by Carla Norton
“Yep, of those two other missing girls.”
“Ah, Abby Hill and Hannah Creighton.” Duke lifts his eyebrows, feigning interest, but he knows the dogs will find nothing. Abby and Hannah are exactly where they should be, and there is nothing to connect them to Vander-dolt, or even to sweet little Tilly. Duke is the only common link, and he is much too smart to leave behind any sort of evidence, other than some well-placed but untraceable marks on human skin.
“What’s the news about Vanderholt?” Duke asks.
“Still in the infirmary, I guess. The DA is pushing for an arraignment early next week.” Montoya pulls a face. “I bet Jackie Burke would have done it even sooner, too, if she could somehow push the calendar.”
“So who’s defending him?”
“Pierson.”
“Really?” Duke scoffs. “I thought ol’ Clyde was about to retire.”
“Yep. Which is tough luck for Vanderholt,” Montoya says, chuckling. “Because Pierson will just try to plead him out and go golfing.”
FIFTEEN
A tall deputy named Mull has escorted Reeve into the office of Jefferson County Deputy District Attorney Jackie Burke, a smartly dressed woman with carefully styled hair. After introductions, Burke sends Deputy Mull out to fetch coffee, settles behind her desk, and points Reeve to a chair, saying, “You know, Miss LeClaire, I vetted Dr. Lerner very carefully before introducing him to the Cavanaughs. It seemed a smart and necessary move. But I fail to appreciate why my consulting expert has now invited an inexperienced young woman to question my primary witness.”
Reeve blinks, trying to grasp the significance of this statement. “We were just talking. You know my history, right?” she answers stiffly, wishing Dr. Lerner were here.
“That you were kidnapped? Or course. And we’re all quite sympathetic. All of us,” she says with a tight smile. “But please help me understand how a patient of Dr. Lerner’s in San Francisco has found herself in Jefferson, involved in my investigation.” She addresses Reeve with eyebrows lifted high in expectation.
“I came up … Well, I’m meeting with Tilly Cavanaugh because I was invited.”
“And your training is…”
“I, uh, I don’t have any training.”
“None?”
“Not formally, no.”
“A college degree?”
Reeve shakes her head.
“And yet, Dr. Lerner believed it was appropriate to involve you in Tilly Cavanaugh’s therapy?”
Reeve starts to answer, but Burke puts up a palm and keeps talking. “And today the Cavanaugh family brought you into their home and allowed you to spend nearly an hour, unsupervised, with their daughter. Do I have that straight?”
“Earlier this afternoon, that’s right.”
“Excuse me, but aren’t you just one of Dr. Lerner’s former patients, or are you supposed to be some kind of protégé?” Before Reeve can manage a response, Burke says, “I’ll need a full report. Recorded, if you don’t mind.” She sets a small recorder on her desk, punches a button, and when a red light appears, faces Reeve. “Tell me everything, please, Miss LeClaire. In full detail.”
Reeve shifts in the uncomfortable chair, which seems increasingly like the hot seat, takes a deep breath, and tries to keep the attitude out of her voice as she recounts the key points of her conversation with Tilly.
Burke listens with a pinched look, drumming her desk with manicured fingernails, until a point when her hands freeze. “Let me stop you right there.” She frowns. “Now you’re telling me that Tilly has revealed key evidence to you?”
“No, I’m sure there’s nothing she told me that you don’t already know.”
“What makes you so sure of that?” Burke challenges, leaning forward. “How could you possibly begin to imagine what the DA’s office does and does not know?”
“I said she showed me her scars. I’m sure you have all her medical records. I remember—quite vividly—being subjected to a thorough physical examination when I was in her situation.”
Burke shoots a look at the thick file on her desk, crosses her arms, and is about to ask another question when Reeve adds, “She only gave me the message I just told you: That she is, and I quote, ready to tell you all about Randy Vanderholt. Unquote.”
“Yet she refuses to come to my office.”
