The Edge of Normal

by Carla Norton

  When she explains that Mr. and Mrs. Cavanaugh have offered to cover her expenses, her father chuckles, but does she sense a relief that goes unsaid? Despite her father’s generosity, she has felt more uncomfortable about her dependent status with each passing birthday.

  They exchange the usual questions about how everything is going, a comfortable back-and-forth that has its own rhythm, until, during a lull in the conversation, he asks, “You didn’t happen to see 60 Minutes tonight, did you?”

  Detecting a note of concern, she sits up. “No, why?”

  “Well, uh…” He clears his throat. “They aired an update of that program about kidnapping and captivity syndromes.”

  “Oh, crap.” She closes her eyes. “The one with Dr. Moody?”

  “I’m sorry. They apparently dusted it off because of the kidnappings up there, with Vanderholt’s arrest and all. Riding a new wave of interest at your expense, I’m afraid.”

  “And yours, Dad.”

  “Well, if it’s any consolation, it was mostly old footage. There wasn’t much new, really. And of course they don’t have your new name.”

  “So, it was just some old stuff about Daryl Wayne Flint?”

  “Um, yeah, but…”

  “But what?”

  “But they interviewed Dr. Moody again.”

  “That crackpot? Why? Can’t they see he’s a liar and an opportunist? They should pile up his damn books and strike a match.”

  “And roast him on top, I agree. But he’s a crackpot with a Ph.D., unfortunately, so people are inclined to believe that he knows what he’s talking about.”

  “Crap. Years of therapy, down the toilet.” After a beat of silence, she adds, “Just kidding, Dad. Relax.”

  Her father coughs a laugh. “Anyway, I don’t think anyone would recognize you now.”

  “Or Tilly, either.” She tells her father about Tilly’s new hairdo, then says good night and climbs into bed, exhausted.

  But she can’t help mentally replaying that familiar 60 Minutes segment. It first aired during a brief phase of comfort—when she was free and back home, when everything was beginning to settle into place—before she learned about her mother’s cancer.

  She had almost forgotten about Dr. Moody’s love of media attention. “Dr. Ick.” She says the name out loud, groans into the darkness, and reflexively begins charting the internal geography of everything that has happened and how it has changed her. The long, deep pit of captivity. The dizzying high of being returned to her family. And then the trial and the cascading despair, punctuated by her mother’s death.

  It had almost sunk her.

  But now she has an opportunity to turn it into something positive. Tomorrow, she will dedicate herself fully to Tilly’s recovery. She vows to be attentive and compassionate, and to do her best to guard Tilly’s privacy from those damn reporters.

  She pulls the covers up to her ears, and drifts off to sleep, wondering if she can somehow help Tilly remember anything about those two other missing girls.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Monday

  An arctic cold drops down from the mountains, and residents of Jefferson County bundle up, stoke fires, and worry about frozen pipes, but Deputy Nick Hudson’s SUV is warmed up and waiting in the hotel’s parking lot before Reeve and Dr. Lerner have had time to finish breakfast.

  Reeve hurries through the cold and climbs into the backseat. They exchange brief greetings, but Hudson barely offers a smile, and the group falls silent. As they roll west toward the Cavanaughs’ house, Reeve studies the mountains that ring the city, their bright, snow-covered peaks looking like diamonds cut from a backdrop of hard blue sky.

  Oddly, Hudson doesn’t turn on the country music he favors, and after riding in silence for several minutes, Dr. Lerner asks, “Is everything all right?”

  “Sorry if I seem … I’m kind of distracted,” Hudson says with a shrug. “There’s a lot going on this morning.”

  “Anything you want to share?”

  “Not really,” he says, smoothly accelerating onto the freeway.

  Reeve studies his face. “What about the dogs?”

  He glances at her in the rearview mirror but doesn’t respond.

  “They were searching both of Vanderholt’s residences,” she prompts. “The first place Tilly was held, and the one that he moved to more recently, where she was found.”

  “Right. Well, the dogs came back with nothing. Nada. Zip.”

  “So you’ve got nothing to link Vanderholt to those other missing girls?”

