The Edge of Normal (7 page)

“It’s not just that,” Reeve interrupts. “I got fired from my job.”

“What?”

She feels her face flush.

“They let you go?”

She hadn’t meant to spill this particular bit of bad news—it’s Thanksgiving after all, so she’s supposed to be happy and thankful—but now it seems a convenient way to steer the conversation away from darker issues. “They tried to be nice about it,” she says. “But still.”

“I’m so sorry. What happened?”

“Takami-san, the owner, has a daughter who has apparently been kicked out of UCLA,” she turns quickly to the sink and begins scrubbing a pot. “Or maybe she dropped out, because I don’t think she ever wanted to study business. Anyway, she’s home again, so she’s back working at the restaurant, and I’m out.” Her voice starts to crack and she covers it with a cough.

“When did this happen?”

“Yesterday.”

“You really liked that job, didn’t you?”

“Well, yeah. But I was really just replacing Keiko, I guess.”

Her father puts an arm around her shoulders and gives her a hug, just briefly, because it’s understood that Reeve doesn’t like being touched.

*   *   *

After dessert, while the family sprawls around the television, Reeve slips away for a nap in the guest room. But when she sees the crib in the den, she stops and goes in for a peek at the baby. He’s sleeping. She watches him, studies his soft, sweet features, trying to fathom the boundless peace of this exceptionally flawless being.

Something colorful on her father’s desk draws her deeper into the room. A birthday card from Amanda. She checks the inscription and guiltily puts it back, then turns to browse the bookshelves, curious as always about her father’s breadth of interests. Archeology, politics, art, literature, medicine, and a long shelf of computer texts, some with Henri LeClaire’s name on the spine. Framed diplomas and photographs are neatly clustered on one wall. Reeve studies one of her father standing next to Bill Gates. Some people say they look alike, but she never could see it.

She yawns. The couch that faces the window looks comfortable. She has never slept here before, but the pale blue throw draped over the arm seems an invitation. She strokes it—soft—and pulls it over her as she reclines and stretches out.

She has just dozed off when she becomes aware of her sister’s voice behind her. “He sleeps like a log during the day,” Rachel whispers, “but he’s a real party animal at three in the morning.”

“You and Reeve were the same way,” her father answers.

Their voices are soft. Reeve is unseen on the sofa. She closes her eyes, hoping they’ll go away, and tries to go back to sleep.

“I wonder how Reeve is sleeping these days,” he says.

Reeve smiles.

“Me, too. The news about this latest case has got to be awfully upsetting.”

The smile disappears.

“She had such terrible nightmares, remember?”

“I’ll bet this new girl is having nightmares, too.” A beat. “Do you think they’ll ask Beth Goodwin for help, like with Reeve?”

“No, I think they’ll ask Reeve.”

“What?”

Reeve is wide awake, partly fascinated, partly appalled by what she’s hearing.

“She’s closer, both geographically and in time,” he says.

“Oh, right.”

He sighs. “Anyway, I just hope they don’t ask.”

“Why not?”

“It would be too hard on her.”

“Dad, she’s an adult now, she can handle it.”

“No, she was so traumatized.”

Reeve considers sitting up and confronting them, but curiosity pins her to the sofa.

Her father continues, “You know she’s still seeing Dr. Lerner.”

“Still?”

“Once a week. She’s pretty fragile, I think, beneath that aloof exterior.”

“Dad, she’s not made of china. She’s got grit. She has her own apartment. I mean, I know you’re paying some of her bills, but she’s more independent now, isn’t she?”

“She’s just so isolated, Rach. She has no social life, as far as I can tell, and I worry about her. It’s like she’s locked up in a protective shell.”

“But she seems to have adjusted pretty well. She’s working and—”

“Not any more.”

“What?”

“She lost her job.”

“Oh, crap, another one? I’m sorry to hear that.”

“I am, and I’m not. I still wish she’d go back to college.”

Rachel scoffs. “I don’t understand why she won’t give Berkeley another try. She’s the one with the fat IQ.”

No one speaks for a moment and Reeve lies quiet, wishing they would go away.

“Besides, college would be good for her,” Rachel adds.

“I know. But I guess she couldn’t adapt.”

“She didn’t really try, did she? But it’s what Mom wanted. Anyway, that was the whole point of the trust fund, right?”

