Read The Edge of Normal Online

Authors: Carla Norton

Tags: #Fiction, #Thrillers, #General

The Edge of Normal (3 page)

BOOK: The Edge of Normal
8.19Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

But in Poe’s view, the sheriff skirts past the most crucial information, recounting basic facts without sharing any juicy details. And isn’t he trying to make it sound like Tilly’s rescue was due to daring acts and clever police work rather than just dumb luck?

When he can’t stand it any longer, Poe shouts, “How come Vanderholt wasn’t found months ago? Why wasn’t he questioned by law enforcement?”

Sheriff Garcia stiffens. “Every single one of the registered sex offenders in our county was interviewed. But since the suspect did not fit that category, he therefore was not previously investigated as regards this kidnapping.”

“Isn’t it true that Vanderholt has a criminal record?”

“It’s true that the suspect was previously incarcerated for car theft.” Sheriff Garcia’s brow glistens under the hot lights. “But he served his time and was released from Folsom Prison more than eighteen months ago.”

Spectators mutter. The reporters’ questions become barbed. Garcia shifts his weight from one shiny boot to the other, denying that law enforcement botched the investigation, denying that they overlooked key evidence.

Otis Poe stands and his voice carries over the grumbling crowd: “Is there any evidence that Randy Vanderholt also kidnapped Abby Hill and Hannah Creighton?”

The mention of these other names sets a fresh wave of commotion rolling through the room.

“Yeah, what about those other missing girls?” another reporter yells. “Did you find any clues to their whereabouts?”

“Are these cases linked?” an anorexic television reporter demands, pressing a microphone toward Sheriff Garcia. “Three local girls have disappeared over the past two years. Do you suspect Vanderholt of serial kidnapping?”

The sheriff’s expression darkens and he shakes his head like an old dog. “The investigation is ongoing, and as I’ve explained, we cannot go into any further details at this time.”

With a sharp glance at Poe, he straightens. “That concludes our comments for today. The Cavanaugh family has asked me to thank everyone for the outpouring of support over the past thirteen months. They intend to make a public statement sometime next week. They are grateful to everyone involved in bringing Tilly home. And I’d particularly like to recognize the close cooperation between the FBI and Jefferson County law enforcement agencies, especially all those who…”

Otis Poe groans, writing:
blah, blah, blah.

*   *   *

As the press conference concludes and Poe stands to leave, his bald head towering above the throng, all the out-of-town reporters start scrambling for interviews. Television personalities rally their camera crews, lick their lips, and prepare to give stand-up reports. Meanwhile, local citizens mill around, grinning at one another, murmuring words of praise, concern, and amazement.

“Unbelievable!”

“Thank heavens that child is safe!”

Several townspeople claim a special connection with the Cavanaugh case. Some have children who went to school with Tilly. Others helped with putting up “Missing!” signs.

“I helped with the search,” one woman in a Harley-Davidson T-shirt declares.

“I did, too!” says a pock-faced teenager.

The businessman next to him rubs his palms together, saying, “A group of us tromped through the woods for hours and hours, but didn’t find a scrap of evidence.”

Backs are patted and hands are shaken as people share their stories and move toward the exits. Everyone is buzzing except for the tall man in the back who calls himself Duke. He has been standing very still, listening closely and thinking about damage control.

A white-haired woman with a cane squints up at him. “Isn’t it wonderful?” she exclaims. “Now that poor little Cavanaugh girl will be able to spend Thanksgiving at home with her family.”

Duke tips his head slightly. “Yes ma’am.” He turns to go, exiting the double doors just behind the meddlesome woman who has ruined everything.

He’s close enough that he could easily reach out and touch her. He imagines sliding his big, square hands under her shiny hair and seizing her scrawny neck. He savors the idea as they move down the wide front steps. Then the real estate agent pivots away, and he strolls along, watching as her high heels click down the sidewalk.

Duke slows to light a cigarette, keeping her in his line of sight. Half a block farther along, she lifts her keys to click open the doors of an amber-colored Lexus. He watches her climb in and fasten her seatbelt. As the engine turns over and she backs out, he makes a mental note of the license plate number, then turns and heads toward his SUV.

He climbs behind the wheel, sparks the ignition, cracks a window, checks his mirrors, and pulls into traffic. Heavy gray clouds are threatening rain. But as he heads toward home, he isn’t thinking about the weather. Instead, he’s wondering how to deal with Randy Vanderholt, now that the fool has gotten himself arrested. And he’s worrying about the secrets that sweet little Tilly might spill.