  “Apparently not.”

  “What about the DNA evidence?”

  “It’s not like TV, where DNA results come back in twenty minutes. That kind of work is sent out to experts, and the labs are slammed, so you send in cigarette butts, for instance, and it can take forever before you get anything back.”

  “So there’s still a chance…”

  “Yeah, maybe. But who says they’ll find a match? And the district attorney isn’t happy. He was all primed for a tight case, all packaged up and ready to go.”

  “So what now?”

  “So he’s yelling at Burke, who intends to hit Vanderholt with a fat list of charges tomorrow morning.”

  “But there’s a pattern, right? In terms of timing?” Reeve pauses for a response, but Hudson seems to be ignoring her. “It just seems logical that since Vanderholt kidnapped Tilly, he took the other two,” she mutters, looking out at the passing scene, where trees tremble in the wind, dropping blood-red leaves.

  “Everybody’s a detective,” he says in a mocking tone.

  “Same MO, obviously,” she retorts. “Similar girls, same body types, all of them taken around dusk, while doing some kind of sporting or outdoor activity, no witnesses.” When Hudson doesn’t respond, she adds, “According to Tilly, Vanderholt never mentioned any other girls, so if there’s a connection, you haven’t found it.”

  “Not yet. Unfortunately.” Hudson keeps his eyes on the road.

  “But what do you think? Did he kill Abby Hill and Hannah Creighton?”

  “Hard to say.”

  “Well, what do you think about the copycat theories?” she persists.

  “They’re theories.”

  “Can’t you tell us anything?”

  “There are lots of theories being pursued.”

  “How enlightening,” she says flatly. “Well, your detectives better find some kind of evidence soon, because I’m sure those girls’ parents are going nuts.”

  “It’s got to be tough on them,” Dr. Lerner remarks, “getting their hopes up, and then having no answers. No matter how bad the news might be, they’ve already been through hell.”

  “Of course they want answers, and we want to provide them.” Hudson’s tone sharpens. “It’s just not that easy. And now there’s a rumor about some new strategy coming from Vanderholt’s attorney.”

  “What?” Reeve sits forward. “What kind of strategy?”

  “Don’t know. But he’s bringing in his top investigator, a tough guy named Molland.”

  “But Vanderholt already confessed.”

  “Exactly. That’s what’s got us all scratching our heads. Because Pierson—the defense attorney—is a veteran public defender. He’s smart. And he’s not one to blow smoke.”

  “So what does that mean?”

  “Who knows? Whatever it is, it can’t be good. So whips are cracking. The DA is snapping at Burke, and she’s barking at her investigators, and the whole department is screaming at JSOTF.”

  “Screaming at what?”

  “The Joint Special Operations Task Force,” Dr. Lerner and Deputy Hudson respond in unison, and then flash each other a grin.

  “What exactly is this special task force supposed to be doing?” she asks Hudson.

  “They better rev up their investigation, for starters. The goal is to put the HRT in action.”

  “The HRT?”

  “The Hostage Rescue Team.”

  “You like acronyms, d
on’t you?”

  “Sorry. Anyway, I think they’ll probably take another stab at rounding up registered sex offenders.”

  “Oh, great,” she scoffs. “That approach sure helped find Vanderholt, didn’t it?”

  * * *

  Reeve carries two mugs of hot chocolate down the hall to Tilly’s bedroom, wondering if she’s really prepared for this new role. The door is ajar. She nudges it open and finds Tilly sitting up in bed, wearing plaid pajamas, her new hairdo in a mess. She’s busily drawing with a charcoal pencil, but closes her sketch pad and tosses it aside to accept the offered mug.

  Tilly sips the liquid and scoffs, “Cocoa? Really? I’m not a little kid, you know.”

  “Sorry. I thought you’d like it.”

  “Well, I prefer coffee now. For future reference.”

  “The adult beverage. So noted.” Reeve takes a seat at the foot of the bed and sips her hot chocolate before softly asking, “So, you had a bad night, huh?”