“I know, but…” Her father’s voice sounds far away.

“Of course she’s socially awkward. But still.”

“Well anyway, look at you, kiddo,” her father says, changing the subject, his tone a notch brighter. “You’re doing great.”

Reeve hears what she imagines to be a hug, waits until they’ve gone, then goes to the window, thinking about her mother, about her life, about Tilly Cavanaugh. The fog blows over rooftops, gray and dismal, curling like wet smoke, and she stands there for a long time, watching the chilly scene and weighing things, before going to ask her father if she can borrow his old Jeep.

TWELVE

Jefferson County Jail
Friday

Randy Vanderholt hears the lock snick open and hopes that someone is bringing him an early lunch. Instead, a guard who looks like Mike Tyson looms in the doorway. He grumbles, “Your lawyer’s here,” then steps aside and lets in a tall, thin guy with a stoop.

“Clyde Pierson,” the lawyer says, extending a hand.

Vanderholt waves his fingers at the man, and Pierson calls the guard back to have the restraints removed.

Vanderholt sits up on the bed, rolls his shoulders and stretches. “Where’s the other guy?” he asks. “I mean, I already talked to one lawyer, right?”

“Bradley? He was just getting the basic info, filling in while I was on vacation. I’ll be your public defender from here on.” Pierson seats himself on a plastic chair and sets his large briefcase on the floor beside him. He clicks it open, saying, “So, how are you feeling?”

“Hungry.”

“I’ll take that as a good sign. Eat and get strong. We don’t want you trying to off yourself again, okay?”

Vanderholt starts to say something, but just makes a face.

Pierson extracts a folder from his briefcase and spreads it open on his lap. Without looking up, he says, “So, Mr. Vanderholt, you’ve been in prison before.”

“Yeah, but that was just car theft, was all.”

“Lighter charge, sure.” The lawyer flips through a few more papers and grunts. “Listen, I’m not going to sugarcoat anything. The prosecution has your confession, plus a helluva crime scene, and a highly sympathetic young girl as a witness. Even your own photographs, man.”

“But I took good care of her. You gotta understand that. You gotta give me some credit for that.”

Pierson says nothing.

“So? What can you do to save me?” Vanderholt’s tone is halfway between a complaint and a whine.

Pierson gives him a weary look. “Diminished capacity?”

“Hey, I’m not crazy.”

Pierson shakes his head. “You tried to kill yourself, Randy. I’ll have an expert come and talk with you, okay? That’s standard.”

“You don’t really believe I’m crazy, do you?”

“I’m just saying that it’s worth considering, seeing how it might pan out. It could be an option, okay?”

Vanderholt scowls at him.

“I’ve got to do my best to represent you.” Pierson shifts in his chair. “But listen, you’ve got to work with me. They’re going to scrape every last bit of evidence off the walls of both of those basements, you know.”

“Yeah? So?”

“So, this is hot and they’re going full-bore. They’re planning your arraignment for early next week.”

Vanderholt winces. “But we’ll plead not guilty, right?”

“Sure. We’ll make them sweat as long as possible. We’ll look for mistakes. We’ll work the angles. But I want you to think seriously about cutting a deal.”

Vanderholt closes his eyes and mumbles.

“I think there could be an offer. That could be your best chance.”

“But they’ll crucify me.”

“You don’t really want to risk a jury trial, do you? Put Tilly Cavanaugh on the stand?”

“But she won’t, ah, I mean—”

“And she’s just your first problem. We’re talking DNA, here. They’re working damn hard to link you with those other girls.”

“What other girls?”

Pierson squints at him.

“What other girls?” he asks again.

“Hannah and Abby.”

“I don’t know about any other girls. Only mine.”

“You sure about that? Because if they find the least scrap of evidence linking you to Hannah Creighton or Abby Hill, we could be looking at a long list of very heavy, very serious, very ugly charges. Even the death penalty.”

Vanderholt feels stung. “No, no, hand to God, I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“Think hard about this, man. They’re bringing in dogs. They’re looking for graves.”

“I’m telling you, I do not know any other girls. I only took one. Just Tilly. Just mine.”

Pierson sits very still, watching him.

“I’m sorry I took her, okay? I know it was wrong, okay? But I never hurt her. I mean, not really. Not like you think.”

