The Edge of Normal

by Carla Norton

  “That’s what she says. But I’m kind of surprised that any lawyer would want to work on the weekend, aren’t you?”

  “No, this is a big case, so everyone will be working nonstop until all the evidence is in and the trial is over. Anyway, the Cavanaughs want us to come, too.”

  “They do?”

  “Since Burke is going to be interviewing Tilly, they’d like us to be there.”

  “Well, I’m sure Jackie Burke will be thrilled to see me.”

  “Tough. It’s what Tilly wants.” He studies her for a moment. “You don’t mind, do you? I’m sorry to drag you into this.”

  “No, I get it. Talking to a lawyer is like feeding a crocodile.”

  “And you realize that it’s a positive sign that Tilly has asked us to be there, that she already feels that kind of trust.”

  “Sure, I understand. It’s just that I wasn’t really planning … uh, but anyway, if Tilly wants moral support, I’ll be there.”

  Another quick glance at the mountain man at the bar, and a connection snaps into place: He reminds her of the guy with the smeared raincoat who hangs out by the BART station. She looks around, thinking that most of these whiskered faces remind her of the scruffy guys pushing carts around San Francisco.

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” she says, shaking her head.

  “Ready to go?” Dr. Lerner pushes aside his unfinished bowl of pasta, and a few minutes later they’re outside in the wintery night air. The pulsing music fades behind them as they walk across the asphalt parking lot toward their hotel. The cold bites through Reeve’s clothes, and she jams her fists into her pockets.

  “I probably don’t need to remind you,” he says, “but we need to take a back seat while Burke is interviewing Tilly tomorrow.”

  “Of course. Quiet moral support, no smart remarks, I promise.”

  “Although the truth is,” Dr. Lerner says, “I’ll be dying to ask about the dogs.”

  “What dogs?”

  “The cadaver-sniffing dogs.”

  “What? You lost me.”

  “Didn’t you hear? Crime scene investigators are searching both of the houses that Vanderholt rented, looking for those other missing girls.”

  She jolts to a stop. “What missing girls?”

  * * *

  Back in her hotel room, Reeve boots up her computer and does a search. Tilly’s rescue and Vanderholt’s suicide attempt dominate local headlines, and it doesn’t take long to scan the news coverage and find more about the abductions bracketing Tilly Cavanaugh’s.

  Hannah Creighton disappeared more than two years ago, a few months after turning twelve and several months before Tilly was taken. She was last seen on a golf course near her home, in the evening, practicing alone at the driving range.

  Fourteen-year-old Abby Hill disappeared just ten weeks ago while camping at Jefferson Lake with her family. A rescue team searched the surrounding terrain and dragged the swimming area, but found no sign of Abby.

  First Hannah, then Tilly, then Abby. No wonder the prosecutor was being such a bitch.

  Reeve scrolls through the newspaper’s archives and reads everything she can find, hoping for some insight into how these three girls might be linked. They were all small girls, roughly the same in physical appearance, and vanished under similar circumstances. All three disappeared from an outdoor location, with no witnesses.

  Most of the news stories were written by a reporter named Otis Poe, and Reeve follows a link to his blog. She scrolls down, skimming.

  The guy seems obsessed with finding a connection between these three cases. He rants that Vanderholt is the obvious perpetrator, yet has not been named as a suspect in the abductions of Hannah Creighton and Abby Hill. And Poe eviscerates the copycat theories floated by an unnamed source at the FBI.

  While reading, Reeve keeps flashing on Tilly’s burns and is relieved that details of the girl’s injuries haven’t been mentioned in any articles. At least not yet. It’s terrible reading personal facts about yourself in the news. But of course it’s even worse reading lies.

  Exhausted, she stands and stretches, easing the stiffness in her back. She opts for a quick shower, then turns out the light and crawls between the clean, crisp sheets. The bed is soft, the pillows are just right, but she lies there, wide-eyed and alert.

  If Vanderholt kidnapped all three of them, where are the other two?

  Dead, most likely. But if that’s the case, why would he spare Tilly? Because she was the smallest? Because she didn’t fight back?

  She tosses and turns, but sleep won’t come, so she gives up and finds the remote, hoping for some mind-numbing television. Instead, she finds the local news.

