The Edge of Normal (24 page)

Maybe he died. Maybe he had a heart attack
.

She strains to catch some hint of movement, holding her breath. The silence continues, and her pulse thuds in her ears.

At first, she thought she might be rescued. She imagined that she could scream and someone would hear, but the man always hits her if she screams. And the Master makes her bleed. The house must be far from other houses on the road, anyway, because she hears no traffic, and no one else ever comes.

Maybe he’s resting. Maybe he’s taking a nap.

She guessed it was daylight, but really has no idea of time. There’s never much light.

She imagines a clock, the seconds ticking past. She imagines a calendar and wonders what day it might be. Today might be Thanksgiving, or Christmas, or her sister’s birthday. She’s mad at herself for not keeping track, somehow. But there is no way to do it, and really, what difference does it make? She sleeps as much as possible, just to pass the time. It’s her only escape.

An eerie quiet permeates the house, and she feels a gnawing shame for wishing him dead.

He takes care of her. He is her “keeper,” that’s what the Master calls him. He brings her food; he removes her waste. As if she were just an animal in a cage.

If he dies, I die.

Her stomach growls again, and she pictures her mother’s pot roast with all the trimmings for dinner, then shoves the image aside. She gets to her feet, and in two steps she’s across the room, crouching beside the night-light, hoping for sound.

Move. Please move.

She closes her eyes, listens.

Don’t be dead, don’t be dead.

She listens hard, waiting.

Please.

She hears only her own thudding heart. The concrete floor is like ice beneath her bare feet and goose bumps prickle her skin.

What’s that?
A slight scuffing sound comes from above. She listens.

Nothing.

Then Abby hears the man grunt and she exhales, realizing only now that she’s been holding her breath.

With a creak of floorboards, his heavy feet hit the floor. She hears his tread, hears a door shut as he exits the room. His footsteps thump cross the floor overhead as he enters what is clearly the kitchen. She hears water running, then stop.

She shakes herself, crosses the room, settles back down on her cot, and wraps herself in the thin blanket. She curls up tight and tries to warm her bare feet in her hands.

She hears the high-pitched squeak of what she has concluded must be the refrigerator door. Next, she imagines that she hears the subtle clink of glass. Given the frequent odor on his breath, he’s probably getting another bottle of beer.

FORTY-SIX

Mornings are a peaceful time on Duke’s riverfront property. Sometimes he takes a crossbow and creeps out before dawn in search of prey. On occasion, he carries tools and walks the fence line, fixing what needs attention. This morning, he carries a steaming mug of coffee down to the riverbank, absently checking for tracks in the mud while he carefully reviews the details of both recent executions.

He figures that no one can connect either Vanderholt or Ewing to him. There’s no way. They’re both clean kills, one a shooting, one a drowning. No apparent link.

Duke feels confident that Emily Ewing’s death will look like a simple accident. A slip-and-fall, the insurance people call it. Too bad she wore those silly shoes. He warms his hands with the coffee mug, glad that troublemaking woman is out of the picture. Serves her right.

He takes a gulp of the fresh black brew and smacks his lips, sure he left no trace. No footprints, no witnesses, no risk. Twenty-five minutes after killing her, he dumped those tacky cowboy boots in a dumpster behind a liquor store. The hat he decided to keep.

Duke studies the gray surface of the river, so wide and deep here that it appears placid. A dangerous deception. The swift, cold water claims new lives every year. He drains his coffee and turns away, heading back toward the house, thinking that Vanderholt’s killing was the more elegant of the two. Riskier, but all the risks were calculated.

He had entered the warehouse before dawn. The lock took only seconds. He climbed the stairs and got settled on the roof, setting up the small tripod, adjusting the scope. The roof was uncomfortable, but it was flat and he wasn’t there to sleep. Best of all, he blended with the deep shade of the air conditioner as the sun rose to the east.

The sniper rifle he used was a sweet, army-issue M24 that he bought for peanuts from a junkie vet in Vegas. He had trained on it for many long hours over the years. Staring down its scope, perfecting his aim over incredible distances, timing shots between breaths, between heartbeats.

It’s a seasoned, accurate weapon. He’ll hate getting rid of it.

