The coffee machine burbles while the woman continues talking: “I’m not really in favor of the death penalty, you know, but with sexual predators, I make an exception.” She straightens up and flashes Reeve a bright smile. “I guess that makes me a hypocrite, doesn’t it? Ha! Anyway, I’m glad that man’s dead. Saves all of us from having to read about him in the newspapers and see his face on TV every damn day for god knows how long.”