  Here is a reporter standing outside taut yellow lines of police tape, gesturing to the house cordoned off behind her. “Crime scene investigators brought specially trained dogs to both residences where Randy Vanderholt allegedly held young Tilly Cavanaugh captive in two different basements.”

  The video changes to a German shepherd jumping out of a pickup truck, and then to a black lab, nose to the ground, with a police officer trailing after it. The voice-over says: “Sources confirm that these dogs will be searching for any sign of two other missing girls, Hannah Creighton and Abby Hill, whose disappearances may be linked to Tilly Cavanaugh’s kidnapping.”

  Next, a man with gray skin and a bushy moustache is saying how shocked he is that Randy Vanderholt, the ordinary-seeming guy he hired to work as a janitor at Three Rivers Mall, is under arrest. “You just wouldn’t think he had that kind of evil in him,” the man says.

  “Yeah, right,” Reeve scoffs.

  “Randy was quiet,” the manager continues. “Maybe not the brightest guy around, but I saw him helping old folks, people in wheelchairs, things like that.” He shakes his head. “It’s awful creepy to think of him as a kidnapper. But I guess it’s always the ones you least expect.”

  Next, a reporter interviews the girls’ mothers, who are clearly distraught. Mrs. Creighton, a worn-looking woman with haunted eyes, says in her wispy voice, “We’re still hopeful, of course. But any news would be better than not knowing.”

  A minute later, Mrs. Hill is saying essentially the same thing, but her face is tense and she stands with her fists clenched.

  Reeve clicks off the news and turns out the light, but can’t sleep. She keeps seeing the bald pain in those faces, picturing her own parents in that same situation: having a child missing for so long that even finding a corpse would come as relief.

  EIGHTEEN

  Saturday

  Duke opens a thermos of coffee and pours himself a fresh cup. He was up early, pasting on a thick moustache before loading gear into his van and driving up into the hills overlooking the Cavanaughs’ home.

  Visual surveillance is another of his specialties, and the hilly, wooded terrain that rims the town of Jefferson makes it a watcher’s paradise. Over the years, he has staked out several choice locations around town. He found this secluded spot, wedged between a thick copse of trees and a granite boulder, long ago, when Tilly was still a carefree kid, just one of a few select targets.

  The heavy cloud cover that obscures nearby mountaintops gives the scene below him a flat, even light. No rain, just a damp, cold threat. He lifts his binoculars and peers down at the L-shaped house. No activity yet. And he’s pleased that no reporters are congregating at the gate this morning.

  He adjusts the volume on his earbuds, hearing nothing.

  In Duke’s experience, the distraught parents of a freshly kidnapped child are in a panic to cooperate with law enforcement. It had been almost as simple to take control of the Cavanaughs’ cell phones as it had been to bug Tilly’s bedroom. Regrettably, Mrs. Cavanaugh’s cell has since been broken and replaced, but Mr. Cavanaugh’s is still working like a demon. So, just in case Mr. Cavanaugh has carelessly left his phone in a coat pocket or on the charger, Duke now dials his number and listens to it ring. And ring.

  “Hello?”

&
nbsp; Duke says nothing.

  A pause, a click, and next he hears footsteps, followed by Gordon Cavanaugh’s voice muttering, “Another damn restricted number.”

  Duke smiles, sure the phone is being carried to where it will be close at hand.

  Just then a white sedan pulls up at the gate. He lifts his binoculars as the gate sweeps open, and watches the car drive through and park at an odd angle. He gets a glimpse of Jackie Burke, looking crisp and stern, as always, accompanied by one uniformed deputy. They hurry to the front door.

  “Here we go,” Duke says aloud.

  He hears a weak buzz, voices too soft to be distinguishable. Soon, the signal strengthens. Meaningless pleasantries are being exchanged, and Duke easily identifies the voice of each family member: Gordon and Shirley Cavanaugh, their son Matt, and then Tilly. The deputy, named Chris something, is tasked with recording Tilly’s statement.

  “Come on, Tilly-girl,” Duke mutters. “Don’t disappoint me.”

  He adjusts his earbuds and sips his coffee.

