The Edge of Normal (27 page)

A dog barks somewhere far off, but otherwise it’s so quiet that she wishes she hadn’t come. She can picture the basement without seeing it. The dungeon, as Tilly called it.

She steels herself and proceeds up the front steps. The door to the screened porch has a big, heavy lock on it, the coded kind that real estate agents use.

She puts her face to the screen and breathes in the musty, metallic smell. The place looks dark and empty. As far as she can tell, someone has already gutted the house and hauled the trash away.

Thinking she might repeat her luck with the sliding glass door, Reeve moves around the side of the house, where she lets herself through a gate to get to the back. It’s a neglected, weedy lot with a few broken terra-cotta flowerpots, the remnants of some overly optimistic resident. Only the chain-link fence looks new.

No sliding glass door this time, however; just a solid door painted the color of dried egg yolk. She climbs up on the concrete porch and tries the knob. Locked. She steps off the back porch and freezes as she hears the unmistakable sound of a closing car door.

She holds her breath and listens. Footsteps. She tracks the sound and her muscles tense.

The gate clangs and a huge man in a baseball cap comes around the corner.

They face one another across the lot and she feels her pulse jump. She has no weapon, but checks the distance to the closest terra-cotta fragments and instinctively takes a fighting stance. Her elbows are sharp, her boots are heavy. She summons up the basics of a self-defense class from years ago: eyes, instep, throat, groin.

“Don’t look so scared,” he says, coming toward her.

She checks the fence line and takes a step back, wondering if there’s another gate behind her. “I didn’t hear your car,” she says, stalling.

“Prius. I know, they’re creepy quiet.” He stops. “You don’t recognize me, do you?”

He’s as big as a bear. She swallows, shakes her head.

In one motion, he sweeps off his baseball cap, revealing his bald head.

“Oh, shit. Otis Poe.”

He puts the cap back on and makes a face. “Well, nice to see you, too.”

She scowls at him but says nothing.

He puts up his hands and jokes, “Okay, don’t shoot.”

“I was just leaving.”

“Hey, I’m not some big, scary guy, okay?”

“Worse, you’re a reporter.”

“Come on, I’m not so bad. Look, I don’t even have a notepad. No camera, no microphone, nothing.” When she doesn’t respond, he adds, “Listen, this is all off the record, okay? You were never here, I was never here. Deal?”

“Are you following me?”

“Just a coincidence.”

She crosses her arms.

“No, really. I’ve been here … oh, four or five times now.”

“Is that right? How come?”

“I don’t know.” He looks around. “Something I haven’t figured out yet, I guess, something I’m missing. My girlfriend says I’m obsessed.” He gives a sheepish grin.

“Something you’re missing. Like what?”

“I don’t know. Maybe a link between Tilly and the other two missing girls. You know about them, right?

“Of course.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “Has Tilly said anything about them?”

She scoffs. “Would I tell you if she had?”

“People tell me things you wouldn’t believe.”

“Yeah. Like my name.”

He gives an apologetic shrug. “Somebody posted it on my blog.”

“I put a lot of effort into avoiding the media, you know.”

“Hey, I’m sorry. But Tilly’s news, so you’re news.”

“You didn’t have to splash my photo all over the paper.”

“My editor did that,” he says, opening his palms. “That’s the newspaper business. Anyway, I’m sorry.”

“Of course you are,” she says with heavy sarcasm.

“Listen, I get it. You said you want to ‘disappear,’” he says, making quote marks in the air, “so I assume there’s no chance of getting an interview.”

She puts her hands on her hips and gives him a sour look.

“Okay, well, just so you know, I think it’s great that you’re helping Tilly Cavanaugh. Who better than you, right?”

They study one another in silence. Finally, he says, “Listen, let me make it up to you. You like to avoid the press, guard your privacy, right?” He takes a step toward her, taking off his navy-blue baseball cap, and holds it out to her. “I think you need this, you know, to cover up your hair.”

She blinks at the cap, recognizing it as a peace offering, wondering if an alliance with Otis Poe might be of use. After a beat, she takes a step forward, accepts the cap, and holds it with both hands. “So, am I supposed to trust you?” she asks, narrowing her eyes at him.

He crosses his heart. “Trustworthy, that’s me.”