“She didn’t refuse, she didn’t use that word. She just asked that you come to her house.”
“I see.” Burke sighs. “Underage girls are not legally required…” She waves away this thought and continues, “What else did she tell you?”
Reeve squirms, feeling as if she’s being cross-examined. “That’s it, pretty much. She showed me her room, some mementos, framed photographs, girly stuff.”
“And then she just jumped up and said, ‘Wanna see my scars?’ That’s hard to believe, Miss LeClaire.”
“No, she asked to see mine first.”
“Your scars?”
Reeve fights off a sickening wave of déjà vu and simply nods.
“Okay. The two of you compared scars. Then what?”
“Then she told me that she had a message for the lady lawyer.”
“She used that term?”
“That’s why I said it. That’s a quote. She said, ‘I’ve got a message for that lady lawyer.’”
“The message about Vanderholt?”
“Yes.”
Burke’s stare is unnerving. “Tell me the rest.”
Reeve closes her eyes. She sees Tilly sitting on the bed, clutching her knees to her chest, watching her with that unflinching gaze.
“There’s more, isn’t there?” Burke prods.
Reeve sighs. “She asked me about my family, about how we moved from Seattle to San Francisco.”
“What? Why? Is the Cavanaugh family thinking about moving?”
“They didn’t say anything to me about it. I got the impression from Tilly that it was a new consideration, that she got the idea from me.”
“You suggested it?” Her tone is incredulous.
“No. I just told the family, as a group, about some of my history. I was trying to explain that I understand what they’re going through.”
“You were establishing some kind of a bond?”
“I was trying to. That was the point.”
“Dr. Lerner authorized this?”
“The Cavanaughs specifically asked to talk with me, I told you.”
“And now Tilly wants her whole family to just up and move away?”
“My family did. The media attention was vile.”
“What else did you two discuss?”
Reeve digs her nails into her palms, wishing she could have sidestepped this whole encounter. “Tilly asked if I thought she should change her name.”
Burke opens her mouth and snaps it closed. After a beat, she asks, “Like you did?”
“That’s right.”
“And what did you tell her?”
Reeve gives a half shrug. “That it’s up to her. That she should talk to her parents about it. What else could I say?”
Burke crosses her arms. “What’s the whole story? What else haven’t you told me?”
“That’s it. Then she wanted a cookie.”
“I need to know everything she tells you. Everything. You understand?” Burke gives her a long scowl, then gets up from behind her desk and starts pacing around her office. The heels of the prosecutor’s shiny black boots click back and forth across the floor.
“Did she tell you any details about Vanderholt?”
“No, nothing.”
“What? Seriously? Nothing?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s hard to believe.”
Reeve purses her lips.
“What was her demeanor?” Burke asks. “Was she crying, upset?”
“No. She’s stoic. Her affect is flat, meaning she’s kind of blank and unemotional. Dr. Lerner must have told you, that’s normal for victims like—” like us, she thinks “—like Tilly.
”
Burke looks away and mutters, “Sure, but it will still seem strange to the jury.”
Reeve now remembers the hard truth about lawyers: it’s all about the case, it’s all about winning. She’s suddenly exhausted. She has been up since dawn, and the long drive from San Francisco was just the start of this draining day.
“So you can put Dr. Lerner on the stand,” Reeve says wearily. “He’s good. He can explain it all to the jury.”
“Like with your case?”
“Like with mine, sure.”
Burke scoffs. “I hope to do better than that.”
“What do you mean?”
Burke crosses her arms and stands in front of her. “Well, Daryl Wayne Flint didn’t quite get what he deserved, did he?”
Reeve looks away, pinching the numb spot on her left hand.
SIXTEEN
During free hours, Duke monitors his devices with the avidity of a teenage gamer. He has installed various types of surveillance equipment over the years—some state-of-the-art, some now out-of-date yet still functioning—and all of these are constantly transmitting to his well-appointed control room.
