The Edge of Normal (32 page)

“But how come Tilly didn’t come forward with this days ago?”

“We’ll get to that in a minute.” Coulter turns to Burke, saying, “Jackie, please speed through this. Focus on the girls and the abuse and wrap up.”

“Right. Okay. It gets worse. This guy burned both of these girls repeatedly.” She splays photos across the table and they all stare at close-ups of small, round burns in distinctive, matching patterns.

“Cigarette burns,” Myla Perkins observes.

“Same thing with Tilly?” Benioff asks.

“Same thing. This is Tilly’s arm,” Burke says, pointing, “and this is Hannah’s. The scars are virtually identical.”

“Holy mother of Christ,” Yolanda Martin breathes.

Coulter claps his hands. “Okay, look around and you might notice that there is a disproportionate amount of estrogen represented in this room.”

“For a change,” Myla Perkins says.

“It’s intentional. And you’ll know why in a minute, because this is where I need your help.” Coulter nods at Benioff, saying, “You found the link between the residences using that list, right?”

“What list?” Hudson asks.

“Emily Ewing’s list,” Benioff says to him, “which she gave to Reeve LeClaire, which you took from Reeve.”

“That list? But it was—”

“On your desk, cowboy. Pinched it while you were out singing.”

“Let’s not get distracted, people,” Coulter interrupts. “The point is, that list shows important information about both places—Vanderholt’s and Orr’s—that we hadn’t found earlier. We’ve analyzed those elements, done some tracing, and found that both residences were purchased by the same LLC, set up in Reno, by an attorney named Justin Yow.”

“Reno?” Burke mutters. “A shadow corporation of some kind?”

Coulter puts up a hand. “Our field agents there had some trouble tracking him down, but they finally got ahold of Yow about”—he checks his watch—“about forty-five minutes ago. The preliminary report is disturbing, and we’ll be notified the instant they get confirmation.”

The individuals in the room exchange puzzled glances.

Leaning forward and putting his palms flat on the table, Coulter says. “We’re here to focus on this guy. To find Abby Hill, or her remains, if we can, and to get this guy pronto, tonight, before he knows we’re on to him.” He says to Burke, “You have a judge lined up for warrants?”

“Standing by.”

“Okay. Both victims attribute their burns to the same sadistic son-of-a-bitch and describe the same suspect: Dark hair, brown eyes, tall, smoker, with a tattoo of barbed wire circling his left bicep.”

Something catches in Benioff’s throat.

At that moment, Agent Coulter’s cell phone rings. He flips it open, listens for a moment. “You’re sure? Same guy bought all three houses?” He nods at Yolanda Martin, who nods back. “Okay, we’re secure, I’m putting you on speaker.”

He sets the phone in the center of the table and a metallic voice says, “We talked to Yow and we’re looking at his files. The short version is, you’ve got a dirty cop.”

SIXTY-NINE

For the third time in several long hours, Hostage Rescue Team leader Yolanda Martin approaches a dark, low-profile structure in a rural area. The storm has blown past, and a brisk wind sends clouds scudding across the sky. Treetops whistle, branches chatter against a metal shed, and Agent Martin, alert to the fact that their target is a trained killer, is glad for the noise.

She squats with her Kevlar-vested team in the brush outside, using hand signals to direct two sets of agents to advance around the sides of the house, while another pair takes cover behind the SUV parked in the carport. One man checks the vehicle, putting a palm on the hood, and signals that it is cold.

She waits thirty long seconds, then holds up three fingers and counts down—two, one, go!—and sprints to the door, flanked by two men. They burst inside at the same instant the side door crashes open.

The living room is empty. The armed team rushes from room to room, adrenalin pumping, trigger fingers ready, and makes sure the kitchen and laundry room are also empty.

At Martin’s signal, four team members move down the hallway, one agent taking position at each of the closed doors. Everyone pauses, weapons ready, listening. The crackling silence is worse than gunfire.

At her nod, the men kick the doors open.

An instant later, a voice from the first room calls, “Got him! He’s down!”

More agents crowd through the doorway and, one by one, slowly lower their guns.

“Christ, you’re kidding me,” one grumbles.

The body is sprawled sideways in an office chair, an ugly mess, with blood and brains spattered on the computer screen, down the wall, across the rug.

