The Edge of Normal (37 page)
She falls to her knees and scuttles away from the inferno as fast as she can. The world is on fire but the floor seems slick as ice. Where is the man? She can’t see. She hits a wall. Wheezing, feeling like a rat in a maze, she scrambles along it, knocking against furniture and catching on electrical wires.
Here’s a corner, a hallway. Blinded by smoke, she gets to her feet, coughing, and stumbles away from the fire. If the man is following, she can’t see him. Her shoulders bang against walls. Smoke stings her eyes. Here’s a door ajar and she pushes into the room and stands there, gasping. It’s cooler here. She sucks in air rank with sweat and smoke and finds the light switch. No power.
She lurches forward in the dark, groping, and smacks into something hard. A desk? Yes, here’s a keyboard … another keyboard. She hurries on, deeper into the room, blindly feeling in front of her, finding monitors and equipment and more desks stacked with so many computers that she fears she’s going in circles.
Now smoke is pouring into the room. Why didn’t she shut the door? She chokes in despair and keeps going. There has got to be a window somewhere!
Coughing, she crashes into a rolling chair, bounces off a table, turns, and window glass gleams before her. She bumps into another desk and quickly sweeps computer monitors and equipment off the surface. They clatter and smash on the floor as she climbs unsteadily onto the desktop.
The stink of smoke intensifies. Her throat burns. Gasping, she reaches up and fumbles along the windowsill, sliding her fingers along the glass. She gropes for the lock, struggles with the mechanism. It clicks, and the glass slides open with astonishing ease.
Fresh air rushes in, carrying the sound of sirens in the distance as Reeve puts both hands on the windowsill and boosts herself up, balancing on the edge before she tumbles out naked into the cold and welcoming darkness.
EIGHTY
Wearing coveralls and carrying a fire extinguisher, Maggie Shaw climbs over the fence and charges through the brush toward her neighbor’s burning house. She arrives just moments before the fire truck screams up the driveway. Shouting, she hurries over to it and grabs the sleeve of the first fireman she can, insisting that she just saw a naked woman jump out the window.
When they search, they find her in the carport, smudged with soot and smeared with blood, sitting cross-legged on the ground beside an open suitcase, dressed in sweats and bloody socks.
“He’s in there!” she rasps, waving a wounded hand.
It takes the paramedics a few minutes to coax the young woman into the ambulance. Her voice is raw and she seems disoriented. When she tries to explain what happened, they tell her to take it easy. Her respiration is shallow, her pulse is racing, and they diagnose smoke inhalation and shock, just for starters.
* * *
Firemen, doctors, and cops ask questions, and Reeve does her best to answer—tongue thick, throat scorched—while drifting in and out. She feels hot needles and cold hands. And as her pain evaporates, she dimly recognizes the same quality of drug that was injected into her that night years ago in Seattle, after she was pulled from the trunk of Daryl Wayne Flint’s crumpled car.
When she opens her eyes again, she is safely in the hospital.
“Hey there.”
She looks up at Nick Hudson, who is sitting in a chair at her bedside.
“How are you feeling?” he asks.
She lifts off the oxygen mask with a bandaged hand. “You know what happened?” she asks hoarsely.
“Yes, but it’s over now, and you need to rest, okay?”
She coughs, troubled eyes searching his. “He’s dead?”
“He is. Most definitely.”
“I didn’t kill him, did I?”
“No, the fire did that.”
“They’re sure?”
“One hundred percent.”
She sighs heavily and he reaches over to stroke her forehead, then helps her replace the oxygen mask. She closes her eyes, her breathing deepens, and she surrenders to a heavy, dreamless sleep.
When Reeve next opens her eyes, Nick Hudson has vanished. The stink of burnt hair fills her nostrils and she realizes the oxygen mask is gone.
She slowly sits up, looks around, and tosses off the covers. Her legs are marked with cuts and bruises and burns, and bandages are taped around her knees and both feet. She stares, thinking:
Damn. More scars.
She swings both legs over the side of the bed, stands gingerly, and hobbles two steps across the room to a bouquet of long-stemmed yellow roses. Clumsily, she lifts out the small white envelope tucked among the blooms. Even with her bandaged fingers, she can feel something small and asymmetrical inside.
She opens the card and finds a key taped beside a note that reads:
I hope you never need one of these again, but just in case … Nick.
She stands very still, regarding the universal handcuff key in her palm, weighing what to say to Nick Hudson.
He answers her call two minutes later, and she thanks him for the roses. “They’re gorgeous. And thanks for the key.”
“Promise me you’re not going to need it.”
She coughs a laugh.
“How are you feeling?”
“Like I’ve been chewed on by a very large dog.”
He chuckles. “Well, your voice is sounding pretty good, a lot better than when you gave your statement.”
She’s momentarily confused. She can scarcely remember talking to investigators after the fire. “It was recorded?”
“I’ve listened to it twice. Pretty wild stuff, I’ve gotta say,” he continues. “The arson guys are like kids in a candy shop.”
The yellow roses briefly morph into flame and she blinks away the image.
“We’re finding out things about this guy you wouldn’t believe. I mean, first off, did you hear about your Jeep?”
“Is it all right?”
“Sure, and it’s released from evidence already. But here’s the thing: We found a GPS tracker under your bumper. We think he planted it there.”
“What? He was tracking me?” The thought makes her skin crawl.
“Apparently you weren’t the only one. And you’re right that he was a cop.”
As he tells her some of what they’ve discovered about Drew Eubank, the computer wizard and surveillance expert who orchestrated the kidnappings of Hannah, Tilly, and Abby, her hands start to hurt. She realizes she’s strangling the phone with one hand and clenching a fist with the other.