“So I can be honest with you? And you’ll be honest with me?”

“My middle name is Abraham. Honest Abe. No kidding.”

“Then the truth is,” she says, handing the cap back to him, “this is a really ugly hat, Otis. Take my word for it, you look better without it.”

He accepts the cap awkwardly, folds it, and jams it into his back pocket, saying, “Well, since we’re both here, do you want to look around? I know how to get inside.”

“You do?” She frowns at the house. “How?”

“I have connections.”

He steps up to the yolk-colored door, runs his fingertips across the upper edge of the door frame, and plucks off a key. “Voila!” he says, holding it up to show her. He fumbles with the lock for a second, and when the door swings open, she can’t resist.

As they enter through the kitchen, Poe flicks a light switch back and forth. “Shit,” he mutters, “no power.” Even in the dimness, the house has a grimy, battered look. “For a guy who made his living as a janitor, Vanderholt wasn’t much of a housekeeper, was he?” Poe remarks.

She trails him from the kitchen into the living room. Gray light filters through blinds that hang askew. All the furniture has been removed, leaving indentations in the mottled carpet. She walks around, opens a bedroom door, glances into the bathroom. This isn’t what she came for, but can she really trust Otis Poe?

He’s facing away from her, his big shoulders slumped. “Not much to see here, really. I don’t know why I keep looking,” he says, his voice soft with despair.

“Where’s the basement?”

He turns toward her, cocking an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“It’s pretty creepy, even with the lights on.”

“You think I can’t handle darkness? Where is it?”

He leads her down the hallway and out a door into the garage. “Jesus, it’s dark,” he mutters. “Watch your step.”

She closes her eyes a moment, letting her eyes adjust, then looks around. Thin lines of dusty light seep in around the garage door. The place seems bare.

“Where’s the door?”

“It’s a trap door. Over here.” Poe squats down and fumbles with hasps on the floor. Grunting, he lifts it open. Hinges squeak as he swings it wide and drops it heavily to the concrete floor. He stands to face her, dusting off his hands. “It’s down these stairs, but you can’t see anything.”

“Move over.”

“Hey, seriously. With the power out? It’s pitch-black down there.”

She drops down into a crouch, puts her palms on the edge, and starts lowering herself down the stairs.

“Are you nuts?”

“I’ll just be a minute.”

The wooden stairs creak beneath her feet. With her head at the level of his feet, she pauses. “Do you smell that?”

“Smell what?”

Without answering, she continues down. When her boots hit the floor, she takes half a step away from the stairs and squints into the darkness. Seeing nothing, she waves a hand in front of her face. Still nothing.

The distinct odor of bleach hangs in the bone-chilling air. She squats and drags her fingertips across the floor, recognizing the familiar texture of painted concrete. The floor is very clean.

With the stairs behind her, Reeve puts one boot in front of the other, heel to toe, and moves cautiously across the floor, her arms outstretched in front of her, counting the steps to the wall. Also painted concrete. Cold and hard and bare.

Yes, Tilly, this is a dungeon.

“You okay down there?” Poe calls.

“Wait.”

She takes a deep breath, walks her fingers out in both directions and brushes her hands across the surface. No cracks or seams. She turns right and in six steps reaches the next wall. More featureless concrete. Questions flicker through her mind while she circumnavigates the rectangular room.

“Hurry up!” Poe urges. “I’m freezing.”

“So chill,” she shouts upward.

The concrete basement measures roughly twenty-four boot lengths long and fourteen boot lengths wide. Even on tiptoe, she cannot reach the ceiling to explore for beams with screws or hooks. There is no cot, no bedpan, not a trace of what went on in this dark pit. But she knows.

“Reeve? Hello? Could you please hurry?”

She shuffles across the floor, gropes for the stairs, and ascends, saying, “Okay, let’s go.”

“What did you find?”

“Nothing. It’s scrubbed clean.” She gulps in the cold air, still smelling bleach.

“Really? Well, they did that quick.”

“When were you here last?” she asks, following him into the house.

“Saturday, I think. Yeah, Saturday.”

“Was the power on?”

“Yep, and it was a mess. I was here with the real estate agent, Paul Walters. He said he was going to get it cleaned out, and he sure meant it, ’cause he didn’t waste any time.”