Using the warehouse was a no-brainer. It was vacant and for sale. Emily Ewing’s former employee, Skeeter Jones, had shown it to him, along with five other commercial properties, plus twelve homes, four of which he’d bought. All great deals. All with basements. All legal and neat and hard to trace.

Duke had carried fake IDs, of course, when meeting with his attorneys in Reno. For the first three houses, he used an LLC set up by a baby-faced loser named Yow. Later, for Fitzgerald’s place, he used an entirely different setup, judging it wise to use a different LLC for future purchases. Duke practiced the signatures in advance and signed each document with a flourish.

Dealing with attorneys is always dicey, but if pressed, Duke could get rid of Yow. The guy smelled like a gambler, and judging from his frayed suit and junk heap of a car, he had serious money problems. Guys like that disappear all the time.

Duke had considered ways of taking out Clyde Pierson, too, but that would cause major headaches. Besides, why press his luck? None of his keepers knew Duke’s true identity. If Vanderholt had made noises about a coconspirator, if he’d been on the brink of handing over a physical description, Duke had hit him just in time, before Pierson had a chance to cut a deal.

Vander-dolt had spilled only blood.

Halfway back to the house, Duke stops to light a cigarette. He looks around, notices the fat, rotten stump of an old oak tree, and comfortably rests the heel of one boot on the stump while he smokes.

Being a man who appreciates irony, Duke allows himself a laugh, because it’s ironic that, with so many cops crawling all over this case, the only living person who might even come close to guessing Duke’s pattern is that snoopy little bitch. Untrained, and not even that bright.

He has been giving Reggie LeClaire a lot of thought, and has just about decided how to get rid of her. He has worked out a plan so that he can satisfy his appetites without having to coax or train or control another keeper. The risks are manageable, and afterward, he will dispose of the girl without raising the slightest whisper of suspicion.

It will be so ironic.

FORTY-SEVEN

Once again, Reeve has been vexed by the downtown maze of one-way streets. Having almost turned the wrong way into oncoming traffic, she has ended up parking far downhill and is panting heavily by the time she has hiked back up to the right block. Closing in on Buster Ewing Realty, she sees that the parking lot is empty, and the happy “WE’RE OPEN!” placard is gone. The building looks deserted.

Reeve stands on the porch, aggravated. She has left three messages for Emily Ewing, but has gotten no response. Maybe that’s what happens when you’re pestering a real estate agent for information rather than shopping for a home.

She pulls Ewing’s business card from her wallet and again tries her cell. Getting no answer, she clicks off and punches in the office number. She hears the phone ringing inside and then, to her surprise, a voice answers with a flat, “Hello.”

“Oh! Hello, are you open? I’m standing outside.” Reeve cups her hand to the window and peers inside.

A woman turns around to stare at her. “What do you want?”

“Um, I’m looking for Emily.”

The woman hangs up, and Reeve stands there feeling as if she’s been slapped. But an instant later the door swings open, and she finds herself before a young woman with red, puffy eyes. “I’m sorry,” Reeve says, “who are you?”

“I’m Nicole, Emily’s assistant.”

“Well, um, could I speak with Emily?”

“Emily’s dead.”

Before Reeve can absorb this, Nicole sways, staggers backward, and crumples, but Reeve swiftly catches her under the arms and begins maneuvering her inside.

“I’m sorry … I’m such a mess,” Nicole murmurs as Reeve sets her down on one of the upholstered chairs. The young woman’s face is pale and wet and streaked with tears. “I just heard the news.” She shakes her head. “I just can’t believe it.”

“My god. What happened?”

“They say she fell. Hit her head or something.”

Reeve feels dizzy.

“I don’t know why she had to do that damned open house,” Nicole continues, her voice quavering. “I should have done it. It was my turn, and if I had, maybe…”

Reeve looks around, hands Nicole a box of tissues, and sits heavily. “I’m—I’m so sorry.”

“The coroner’s office just called. Can you imagine? They were looking for relatives, but there’s no one. Her father’s dead,” Nicole says, wiping her eyes and blowing her nose.

“How? I mean—”

“They said a neighbor found her. The neighbor who was feeding the fish, you know, for the owners?”

“Fish?”