Pierson sighs. “Well then,” he says finally. “So a plea is our best bet.”

“But if a trial could—”

“A trial will just give them an opportunity to grandstand. Think about it. Tilly Cavanaugh is a prosecutor’s dream.”

“But I told you, I took good care of her. I did. Good food, lots of water, a toothbrush. And vitamins. Really, no kidding, I did. I even gave her vitamins.”

“Right,” Pierson scoffs, studying the papers in his lap. “This is some sweet confession you handed them. You admitted that you kidnapped her. You described how you kept her locked up in your basement. Unless they screw up on a monumental scale, they’ve got you tied up and served cold. We’re talking child abduction, false imprisonment, and multiple counts of forcible rape, at minimum.”

“But you don’t understand. When I, when she…” His eyes tear up. “She was my precious little girl.”

Pierson grunts. “Listen, the DA is lining up a list of charges that will put you away for at least a hundred years. How sympathetic do you think a jury is going to be? A trial just gives the DA’s office a chance to grab headlines. They’ll make you out to be the Monster of Jefferson County.”

The lawyer keeps on talking, but his words have sparked an idea, and now Randy Vanderholt is thinking hard. He’s thinking about Duke, the man that his girl Tilly secretly called “Mister Monster.” He’s wondering if Duke had something to do with those other missing girls.

Because Duke sure seemed to know exactly what he was doing. So easy. So relaxed. Like he’d practiced everything before. And it was weird that Duke had pegged Randy for what he really was, first thing, when no one else ever did. “Takes one to know one,” Duke had said.

Pierson is still talking, but Vanderholt is barely listening. He rubs his jaw, worrying about how much danger he might be in, trying to work how much he might suffer later. He’s weighing his fear of Duke against his fear of spending the rest of his life in prison. It’s a lot to try to figure out, and he’s not good at this sort of thing, and the harder he tries, the blurrier his thinking gets.

“Um, I’m under suicide watch, right?” he blurts.

Pierson frowns, clearly annoyed at being interrupted. “You are, of course.”

“So, um, no one can get to me now, right? I mean, I’m safe here, right?”

Pierson leans forward. “What are you saying, man?”

Randy licks his lips. “This is, um, confidential, right? Attorney-client privilege, all that?”

“Of course. Why?”

He checks the door, clears his throat, and lowers his voice. “There’s another guy, okay?”

Pierson’s eyebrows shoot up. “An accomplice?”

Randy sees the eagerness in the attorney’s face and senses leverage. He sits forward. “But the guy’s tricky, okay? He’s smart.” His eyes check the door again. “And dangerous.”

“Yeah, okay, so what’s his name?”

Randy rolls his tongue around his mouth. “A deal, right? I can get a deal?”

“If you’re telling the truth, yes.”

“So, uh, how does that work, exactly?”

“I’ll set it up with the prosecutor just as soon as we know the charges.” Pierson puts his hands on his knees and leans forward, intent. “So tell me about this guy. What’s his name?”

Randy sucks his teeth, thinking. “Here’s the thing … His name, uh, I’m not for sure about that.”

“You’ve got an accomplice but you don’t know his name?” Pierson snorts. “Don’t jerk me around.”

“His name is, you know, like a street name.”

Pierson shoots him a skeptical look. “You’ve got to give me more than that.”

“I’ll give it all to you, I can ID him,” Randy adds quickly. “I got his license plate number, too.”

Pierson’s face lights up. “Now you’re talking.” He balances a notepad on his knee, pulls a pen from his pocket and clicks it open. “Okay, shoot.”

Randy rocks back. “Not so fast. How do I know I’ll get a deal if I tell you?”

“I’m your lawyer. That’s my job.”

“But hold on just a minute here.” Randy says, trying to line things up in his mind. “How can I be sure?”

“You’ve got to trust me on this.”

“Trust you?” Randy’s expression sours. People who ask for trust always mean trouble. And once he tells what he knows, his hand is played. Meanwhile, he’s still a target and Duke is still a threat. He crosses his arms across his chest, suddenly clear on what to do. “That’s it. I ain’t saying another word until there’s a deal on the table.”

THIRTEEN

Jefferson City

Reeve carries a large hot chocolate over to a table far from the other customers. She sits facing the door, sips carefully, then fishes her cell phone out of her purse and taps in Dr. Lerner’s number.