“Oh shit, he sat here and ate his gun?”

“Here’s the Glock,” the first man says, pointing at the gun with the toe of one black boot.

“There’s the casing,” says another, nodding at the floor.

“Hey, check this out,” says the first, pointing.

A sheet of paper neatly lined up on the corner of the desk has only two printed words: “
I’m sorry.”
Beside it rests an open map of Jefferson County, black Xs on three different spots.

Agent Martin cranes her neck, studies the map, her heart racing, then straightens and taps the first man’s shoulder. “Okay, we’re done here. Back out, people,” she says. “Leave the scene uncompromised. But stay frosty. We’ve got one more location to check out. And this time, let’s hope to God we find a live one.”

SEVENTY

It’s nearly daylight and Otis Poe is exhausted, but he’s thrilled to be here, the sole reporter walking the halls of St. Jude’s Hospital, scooping every other news outlet. He can hardly wait to tell his girlfriend.

The emergency staff at St. Jude is abuzz with the news: Both Abby Hill and Hannah Creighton have been found alive!

Abby Hill was discovered at a remote location and choppered in, Poe has learned. One nurse gushed to him that the rescue helicopter descended out of the sky “like a bright, avenging angel,” and Poe can picture the whole scene: the chopper settling down on the pad atop the north wing, the hospital staff rushing out in a coordinated ballet, unloading the gurney, rolling the awake and blinking girl quickly through the winter air to the waiting elevator.

He knows that both girls are already resting comfortably, and that both are shockingly pale. Abby Hill, he’s told, is especially thin.

“Found in the cellar of some goddamn Unabomber mountain shack,” mutters a trauma nurse. “I know all about it,” she adds, “because I saw her brought in.”

The hospital staff is electrified by rumors. Everyone says the girls are suffering from malnourishment and dehydration, as well as sexual trauma. Those in a position to confirm the actual details about their physical conditions aren’t talking, but someone claiming to know says that both girls have suffered similar burns, a pattern of round scars, clearly made by cigarettes.

“Oh my lord,” one nurse whispers to another, “like they were branded! Can you believe that?”

Poe soaks up every detail.

He got a tip and arrived early, just after Abby’s family burst into the hospital, wild with relief. He wishes he could have seen how they laughed and cried and hugged their daughter to them, careful of the tubes feeding into the girl’s veins, alarmed by her bony protrusions and animal smells.

While both girls are getting topnotch medical treatment, Poe has learned that their kidnappers are already cooling in the morgue. He doesn’t have the two men’s IDs yet, but soon he’ll collect all those details.

For now, he can only speculate that the Hostage Rescue Team used plastic explosives to breach the doors, that the kidnappers were killed in firefights, that the girls were found shackled, crying. But he needs specifics. He needs confirmation.

He’s especially confused about Hannah Creighton. One EMT swears that she walked in through the emergency room entrance with her own family, and that she had somehow found her way home. But how could she have escaped? Poe can’t even begin to get his head around that one.

He tries to sneak down the hallway to the ICU, but a stiff-backed, uniformed guard blocks the door, snarling, “Don’t even think about it, man.”

Poe backs off, turns, and decides it’s time to go. He already has plenty of news to fill his blog, plus a hundred column inches for the newspaper. By this time tomorrow, if he pushes, he could have almost enough to finish his book. But he’s got one more source to check with before calling it a night. His best source. Someone who supplies him with information that is nothing short of golden.

The e-mails have a masculine tone, but he suspects that such inside stuff can only come straight from police dispatch, and since everyone holding that particular job is female, it’s Poe’s guess that the tone and the screen name, Duke, are pure misdirection. But that’s fine with him. Otis Poe would never betray a source, no matter what Jackie Burke seems to think.

Anyway, he has a lot of investigating and a lot more writing ahead of him. And then, if all his hard work pays off, maybe his girlfriend will forgive him, decide he’s not so bad, despite his obsessions. Maybe she won’t move out. Maybe he can even persuade her to accept that ring.

SEVENTY-ONE

Two Days Later

Reeve LeClaire ignores her mid-morning cup of hot chocolate, studying Otis Poe’s long, front-page article in the
The Jefferson Express
. “It’s all so bizarre,” she says, massaging her temples, “it makes my head hurt.”