“Nick,” she interrupts, “this is too much to take in.”
“Oh, right.” There’s an awkward pause. “Sorry. I shouldn’t unload all this on you while you’re in the hospital.”
“No, that’s okay.” She glances at the roses.
“But anyway, uh, I’m glad you called, because I wanted to ask: Do you think you’ll ever come back to Jefferson?”
She hears the underlying meaning and pictures Nick Hudson’s kind eyes, his tempting mouth. She fervently tries to imagine being with him as his future unfolds: going to law school, bringing bad guys to justice, strumming his guitar and writing ballads.… It suits him, but she shakes her head. “I’m sorry. You’re an amazing guy, but we both know it wouldn’t work. I could never fit in here.”
A pause. “Well, sure. You belong in San Francisco. Jefferson must seem pretty dull.”
“Dull?” She scoffs. “Don’t I wish? But I need to get home. I’m tired.”
“Sure. I understand. It must be exhausting being you.”
“What do you mean?” she asks, trying to subdue the edge of defensiveness in her voice.
His reply is gentle. “Reeve, honestly, no one would ever accuse you of being ordinary.”
She replays this conversation a hundred times while driving home, clutching the wheel with bandaged hands, fighting her regrets. She drives for hours without stopping, and when her hands throb from gripping the wheel too hard, she rests them one at a time, stretching and flexing, knowing that they will heal, that the tender pink scars will thicken, toughen, fade, and turn numb.
Her head aches, her heart aches, but at last she crosses the Bay Bridge and exhales a sigh of relief. It seems like months since she’s been home.
The city appears etched in radiance. A bright moon shines overhead and the Ferry Building is aglow as she turns onto the Embarcadero and cruises slowly along the wide, familiar lane, marveling at the tall palms sparkling with holiday lights.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
So many people helped carry this novel from my hands to yours that it would take an entire book to thank everyone properly, but I’ll do my best to keep it short.
I count myself lucky for having many smart and talented friends, and I’m particularly grateful to those who kindly read versions of my manuscript. A thousand thanks to Jeffery Deaver, Dr. Robert Jones, Cynthia Maas, Peggy Newell, Chips O’Toole, and Professor Emeritus John Williams. Another thousand thanks to the Decatur Island Writers, Authors All: Rachel Bergman, Karen Engelmann, Lynn Grant, and Marisa Silver.
Huge thanks to Michael Neff and his Algonkian workshops for helping me cultivate this story, plus five stars of gratitude to my critique group at AuthorSalon.com: Kari Pilgrim, Jennifer Skutelsky, Francis Vandenhoven, Scott Young, and especially Lois Gordon.
I owe my deepest gratitude to those who helped sharpen my writing skills over the years, notably Jeanne Mackin, Rahna Reiko Rizzuto, and Rebecca Brown, my superlative advisors at Goddard College. A wink of thanks also to Robert McKee and to Tom Jenks.
I owe a debt of thanks to retired police captain Ben Reed, Jr., to Dr. Bruce Gage, program director and chief of psychiatry for Washington State Prisons, and to Emmitt Booher, all of whom helped shed light on certain areas of expertise. (All errors are my own; please grant poetic license if you can.)
This novel would never have made it beyond chapter one without the enormous help of Dr. William Powers. It would not have seen print without my excellent agent, Liza Dawson. And it would have been a much lesser book without my superb editor, Hope Dellon, along with Andrew Martin and the terrific team at Minotaur Books. A deep bow of gratitude to you all.
Boundless thanks to my fabulous family. Mom, Dad, Mark, and Dianne, your unfailing love and support mean the world.
Thanks also to the citizens of beautiful “Jefferson County” (you know who you are). Please accept my apologies for fooling with your region’s geography.
And lastly, dear reader, my thanks to you for choosing this book.
RESOURCES
Here are some important resources if you need help or information:
• National Center for Missing & Exploited Children: 1-800-THE-LOST (1-800-843-5678)
http://www.missingkids.com/
or
http://www.ncmec.org
• National Domestic Violence Hotline: 1-800-799-SAFE (1-800-799-7233)
http://www.thehotline.org
• National Human Trafficking Resource Center / Polaris Project: 1-888-373-7888
http://www.polarisproject.org
• National Missing and Unidentified Persons System:
http://www.namus.gov
• Office for Victims of Crime:
http://www.ovc.gov/help/index.html
• The Elizabeth Smart Foundation:
http://elizabethsmartfoundation.org/
ALSO BY CARLA NORTON
Perfect Victim
Disturbed Ground
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CARLA NORTON is the author of the #1
New York Times
bestseller
Perfect Victim,
which the FBI put on their Behavioral Sciences Unit reading list. She served as the special sections editor for the
San Jose Mercury News
and has written for numerous publications. She has an MFA from Goddard College and has twice served as a judge for the Edgar Awards.
The Edge of Normal,
which won a Royal Palm Literary Award for best unpublished mystery, is her first novel. She lives in California and Florida.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THE EDGE OF NORMAL.
Copyright © 2013 by Carla Norton. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
Cover photograph @ Daniel Murtagh/Trevillion Images
The Library of Congress has Cataloged the print edition as follows:
Norton, Carla.
The edge of normal: a novel / Carla Norton. — First Edition.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-1-250-03104-4 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-250-03105-1 (e-book)
1. Young women—Fiction. 2. Kidnapping—Fiction. 3. Life change events—Fiction. 4. Friendships—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3614.o78253E34 2013
813
'
.6—dc23
2013013697
e-ISBN 9781250031051
First Edition: September 2013