The programs that he’s created for cell phones are his favorite. Given the opportunity, he can easily install a beautifully parasitic program that goes beyond merely eavesdropping on a limited number of calls and capturing a few phone numbers. Far better, the multifunctional program instantly turns ordinary cell phones into microphones and transmitters. Duke can then listen to any conversation within the vicinity of the phone, even when it is not in use, as long as the battery has a charge. Of course, he can also view photos and e-mails and text messages.
The problem with all this streaming information is that it’s too much for any one person to monitor. So, rather than reviewing every single text or listening to hours of boring conversation about raising children or remodeling the house, Duke uses a brilliant filtering program called the Sniffer, which automatically monitors all the conversations on any given device and flags words or phrases that Duke deems to be of special interest.
The particular words, of course, are a challenge. Just as the Department of Homeland Security might zero in on a specific terrorist’s name, Duke has to key in specific words that can bring him significant information, and he updates these words as situations change.
For instance, each of his girls has her own private name for him, which he has made a point of discovering and then keying in. For Tilly, the secret name chosen for him—one that she does not know that he knows—is Mister Monster. An obvious red flag.
Sadist, rapist, and kidnapper are some other terms that Duke has flagged.
So, if anything of concern has been said within several feet of any of his listening devices, the Sniffer targets those conversations, and Duke can later cue up the recordings to scrutinize them at his leisure. Usually, this is fairly routine.
But now things have changed, thanks to Randy Vander-dolt, who is currently lounging beyond Duke’s reach in the infirmary at the new jail.
Duke has been thinking long and hard about what to do about this miscreant, and his plans are firming up, but there is nothing to be done at the moment. So, for now, Tilly Cavanaugh is his main concern. He pinches an earlobe, thinking that her rescue hasn’t really put him in jeopardy. But what she does or does not say could trigger a very unfortunate series of events. A wasteful series of events. Countless hours of effort. Years of planning.
Luckily, Tilly is unable to disclose any truly significant information about him. Duke is confident about that, because he was meticulous. He took precautions. For one thing, she can’t give an accurate description of him. She doesn’t even know what he looks like, because his girls are always blindfolded before he even enters the room. The keepers are tasked with that. If he wants to see the girl’s eyes, he secures his mask prior to removing her blindfold. Simple.
For another, Tilly is surely terrified of reprisals. During those sweet thirteen months when she was under his control, he made sure that she understood that any bad behavior on her part would have dangerous consequences. He stressed that he knew all about her family, including their schedules and their individual quirks. He dropped references to her brother’s football practice, her mother’s hairdresser, just to reinforce that he was continually watching everyone in the Cavanaugh household.
Tilly knew that her family would suffer if she misbehaved. And, for the most part, she had been smart; she had performed exactly as he required. But sometimes, when she became unruly, it had been necessary to use some force, such as a lit cigarette, to impress upon her that disobedience had swift and painful consequences.
This evening, the Sniffer has alerted Duke to a possible problem, so he laces up his sneakers, puts on his headphones, and begins listening to segments of recent conversations while running on his treadmill.
No reason to be lazy about it.
He has barely worked up a sweat when he hears something interesting. He’s listening to Mr. C’s familiar baritone, to Mrs. C’s motherly clucking sounds, to Tilly’s monosyllabic responses, and to that pompous shrink’s irritating comments when a new voice arrives. He frowns in concentration.
The voice has a youthful, melodic quality.
She calls herself Reeve.
He slows his pace, confused. Why is she there?
He gets off the treadmill and resets the recording, hoping for introductions that might clarify her role. But everyone at the Cavanaugh residence clearly anticipated this strange female’s arrival.
He sits down, listening with a scowl. He has missed something. He turns up the volume and now the girl accommodates him with a detailed narrative. He listens, rapt, and when she begins describing what she went through, he lets out a long whistle. He remembers this story.
But the girl’s name was not Reeve.