“Yeah, they found her body in the koi pond.” Shuddering, she takes another tissue and blows her nose again. “She loved that damn house.” She looks up at Reeve with a miserable expression. “I think she wanted to buy it herself, actually.”

The two sit in silence for a long moment. Reeve gets up and turns around, looking for something to do. She gets a coffee mug, fills it with tap water, and hands it to Nicole. “Have some water.”

Nicole sips once, sets the mug aside.

“I’m so, so sorry,” Reeve says at last, rising to leave. “I wish there were something I could do.” She feels a need to say something of substance, but the words seem insignificant as dust. And she knows so little about Emily Ewing that she can only add, “I only just met her, but she seemed like a very nice person. Really energetic. And kind. And helpful.”

Nicole looks up at her, frowns, and gives a quick shake of her head. “Oh, wait. You’re Reeve LeClaire, aren’t you? I nearly forgot. Emily left an envelope for you. It’s on her desk.”

*   *   *

Driving along, Reeve feels hyperaware of the unopened envelope on the seat beside her. Traffic flows downtown and seems to carry her directly to a Starbucks, the very same place she stopped when she first arrived in Jefferson more than a week earlier.

She pulls into the Starbucks parking lot, stops, and looks at the envelope. It is marked in bright blue ink:
For pick-up by Reeve LeClaire.

This was surely one of the last things Emily Ewing ever wrote.

Gingerly, she lifts the envelope and opens it. Inside are six pages of small print, along with a pink sticky note:

Hi Reeve,

Per your request, I did a search. No problem at all! Here are the abbreviated listings of all houses with basements sold within the past three years.

Nice meeting you, and please keep me in mind if anyone you know needs a Realtor!

Reeve pulls off the sticky note and sighs. Is this the way life always goes? The good ones suddenly die, and the evil ones just keep hanging on?

She glances at the list and sees a listing near the top, highlighted with yellow marker. The Redrock house.

A chill passes over her, and she’s hit with the strange notion that Emily Ewing was murdered.

She considers this for a moment.

No. That’s crazy.

She puts the papers back in the envelope and starts to get out of her Jeep, but the pink sticky note catches her eye. It’s stuck to the seat and she plucks it off, considering Emily Ewing’s cheerful handwritten message, which blurs around one phrase:
please keep me in mind.

Clucking softly, Reeve fishes her cell phone out of her pocket and punches in Nick Hudson’s number. He doesn’t answer, and when it beeps to voice mail she can’t think of any message that doesn’t sound insane, so she clicks her phone off and climbs out of the Jeep.

Inside, she orders a hot chocolate. The barista blinks at her, unmoving, and Reeve repeats her order.

As she waits for her drink, she begins to feel that people are stealing peeks in her direction. She tells herself that she’s imagining things, carries her cup over to a seat, sits down with her hot chocolate, and focuses on the real estate listings.

On the third page, she finds the house on Tevis Ranch Road where Tilly Cavanaugh was imprisoned, also highlighted in yellow. She sips her chocolate and briefly pictures Emily Ewing marking the pages. As she scans the list, searching for some insight or pattern, she realizes that the order is chronological. In terms of sales date? Apparently. Other than that, there’s nothing obvious.

Remembering that she has left the map in the car, she starts to rise, glances up, and catches a couple at another table staring at her.

They quickly look away. But now she notices the newspaper spread open on their table, displaying a color photograph. Of her, walking with Dr. Lerner.

FORTY-EIGHT

Monday

Otis Poe waits in his car outside the Cavanaughs’ gate, hoping to get an interview with Reggie LeClaire. Or Reeve, as she calls herself now.

He feels proprietary about this new angle of the story—it’s a scoop from his blog, after all—but unfortunately, three other reporters are already here with him on this cold Monday morning. He watched each one arrive. They had raised palms in greeting, but opted to stay in the warmth of their individual vehicles.

Each time a car approaches, they all stiffen with readiness, then slump as it passes.

Poe has done his homework and prepared a list of questions. He doubts that he’ll get answers to more than a handful. And he’s mentally prepared, as always, to hear only the dreaded “no comment.” But he’s hoping to ask something that will provoke an answer, maybe add a fresh bit of meat to the stew he’s cooking.