by Carla Norton
He owns this story.
Poe has been working it since the first day of the first kidnapping. He has written dozens of articles and countless blogs. These newcomers can shuffle and bump all they want, but damned if he’ll give an inch.
He got here early, like he always does. He claimed a seat in the very first row. But word has leaked out. News vans are parking out front, satellite dishes are sprouting like mushrooms, and all kinds of newspeople are clamoring for a spot.
Some of them recognize him, of course. His shaved head, roughly the shape and color of baked bread, is hard to miss, especially in this small, vanilla community. A few reporters shake his hand and try to pump him for information, but he just chills. Poe has been sniffing out leads and covering news for The Jefferson Express for nearly seven years. He has earned his connections. And if these leeches want any news from him, they can buy a copy of the paper. Or better yet, read his blog.
The decibel level climbs as spectators crowd in and sidle along the rows of pew-like benches, wedging themselves into any available seat. The room would be plenty large for the usual press conference, but it’s ill-equipped for this growing mob.
The bailiff turns away stragglers and shuts the doors. The crowd buzzes with anticipation, and Poe keeps his ears open, ready to jot down anything new as opinions are shared and rumors embellished all around him. Uniformed deputies and police officers file in and stand behind the podium, and Poe sits forward to watch a feminine officer who always reminds him of his curly-haired high school sweetheart. She looks pensive, talking with that muscle-bound FBI agent.
Poe smirks. He’d heard the FBI was back in town.
Three times Poe has watched federal agents charge up to Jefferson, hoping to be heroes. They arrive with speed and gravitas, but then slowly drift away. Because everyone knows that a child missing more than forty-eight hours is rarely saved. And Poe figures that the FBI doesn’t like to wait around while days turn to weeks and months, that they don’t like taking the blame for finding only decomposed remains.
Now that the story has changed, this steroid-infused agent and his buddies have made the long trek up from the Sacramento field office so they can help themselves to a big slice of glory pie.
Hypocrites.
Sheriff Mike Garcia, a stout man in cowboy boots, finally enters from a side room. Heads turn and the room quiets as the sheriff approaches the podium. Pens are poised, cameras are focused, lights glare, and the temperature rises. The sheriff adjusts his steel-rimmed glasses, bends toward the microphone, tests for sound. Television reporters cue technicians. News feeds are opened as Sheriff Garcia makes introductory remarks, acknowledging various civilians and law enforcement officers. At last, he stands tall and gets down to business, declaring, “It is my pleasure to announce to you today that thirteen-year-old Tilly Cavanaugh, who was kidnapped in October of last year, has been found alive and—”
A collective gasp surges through the room.
Louder, the sheriff continues, “Tilly Cavanaugh was rescued early yesterday from a locked basement in a residence on the outskirts of Jefferson County.”
The crowd murmurs, but Otis Poe yawns. He already knows the address, a remote place west of town on Tevis Ranch Road. He drove all the way out there and was taking pictures at dawn.
“She was found alive,” the sheriff is saying, “and was taken to St. Jude’s Hospital, where, after a full medical examination and necessary treatment, she was declared in good enough health to be reunited with her family.”
The crowd ripples with excitement. “Have you arrested someone?” a man yells, and reporters start barking questions.
“Quiet, please!” The sheriff’s voice cuts through the hollering. “Hold your questions. Please let me finish.” He glares from wall to wall and the crowd goes still.
“A suspect in the abduction of Tilly Cavanaugh has been arrested,” he continues, and the room seems to collectively hold its breath, waiting for the name of the man they are all poised to hate.
The sheriff grips the podium. “Thirty-five-year-old Randy Vanderholt, a janitor at Three Rivers Mall, was taken into custody, and—”
“Hang him!” someone bellows.
“Shoot the pervert!” another agrees.
The sheriff scowls. “Quiet down, please. This investigation is at a preliminary stage. I’ll have only limited comments today, but would like to outline some of the facts leading up to Tilly Cavanaugh’s rescue.”
“Please do,” Otis Poe mutters under his breath. He posted this same news on his blog hours ago. Now he’s on deadline, and his usual sources have come up short, so he’s itching to hear something new. Ace detective work. Astute deductions. Eyewitness accounts, or perhaps overheard screams. Something dramatic.
“Will the family be speaking today?” a reporter calls out.
The sheriff ignores the question and gestures to his right, saying, “At this point, I’d like to turn the microphone over to Lieutenant Paul Stephens, who heads up the Joint Special Operations Task Force.”
Poe sits forward and jots down: Lt. Stephens, JSOTF gets the credit?
A tall, reedy man approaches the microphone. His Adam’s apple bobs up and down, but Lieutenant Stephens speaks in a deep, resonant voice: “Early yesterday morning, we received a call regarding possible evidence in a vacant house.”
Poe’s eyebrows rise. He has seen the house on Tevis Ranch Road himself, with the blinds open, the furnished interior exposed. He clicks his pen and writes: What vacant house? A 2nd address?
“A local real estate agent named Emily Ewing—” Lieutenant Stephens looks up and nods at a well-dressed, angular woman, who nods back “—discovered that the house had some, uh, suspicious features.”
Poe sits forward, eager to absorb this new wrinkle in the case.
“Ewing learned that there was supposed to be an entrance to a basement, but it wasn’t visible. So, with the owner’s consent, a wall was removed, and…” Stephens flips to the next page, scanning past sections of the report before continuing, “and investigators discovered evidence of possible crimes having been committed. The owner subsequently confirmed that the residence had been rented for a period, but had recently been put up for sale, and he provided information about his former tenant, Randy Vanderholt.”
Lieutenant Stephens clears his throat and looks up. “We located the suspect and under questioning learned that he had since moved to another residence in an unincorporated area of Jefferson County. The suspect cooperated in granting inspection of that premises, of his address on Tevis Ranch Road, where Tilly Cavanaugh was subsequently discovered alive—” the lieutenant’s voice breaks slightly “—alive in a cellar under the garage.”
The noise level rises and falls as Poe jots down: Two addresses = Tilly was moved?
Stephens continues, “The victim was thin but appeared alert. And when we asked her name, she confirmed that she was Tilly Cavanaugh.”
Poe makes a note to himself to quiz his contacts at the hospital to see if he can find out more details about Tilly’s physical condition, while Sheriff Garcia thanks the lieutenant and retakes the podium.
The sheriff adjusts his glasses, saying, “The suspect was arrested at the scene. Mr. Vanderholt was advised of his rights and is being held pending charges at our new county jail.”
“Deluxe accommodations,” someone snickers.
The sheriff ignores this jab about the outrageously expensive new jail. “The district attorney’s office is preparing criminal charges, and we expect Vanderholt’s arraignment will be scheduled shortly after the Thanksgiving holiday.”
“Isn’t it true that Vanderholt confessed?” Poe shouts.
Exclamations surge through the room.
Sheriff Garcia glowers at Poe and bends close to the microphone. “The investigation is ongoing. We can only say that we expect further charges to come from the district attorney’s office next week. Now, we have time for a few brief questions.”
The reporters explo
de with pent-up energy, waving and shouting, while Sheriff Garcia puts up his palms in a gesture more like surrender than a signal for quiet. He struggles to maintain order while handling one question after another.
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 wi
th 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.”