 

THREE

San Francisco

 

“Now, your father has a new love interest,” Dr. Lerner says slowly, “and you said your sister and her husband will be there for Thanksgiving.”

Reeve sits on the sofa, stroking the little dog’s head, sensing that her psychiatrist is about to shift from safer topics to more tender areas. “But that’s not a problem anymore,” she tells him. “My sister has become supermom. She’s way too involved with her family to worry about me.”

“Oh?”

“Really.
No problemo.
And the baby is so cute, he’s like a gurgling ambassador for world peace.”

“So you’re feeling more comfortable than last year?”

She rolls her eyes. “They’re still going to bug me about the usual stuff, when I’m getting a boyfriend, all that. It’s unavoidable.” A shift in posture unsettles Bitsy, who moves away and begins licking a paw. Annoyed, Reeve continues, “But who cares? You said yourself that having a romantic involvement is not necessarily an indication of improvement and that I shouldn’t rush into some kind of relationship just to prove to myself that I can, right?”

She knows he has heard the strained way she has paraphrased him, and expects him to respond, but when he doesn’t, she gives a shrug and admits, “Okay, so I’m defensive.”

“This is an emotionally charged issue for you. That’s more than understandable.”

“Right.”

“And there are good reasons for you to feel defensive.”

“Exactly.” She thinks about her scars and feels the heat flushing up her neck. “Besides, who’s to say that the ‘normal’ male/female relationship will work for me, anyway? I know everyone talks about having a healthy sex life, but even on the off chance that I met someone I liked, and even if he liked me, how could I even begin to try to explain everything? So, what’s wrong with being asexual? It’s so much simpler.”

“There’s nothing wrong with remaining celibate if that’s your choice, but what you just said is contradictory, isn’t it?”

Her eyes narrow. “What do you mean?”

“On the one hand, you’re expressing a desire for connection, and on the other, you’re saying you want to remain asexual because it’s too hard to work out a relationship. Do you see that contradiction?”

She fidgets, kneading the numb patch on her left hand. “Okay, so what’s wrong with that?”

“If it makes you frustrated or angry—”

“Then I have unresolved feelings,” she says curtly. “Yeah, I know.”

Bitsy shakes herself, jumps to the floor, and crosses the room to curl up beside Dr. Lerner while Reeve frowns at her.

“Listen, you have worked very hard to overcome a traumatic past and reclaim your life,” Dr. Lerner says smoothly. “You can take pride in that, and you don’t need to be angry with yourself. There is no timeline.”

Reeve places her fingertips against her temples, pressing hard, as if trying to force her thoughts into place.

“But you are the one who is having difficulty connecting with others,” he continues, “and you are the one judging yourself for it, don’t you see?”

“Okay, but the thing is,” she takes a breath and says carefully, “I’ve been reading some of your studies.”

“You have.” He says this as a statement, as if he knew it all along.

“The one last month in the
American Journal of Forensic Psychology
, for instance.”

“And?”

“And I think I’ve found myself in there.”

He sighs. “Reeve, we’ve talked about this. You know I wouldn’t write about you without your permission. My articles are based on other cases.”

“Well, but anyway, I recognized myself, okay?”

“How do you mean?”

“In the part about being hypercontrolled. About being ‘locked in a phase of arrested recovery.’”

“Is that what you think?”

She gives a small shrug. “Don’t you?”

“Reeve, listen. That article is about a completely different situation, about a young woman who was imprisoned by her father. You were both young, you both suffered. But incest and sadism have very different psychic impacts.”

“I know all that.”

He’s watching her, and she knows that he understands what she doesn’t need to say: that even after all these years, even knowing that she is safe in San Francisco while Daryl Wayne Flint is incarcerated far away, the dark years of her captivity still linger like a bad taste. “Intellectually, I know it,” she says, glancing around at the Persian rug, the framed art.

When her gaze settles back on Dr. Lerner, he leans toward her, saying, “Reeve, I know you read the studies, and I commend you for wanting to understand more about the long-term psychological effects of captivity.” His voice is soft but heavy with emphasis. “But not everything in the literature applies to you.”

She makes a face. “The curse of being self-absorbed.”

He sits quietly, watching her.

“Okay. I know. I can’t assume that every article on these subjects has bearing on my individual situation,” she says, parroting his jargon. “But I just want to stop feeling like I have this ugly part of myself that no one can possibly understand. I want to have a normal life and be a normal adult.” She glances at him and then looks away. “I know you don’t like that word, but you know what I mean.”