  Another vehicle arrives at the gate, and Duke is so eager to get a good look at its occupants that he nearly spills his coffee as he grabs his binoculars.

  The driver wheels through the gate and down the driveway. The dark SUV parks next to Burke’s sedan, and Duke recognizes the young driver as Deputy Nick Hudson, no surprise. The wiry male passenger is clearly Dr. Ezra Lerner, that pseudosophisticated shrink.

  Ah, and here is the famous Regina Victoria LeClaire. Edgy Reggie, all grown up and calling herself Reeve. He grins and leans forward as she comes around the SUV. He admires the tight curve of her ass and, with a pang of regret at not having his camera ready, watches her follow the others into the house.

  In a moment, Duke hears more meaningless pleasantries, coffee poured and pastry offered. He waits impatiently, feeling bored until Jackie Burke’s grating voice says, “If you don’t mind, let’s get started. Now, Tilly, would you prefer to talk with me privately?”

  “Um, no. I want my mom with me. And Reeve and Dr. Lerner, too. Is that okay?”

  “Of course,” she says, but Duke chortles, because he can tell from her tone that she’s displeased.

  “Now,” Burke continues, “before we begin, I want you to know how much we appreciate your cooperation.” She goes on talking about legal mumbo jumbo, explaining what to expect in the weeks and months ahead, adding, “I know the news coverage is tough, but it should die down soon. And in the meantime, we’ll do our best to guard your family’s privacy. But, uh, do I understand that you’re considering a move somewhere out of town?”

  Duke sits up.

  “Well, we’re just in the talking stages,” Mrs. Cavanaugh volunteers with a nervous laugh. “We do have family down in Fresno.”

  “That idea really sucks, if you ask me,” declares a young male voice, clearly Tilly’s brother.

  “But, honey, it would make things easier on Tilly,” says Mrs. Cavanaugh in a placating tone. “Besides, you might like it.”

  “But why move? I mean, everything that twisted perv did to her is bad enough. Why does the whole family have to suffer?”

  “Don’t worry, Matt,” Mr. Cavanaugh says. “We would definitely wait until the end of the school year, after you graduate. It would be summertime before we’d even consider moving.”

  “Will the trial be over by then?” Mrs. Cavanaugh asks.

  “It’s hard to say for certain,” Burke responds, “but that might be pushing it.”

  “Maybe there won’t even be a trial,” says the son. “Maybe he’ll actually kill himself next time.”

  “Matt, that’s enough,” Mr. Cavanaugh says, cutting him off. “We’ll have to see how events unfold.” A pause. “So, Jackie, tell us: Do you expect that the public defender will try for some kind of plea bargain?”

  “That would save Tilly an ordeal, wouldn’t it?” Mrs. Cavanaugh asks.

  “And then we wouldn’t have to move,” the son says.

  “We have to go with the assumption that there will be a trial,” Jackie Burke says evenly. “I realize it’s an ordeal you’d prefer to avoid, but our first priority has to be building a case so that Randy Vanderholt is held accountable.”

  “And punished,” adds Mr. Cavanaugh.

  “But we can’t plan our whole lives around this trial,” the son complains.

  “I’m working on this case exclusively,” Burke says. “I’ll do my best to keep things moving. And with luck, Vanderholt will be arraigned early next week.”

  “Okay,” says Mrs. Cavanaugh, “but no matter how it all plays out legally, Tilly is still the one who has to deal with school, with her friends, and with everyone knowing who she is and what happened.” She sighs. “Besides, Fresno might make a nice change.”

  “Oh, that’s right. How stupid of me,” says the son acidly. “Why would I think my opinion would count for anything in this family?”

  The scrape of a chair, an awkward silence. A door slams, and Duke watches the teenager stomp over to a dented red pickup truck. A moment later, the truck is through the gate and speeding away.

  For the next two hours, Duke smokes and listens while Tilly shares details about how Randy Vanderholt kidnapped and raped and abused her. She sticks with her story: It was Randy Vanderholt, and only Randy Vanderholt, who hurt her.

  Several times, Duke smiles and murmurs, “Good girl.”