“When were the dogs here? Last weekend, right? And when did the police wrap up their investigation?”

“The police wrapped up the day after Vanderholt was killed, I think. Or, that would be last Wednesday.”

Reeve grows silent while Poe locks up the house and returns the key to its hiding place above the door.

“Okay,” he says, wiping his palms on his jeans, “we were never here, right?”

“Right,” she says, heading back through the side gate to the front of the house.

He follows her over to her Jeep. “Hey, do I see wheels turning? What are you thinking?”

Careful of her promise to Tilly, she asks, “What do you know about Vanderholt’s killer?”

“Word is, he’s an expert marksman.”

“Some kind of trained sniper?”

“Yeah, military maybe.”

“Military, right.” Keeping her eyes on Poe, she says slowly, “Or maybe a cop?”

He winces. “Wouldn’t that suck?”

She lets this sink in, then asks, “What’s your theory about the missing girls?”

“I don’t know, but it’s driving me nuts. I mean, the odds are that Vanderholt killed them, right? But there’s no evidence. They’ve just vanished.”

“So, you think he had an accomplice?”

“Yeah, maybe. Either that, or there’s a copycat situation.”

She cocks her head at him. “Okay, thanks for nothing.”

“What?”

“The tour that never happened, right?” She gives him a wry grin and opens the Jeep’s door.

Poe grins back. “Right! Sure. See ya.” He starts walking toward his blue Prius, then stops and turns around. “Hey, Reeve,” he calls out, “do you think Dr. Lerner would give me an interview?”

She waves as she drives away.

FIFTY-FOUR

The rolling leather office chair in the surveillance room at Jefferson Police Headquarters is not properly set for Officer Kim Benioff’s small stature, but instead of messing with the height adjustment, she sits up tall, studying the data on the computer screen. She doesn’t often use this console or this set of skills, except on days like today, when her coworkers are out of the office.

There are several types of electronic equipment that she doesn’t recognize. Framed certificates and diplomas are displayed on the walls, but the room seems sterile, with no family photos or goofy knickknacks to soften or personalize it. It’s clean and dust free, yet she can’t quite get comfortable. There’s something about this spot that reeks of testosterone.

She tucks her dark curls behind her ears and puts that out of her mind, focusing on the task at hand, pursuing a lead spawned just this morning by her father.

The two often meet for breakfast, and, like a lot of people of his generation, Benioff’s father loves to bring a copy of the local newspaper to the table so that he can berate the editors and debate the issues. It is also his habit to read the obituary column, scanning for the names of anyone stored in his elephantine memory: classmates, teachers, colleagues, Rotarians, golf club members, or any of the thousands of Jefferson County residents that he has ever chanced to meet.

It creeps her out, but her father insists that it makes him appreciate each day and reminds him that he’s lucky to be alive.

“Isn’t that a shame?” her father had declared this morning, setting his coffee aside and tapping on a headline.

Kim Benioff had barely blinked, having become somewhat hardened to hearing about the deaths of her father’s wide-ranging acquaintances.

So, he leaned in and stressed the point: “Buster Ewing’s daughter died,” he repeated. “It’s tragic.”

“Well, clearly, she wasn’t shot, strangled, or stabbed. Otherwise, I would have heard about it,” Kim quipped, cutting a slice of ham.

Her father jabbed a finger at the article. “It’s the end of a dynasty, you need to realize. The end of another local business. Remember Buster? He was a character, bigger than life. Got us a good deal on our house, and on your grandmother’s, too. He died about, oh, six or eight years back, I guess it was. And now his only daughter is gone. Emily Kay Ewing. Only forty-one, no kids. Isn’t that a shame?”

Kim Benioff recalled nothing about Buster Ewing, but the daughter’s name sparked an interest. She set down her fork, pulled the newspaper toward her and studied the article.

Later, while driving to work, Kim Benioff had kept thinking about the real estate agent who had tipped investigators to their first solid lead. Emily Ewing’s call had been put through to the Joint Special Operations Task Force, and Benioff had been the one to interview her. She had then alerted Lieutenant Stephens, and within minutes she and four other members of JSOTF were on site, securing and searching the house on Redrock Road, with that weird, newly constructed wall that was meant to hide access to the basement stairs.