He grasps for her true identity, closes his eyes, and then says it aloud, “Regina Victoria LeClaire,” feeling the shape of her name in his mouth. “Edgy Reggie,” he adds with a smirk. Leaning far back in his chair, he takes a deep breath, savoring a recollection of what he’d read in the news.
Yes, he remembers the case well. He was a big fan.
Duke had paid close attention to the kidnapper’s trial—not for the legal outcome, but for the many salacious details, which he’d tried to imagine in their full splendor—and the genius of the girl’s artful tormentor had become an early source of inspiration. The man was insane, of course, but clever.
Duke stretches out his long legs and begins to wonder whatever happened to Daryl Wayne Flint.
SEVENTEEN
“She’s a bully in heels,” Reeve tells Dr. Lerner over dinner.
“Well, that’s good, isn’t it? That’s what she’s supposed to be. The prosecutor for your case wasn’t exactly a wimp, either.”
“Burke thinks he was,” she says, picking at her salad.
“How’s that?”
“She made a snide remark about Daryl Wayne Flint not getting what he deserved.”
Dr. Lerner sighs. “Unfortunately. But it wasn’t due to any failure of the prosecution.”
“I know. It was an unusual confluence of events,” she says with heavy emphasis.
“We weren’t totally blindsided, but, yes, there were some unexpected maneuvers by that defense attorney.”
“And that stupid judge.” Reeve stabs a tomato. “And Dr. Ick.”
“The evil Dr. Moody, yes.” The sadness in Dr. Lerner’s eyes belies his light tone.
Reeve’s family had bristled at the testimony of Dr. Terrance Moody, the arrogant expert witness for the defense who had proven so persuasive in court. During the trial, the two LeClaire daughters had tagged the forensic psychiatrist “Dr. Ick.” The name stuck.
“Plus Flint’s mother,” Dr. Lerner reminds her. “Your kidnapper’s case might have collapsed without his mother’s testimony.”
“But she’s as bad as he is! I can’t believe anyone bought it.”
“Agreed. But wi
th her testimony along with Moody’s, it was hard for the prosecution to prove malingering. Flint’s attorney made his case, even if we’re convinced it was all an act.”
Glowering, she mutters, “Anyway, Flint is locked up … and a psychiatric hospital is just as secure as a prison, right? So I guess that’s all that really matters.”
“He’ll stay locked up for an extraordinarily long time, if I have any say about it. You can bet that I’ll keep flying up there every time a petition is sent to the judge.”
“The next hearing is coming up, isn’t it?”
“The Risk Review Board hasn’t gotten back to me with the date yet, but they will soon. It’s usually in January.”
Reeve forces Daryl Wayne Flint from her mind, sets aside her fork, and looks around. They had opted for convenience, walking over from the hotel to a chain restaurant with pulsing music and a bar spilling over with a boisterous crowd. Regretting their choice of dining establishment, she tries to figure out what seems so different from San Francisco. The people here are more casually dressed, no surprise. But there’s something other than the preponderance of flannel that’s unsettling.
“How’s your salad?” Dr. Lerner asks.
“Okay. But I kind of wish I’d ordered the salmon. How’s your pasta?”
“Bland. And I definitely wish I’d ordered the salmon,” he says, making a face.
Reeve turns her attention back to the singles scene churning around them, noticing two men dressed in camouflage, and several wearing baseball caps. Indoors. At night. It strikes her as odd.
“Are you okay?”
“Sure,” she says, glancing away from a heavily bearded mountain man who grins at her from the bar. As she looks from man to man, trying to figure out what’s nagging at her, it dawns on her that it’s Friday night—date night—yet most of these guys have no apparent interest in razors or personal grooming. Maybe she’s not one to judge, since it’s rare that she would find herself out on a Friday night, but is there some kind of message in all this facial hair?
“So,” Dr. Lerner says, interrupting her thoughts, “Jackie Burke intends to interview Tilly at home tomorrow.”