  * * *

  Duke watches Jackie Burke and the first deputy come out of the house and drive away. He sets his thermos aside as Reeve, the shrink, and the other deputy emerge and head toward the dark SUV. He’s hungry, and he considers following them, but decides that Tilly is the one to watch. From what he can hear, the family is making preparations to leave the house—Tilly’s first excursion out—and he’s curious to see her.

  She comes out with only her mother, her face obscured by an olive-colored hoodie. The girl is so thin that, dressed in hoodie and jeans, she looks like a boy.

  Duke turns the key in the ignition and quickly backs out of his surveillance spot. He takes a shortcut down the hill to the traffic light and, with perfect timing, sees them turn onto the avenue just in front of him. He follows their gold Infiniti SUV through town to a strip mall, where they park.

  He circles the crowded parking lot while keeping an eye on them. They head into a beauty salon, and Duke parks nearby.

  Looking for a good vantage point, he finds a Chinese restaurant with a perfect view of the salon. He insists on a seat by the window. When the waiter arrives, he orders a lunch special of hot-and-sour soup, egg rolls, and lemon chicken with fried rice, followed by some kind of yellow custard that he doesn’t eat.

  They’re in the salon a long time.

  He watches and waits.

  He asks for the bill and is sipping jasmine tea when Tilly emerges with a very short haircut, dyed a burgundy shade not much different from Reeve’s.

  Duke lays cash on the table and reaches his van just as Tilly’s mother is backing out of her parking space.

  He follows at a safe distance, letting four cars in between as they drive down a busy street. When they merge into a turning lane and head east, the light changes and Duke is stuck, fuming. But luck is with him. He watches as Mrs. Cavanaugh makes a quick right turn into another busy strip mall.

  Waiting for the light to change, he sees them get out of the gold Infiniti and head across the lot. As the light changes, he catches a glimpse of them entering a Jamba Juice.

  He turns into the same parking lot and Lady Luck smiles: a space opens up next to their vehicle. Duke parks alongside. He climbs nimbly between the seats into the back, where he keeps most of his equipment.

  By the time Tilly and Shirley Cavanaugh come out with their drinks, Duke has activated a highly specialized recording device attached to his driver’s side mirror. As Mrs. C clicks her key fob, the Infiniti chirps, and Duke smiles. His device has just captured and recorded layers of electronic information, including the lock’s encrypted codes.

&n
bsp; NINETEEN

  Sunday

  “Don’t you love the smell of popcorn?” Tilly stands sock-footed in the kitchen, watching her mother shake the pot.

  Once the staccato bursting of kernels slows, her mother removes the pot from the heat and gives two more shakes, popping the last few kernels before pouring the steaming popcorn into a big wooden bowl, which she hands to Tilly. She watches her daughter hold it beneath her nose and inhale.

  Mrs. Cavanaugh smiles and asks, “You two know how to work the DVD, don’t you?”

  “No problem,” Reeve replies.

  “Of course, Mom,” Tilly adds, rolling her eyes.

  “Good, because I always forget.”

  Reeve and Mrs. Cavanaugh’s eyes meet, and they share a smile. It’s instantly clear to Reeve that Shirley Cavanaugh actually has no problem understanding the DVD player, and this is just a motherly ploy to build her daughter’s confidence.

  Today, the three of them have the run of the house. Mr. Cavanaugh is at the high school watching his son’s basketball team either win or lose a tournament, so Mrs. Cavanaugh has invited Reeve over for an afternoon movie. For the day’s matinee, Tilly has selected a popular film about vampires and heartache.

  Reeve curls up on the couch beside Tilly, thinking how unexpected it is to be here, in such rare company. They are two survivors of very similar crimes. Ripped from everything familiar at a young age, both have traveled here from truncated childhoods, through prolonged captivity and unspeakable abuse, to this particular time and place: safely eating popcorn in a suburban living room, watching a movie on a wide-screen, high-definition TV.

  It all seems so strangely normal.

  After the film, while Mrs. Cavanaugh is in the kitchen cleaning up, Tilly grows quiet, and Reeve assumes she’s mulling over their discussion of the themes in the film. Mrs. Cavanaugh has drawn comparisons with West Side Story and Romeo and Juliet. They’ve discussed gang rivalries, family dynamics, the need for love, and the problems of being the new kid in school.