  Tilly hums an indifferent note. Her eyes look almost bruised, and her skin seems very pale against her newly dyed hair. “I mean, I’m home in my own bed, with good food every day, with my family taking care of me. What could I possibly have to complain about?” She sips more of her hot chocolate, scowling.

  Reeve looks around the room, letting the challenge settle. She sees that Tilly has added some drawings to her bulletin board.

  “It’s just that I’m not a stupid little kid anymore, okay?” Tilly says hotly. “But they’re treating me like some kind of baby. So here I am, with no TV and no computer and no phone. Plus, I have absolutely no friends anymore, because whenever they call, they treat me like I’m some kind of freak.” She takes a gulp of her hot chocolate. “But what do we have to talk about, anyway?”

  “It’s tough, I know.”

  “I mean, I’m glad to be home and everything, but I’m sick of how everyone is treating me. And I’m sick of being stuck inside watching Harry Potter movies.” Tilly rocks back and forth, an angry woman-child with her knees clutched to her chest.

  “I understand that.”

  “I mean, after spending, like, a year locked up in a dungeon, getting raped and sucking cock, do they really think I can’t handle TV?”

  Reeve absorbs the rough talk. She tries and fails to find any words of comfort to offer across the bed of twisted sheets. Standing, she carries her mug of hot chocolate to the other side of the room and looks at some artwork on Tilly’s bulletin board. Charcoal sketches and watercolors.

  “These are new.”

  Tilly glances over. “Yeah.”

  Reeve bends to take a closer look at a black, purple, and orange version of a famous painting. “This is called The Scream, right? By Munch? It’s really good.”

  Tilly gives her an unreadable look, drains her mug, sets it aside. “Did you talk to my parents, like I asked?”

  “About moving? Your folks sound pretty serious about visiting your aunt down in Fresno.”

  “Visiting isn’t moving.”

  “Well, with the trial coming up—” Reeve gestures with empty palms.

  “But I told that lady lawyer everything that I was, that I … I told her everything. So now she can just leave me alone, right?”

  “I wish that were the case.”

  Tilly crosses her arms and scowls.

  “Sounds like your parents might be open to moving after the trial.”

  “That’s not soon enough.”

  “You could be homeschooled for awhile. That’s what I did.”

  The girl shoots Reeve a look of disgust, snatches up the charcoal pencil, and grabs her sketch pad, holding it closed in her lap.

  “Listen Tilly,” Reeve approaches, sits on the edge of the bed, “I’ve been thinking about those two other missing girls. Can you think back a couple of months ago? Did Vanderholt start acting weird, or different in any way?”

  “No. I keep telling everybody, he moved me to that other dungeon. That was the only thing that changed.”

  “Did he say anything about another girl?”

  “I told you, he’s not the one that took Abby or Hannah,” she says, opening the sketch pad. “Now go away.”

  Reeve purses her lips and carries the two empty mugs out to the kitchen, where she hands them to Mrs. Cavanaugh.

  “Thank you so much for your help, Reeve,” the tall woman says, setting the mugs in the sink. “I can’t tell you how much—” she chokes on her words, clears her throat. “Well, I’m just so glad to have your help in getting my little girl back to normal.”

  Reeve can only shrug, thinking that Tilly is no longer her little girl, wondering if any of them can ever hope to be “normal.” She approaches the group gathered around the kitchen table: Mr. Cavanaugh, Deputy Hudson, and Dr. Lerner. They are silent, all eyes upon her, as if she has interrupted something.

  “She dismissed me,” she says, feeling like a failure.

  Mr. Cavanaugh groans.

  “Oh, no. I’m so sorry,” Mrs. Cavanaugh says. “I don’t know why she would do that.”

  Reeve puts up a hand. “Believe me, I completely understand. I was exactly like that, up and down, for a long time.”

  “She had a bad night.” Mr. Cavanaugh shares a look with his wife.

  Mrs. Cavanaugh grasps her husband’s arm. “She woke up screaming.”

  Reeve feels their eyes fix on her. It’s clear they’re hoping for more, but her tongue fails to find a single adequate sentence.