“Reeve, you
are
normal. But you’ve survived a uniquely traumatic situation. That’s no small thing, and it’s understandable if you’re still having trouble adjusting, or if you’re uncomfortable with men, or—”

“I’m comfortable with you.”

“So give yourself some credit. And relax. Because you’re still young, and you can’t let your desire for self-protection preclude you from having any new relationships for the rest of your life.”

“Why not?”

An elastic silence stretches between them. She knows this was a flip question, and that he is waiting for her to come up with her own answer. But she holds her breath, settles back on the sofa, and stubbornly says nothing.

He taps his chin with his thumb, studying her. “Okay, here’s your homework,” he says, as he often does when their session concludes. “Think about your own personal definition of a comfortable relationship: friend or romance, asexual or bisexual or whatever. Nothing is off-limits. And if you don’t want to share the exact details with me, that’s fine. Consider it private, and consider that you are in absolute control. But give yourself permission to at least think about making a true, intimate connection with someone, even if you’re only fantasizing about it at this point. How’s that?”

“An intimate connection?”

“Correct.”

“Just try to imagine it, is all?”

He cocks an eyebrow.

“Okay, I guess that’s nonthreatening enough.” She looks down and sees that she has crossed her arms and legs. “I only look defensive. I’m actually a little chilled.”

Smiling, he nods once in punctuation. “Good. I’ll see you next week. And I hope you have a very nice Thanksgiving.”

“You, too.”

They’re on their feet and moving toward the door when Dr. Lerner says, “Oh, have you given any more thought to getting a cat or a dog?”

“I know you think it would be therapeutic, but I don’t need a cat or a dog. I have Persephone.”

His lips compress wryly. “And how is the lovely Persephone?”

“She’s therapeutic.”

He chuckles and opens the door.

The moment they step into the hall, the receptionist hurries toward them, clasping her hands in front of her as if in prayer. “Excuse me, doctor,” she says, “but you have an unscheduled visitor.”

As the three come into the waiting room, a man wearing a crimped expression and a dark suit rises. “Dr. Lerner? I’m sorry to intrude on your schedule.”

“You’re here about Jefferson County?” Dr. Lerner steps forward to shake the man’s hand.

“I’m sorry to barge in on you like this.”

Dr. Lerner’s voice drops to a low, serious tone while Reeve dawdles near the receptionist’s desk, straining to hear. She retrieves the key to the restroom from its place in a floral dish, stalling, but can’t make out more of the men’s conversation. At the door, she turns to glimpse them disappearing into Dr. Lerner’s office.

Out in the hallway, she passes Dr. Lerner’s usual 10:30 appointment, a redheaded teen with fantastic freckles whose name, of course, she doesn’t know.

When she returns from the restroom, the redhead is gone, and Reeve notices that the receptionist’s face is clouded with a strange expression. Her Cupid’s-bow mouth is a straight line. And as Reeve sets the key back in the dish, the receptionist looks up at her and says, “I’m terribly sorry, Miss LeClaire, but Dr. Lerner has to cancel all of next week’s appointments.”

Reeve blinks at her, realizing that this is the first time the receptionist has ever spoken her name.

 

FOUR

Jefferson City

 

By the time Duke turns toward home, he has already dealt with the first order of business. He has bought a new cell phone and transferred all the necessary phone numbers. He has dropped the new phone into the pocket of his leather jacket and placed the old phone in the colorful plastic bag with the new phone’s packaging and receipt.

Now he is headed south. He turns off the old highway and drives parallel to the railroad tracks for a ways, then turns east toward the river, then right on Riverside Drive. For the first few miles, tidy houses are crowded behind manicured lawns, but the subdivision gradually exhausts itself, and then the road narrows. The few remaining houses squat on untamed lots of thick brush, old oaks, and tall pines. Street signs are pocked with bullet holes. Fences are thirsty for paint. Neighbors are scarce and make a habit of minding their own business.

BOOK: The Edge of Normal
8.19Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Other books

Birth of Our Power by Greeman, Richard, Serge, Victor
Marrying Mari by Elyse Snow
The Risqué Resolution by Eaton, Jillian
Mr. Timothy: A Novel by Louis Bayard
Bayou Paradox by Robin Caroll
Evil Allure by Rhea Wilde
Divide and Conquer by Carrie Ryan