Dr. Ezra Lerner reaches over and absently pats her shoulder while reading the news on his cell phone.

She and Dr. Lerner have retreated to a quiet corner of the hotel lobby, away from other guests, well out of earshot from the lounge’s blaring television. They have checked out of their rooms and have their luggage packed and ready. Every couple of minutes, one or the other finds a startling bit of information and makes a comment.

“Look at this,” Reeve says, pointing at the article. “Can you believe it? They found a rifle in his closet, the same one used to kill Vanderholt.”

“Is that right?” Dr. Lerner glances at her newspaper and continues scrolling on his phone. In a moment, he says, “Oh, here it is. And they found another weapon. The pistol that he killed himself with, apparently the same one used to kill the other two kidnappers, J.J. Orr and Simon Pelt.”

“A cop.” Reeve shakes her head. “And he almost got away with it.” She takes a sip from her cup and muses aloud, “I still don’t know how they finally found him. What gave him away?”

Dr. Lerner raises a finger, asking her to wait, then looks up and says, “There’s a reference here to surveillance. Could be cell phone records, GPS. They’ve got all sorts of ways of tracking people these days.”

“He was smart, wasn’t he? In a creepy, diabolical way, I mean. Pairing up with ex-cons who were pedophiles, but still weren’t registered sex offenders.”

“Diabolical is the word. He thought of everything. Hyperorganized.”

“And hypersadistic.”

“The odd thing about him,” Dr. Lerner says, setting his phone aside, “is that a narcissist of this type wouldn’t usually opt for suicide. It just doesn’t seem to fit.”

Reeve gives an exaggerated shiver, as if trying to shake off the whole experience. “I keep thinking about those girls. Being kidnapped, raped, and held captive is bad enough. But to have two abusers? That’s off the charts.”

He gives a grunt of disgust. “It is hard to comprehend. The ex-cons apparently had everyday control. Food and water, basic survival. But as despicable as their primary captors were—”

“At least they weren’t as bad as that scumbag cop, right? Not just a power freak, but also a hardcore sadist.”

“Such incredible cruelty, so many layers of trauma.” He shakes his head and continues reading. After a moment, he looks up at her. “I’m surprised to see your name here.”

She makes a face. “Poe and I made a deal. Interview me, using my old name, and leave the girls alone.”

“Détente?”

She sits back. “What do you mean?”

“Between you and the press.”

“More like a brief thaw in the Cold War.”

Dr. Lerner cocks his head, gives her an appraising look. “Do you realize how much you’ve changed while we’ve been here?”

“Can you believe it’s only been a couple of weeks? Man, I’m exhausted.”

“I’m serious. You’ve made real progress.”

“I guess.” After a beat, she leans toward him and adds in a conspiratorial tone, “Hey, now that I think about it, I even did my homework, didn’t I?”

His forehead knits in confusion. He looks tired, and she realizes that he has been working nonstop, talking with law enforcement, consulting with the girls’ families, making arrangements for his next trips, while also juggling the demands of both his clinical practice and his professorial responsibilities in San Francisco. Plus, the ongoing problems with his son.

“Let’s see,” he says, rubbing his bloodshot eyes. “During our last session, right?”

“Remember the assignment?” she prods. “I actually succeeded in making an intimate connection with another human being.”

“Ah. Yes, you certainly did.”

“But who would have guessed that I’d be bonding over scars with another survivor, eh?” She gives him a quick, dimpled smile.

“You did a remarkable job with Tilly, far beyond what anyone expected,” he says, tapping his chin. “But while I understand the ethics of protecting shared confidences, I may never completely forgive you for hiding things from me.”

She rolls her eyes. “I’ve been thoroughly admonished for that. Jackie Burke called again and practically skinned me alive over the phone. That woman’s a terror.”

Dr. Lerner casts a look toward the door. “She and Hudson should be here any minute. Anyway,” he continues, turning back to her, “before they get here, I wanted to discuss two things with you.”

“Shoot.”

“First, about Flint’s hearing: I wanted to apologize for not having been better prepared.”

“What? That’s not your fault. Terrance Moody blindsided you.”

“He did, but I should have guessed he was up to something, especially after his appearance on
60 Minutes
.”