  After a beat, Dr. Lerner volunteers, “It’s a difficult time, especially after talking with Burke on Saturday, having to recount all those details about what happened.”

  Reeve shoots him a look of gratitude.

  “I can prescribe something to help her sleep,” Dr. Lerner continues. “And there’s no reason to rush today’s session. We can postpone it until she’s comfortable, but let’s give her a few minutes. She’ll come around.”

  And sure enough, Tilly pads into the kitchen moments later, saying nothing as she loops her arms around her mother’s waist.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Reeve climbs into the front passenger seat of Nick Hudson’s SUV and buckles her seat belt. The Cavanaughs are having an extended session with Dr. Lerner, but since Hudson needs to return to work, he has offered to take her back to the hotel. She scrunches down low in her seat and hides from the hungry eyes of the news teams clustered at the gate. But after the first turn, she sits back up, paying close attention to street signs, noticing landmarks and distinctive Christmas decorations. If she wants to go shopping, she’ll need to learn to navigate around Jefferson.

  He fiddles with the radio as they head into town, turning up the volume on country songs with forlorn, heartbreaking lyrics. Meanwhile, he keeps glancing over at her.

  “You know,” he says finally, “I’ve been wanting to apologize.”

  “For what?”

  “For my lame comments about Stockholm Syndrome.”

  She scoffs. “Why? It’s not like it’s all that common in law enforcement.”

  “That’s no excuse. I’ve studied some psychology, and I know a few things about PTSD, so I should be up to speed.”

  “Well, I’m sure you don’t come across it every day.”

  “The thing is, I’ve seen some real mean behavior, where the husband beats his wife until she’s as good as trapped and he’s nothing but a jailer.”

  “Sure. Okay, so I forgive you.” Her tone is so flip that she fears he’ll think she’s flirting.

  A minute later, he says, “Um, if you don’t mind my asking, whatever happened with your kidnapper?”

  Her stomach tightens, but she says lightly, “He’s in a mental lock-up facility.”

  “Not a prison?”

  “Nope.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “That’s Washington state.”

  He grunts his disapproval. “So, not guilty by reason of insanity?”

  “You mean NGRI?” she quips. “See? I know some acronyms, too.�
��

  He tips his head in her direction.

  “But that might have been better than what actually happened.” She sighs.

  “So, they decided he was culpable?”

  “Right. Crazy, but culpable.”

  “So he was aware that what he was doing wrong, but … Tell me what happened. I mean, if you don’t mind.”

  “Well, by the time the defense team had put on their whole song and dance, Flint’s sentence was a lot less than we expected. And the truly bizarre twist was that once he was behind bars, the DOJ didn’t know what to do with him, he’s such a sick excuse for a human being. So, since he’s psychologically unsound,” she says, making quote marks with her fingers, “the prison ended up sending him to a mental hospital anyway.”

  “What? That’s messed-up.”

  “Like I said, that’s Washington state.”

  He brakes at a red light and turns toward her. “Hey, I’ve been meaning to tell you that it’s pretty darn amazing how well you’ve adjusted.”

  “Well now, doesn’t that sound condescending?”

  “No, no, please don’t take it that way. I just mean that it’s amazing to see how well you interact with Tilly. I mean, you’ve been through so much, but look at you, you’re so poised.”

  “Poised? That’s a first.”

  “I doubt that.”

  She shakes her head, saying nothing. But the moment she resumes watching for landmarks, an idea occurs to her. Keeping her voice calm, she asks, “Is there any way I could take a look at Randy Vanderholt’s file?”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “I’m just thinking about those other girls, wondering if—”

  “No way. It’s an ongoing investigation.”

  She gives him a look.

  “I can’t believe you’re even asking this,” he grumbles.

  “Why not? Dr. Lerner has seen it, hasn’t he?” She crosses her arms. “It has been my experience,” she says, taking a high tone, “that members of law enforcement are sometimes inclined to be helpful in unorthodox ways.”

  He snickers. “Nice little speech.”

  “And absolutely true.”

  “Really? So give me one single example. What has been your experience of unorthodox-type help?”