by Carla Norton
“You’d better be straight with me, because if I find out she has shared important information of any—” Burke’s line of sight skims past Reeve’s shoulder. “Oh, shit, it’s Poe.”
“Otis Poe?” Reeve asks, craning to see.
A bald man the size of a football player comes through the door, his smile a slash of white across his dark face.
“Well damn, Burke,” Hudson mutters, “did he follow you here?”
“One important thing you should know about Tilly and me,” Reeve says to them, scooting back her chair, “we both hate reporters.” She grabs her jacket and makes a beeline for the curtained area beside the sushi counter, where she finds the exit and dashes out into the storm.
FORTY-TWO
Friday
A few news vans still clot the approach to the Cavanaughs’ residence late Friday afternoon, and reporters bark questions at Reeve, but she barely glances at them as she turns into the driveway and drives past. No one knows who she is, and she has nothing to say.
Mr. Cavanaugh greets her as if she is an old friend and invites her to join them for a snack. The entire family is clustered around the dining room table, where Reeve accepts a slice of pecan pie before announcing, “I come bearing gifts.”
Setting a shopping bag on the table, she pulls out a selection of chocolate bars and a tin of gourmet cocoa mix, but these are just distractions from her true purpose. It had taken her awhile to find this particular calendar. She places it before Tilly, saying, “I hope you like it. I noticed you like art.”
Tilly splits open the cellophane wrapper and begins flipping through the colorful pages, pausing to study works by Monet and Matisse and Gauguin.
Reeve takes a seat beside her, saying, “See? It starts with December, so you can use it right away.” Turning to Mrs. and Mrs. Cavanaugh, she adds, “You know, for planning trips and things.”
Everyone seems to gape at her, saying nothing. She gives Tilly a quick nudge beneath the table. “Didn’t you say you have family in Fresno? I mean, you probably want to plan your trip, don’t you? For Christmas vacation?”
Reeve steals a peek at Tilly, who is staring at the calendar with a kind of hunger. The rest of the family stops eating their pie and studies Reeve as if she has done something gauche.
Feeling awkward, Reeve is about to offer an apology when Tilly pipes up. “Yeah, let’s go down to Aunt Becca’s right away, okay? Please? Then we won’t have all those reporters camped out on our doorstep.”
“That’s a great idea,” Reeve says, her voice a bit too bright.
Matt glances at his sister and grumbles. “Yeah, we’re practically prisoners here.”
“Right! Just leave the media in the dust,” Reeve says. “The scrutiny here is hard on all of you, I’m sure.”
Tilly flashes Reeve a conspiratorial smile. “Mom, couldn’t we stay in Fresno with Aunt Becca? I mean permanently?”
Mr. and Mrs. Cavanaugh look at their children.
“Please?” Tilly says, rising from her seat. “Please, please, please!”
“What do you think, honey?” Mrs. Cavanaugh says to her husband. “It is getting pretty bad here.”
“Hey, Dad, why couldn’t they just stay down there for awhile,” Matt says, “and then you and me can come back here?”
“That might be a good idea,” Mrs. Cavanaugh says.
“I don’t know.” Mr. Cavanaugh puts his head in his hands. “Split up the family?”
“We could try it out, you know, as a compromise.” Mrs. Cavanaugh says. “Maybe Tilly could start school down there next semester.”
“See, Dad? Everyone thinks it’s a good idea.” Matt sits back and crosses his arms, giving Reeve a rare smile. “Let her move if she wants, and then I can at least finish my senior year like a normal person.”
“Could we go, Dad?” Tilly begs. “Please? Like right away?”
Mr. Cavanuagh looks from face to face and opens his palms. “I don’t know. I’m not crazy about the idea.”
“Well, but honey,” Mrs. Cavanaugh says slowly, “there is, um, one other thing.”
He exhales. “What?”
“Uh, well, someone put a dead rat in our car.”
He gawks at her. “Are you kidding?”
“I wish I were.”
“A dead rat? That’s disgusting.”
“Yes.” She grimaces. “It was really disgusting.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I didn’t want to alarm you.”
“A rat?” Tilly says.
“Where? When?” Mr. Cavanaugh asks, frowning.
“I’m not sure. While Tilly and I were out shopping, I guess. I thought the car was locked, but when we got home, I was unloading packages, and—”
“A rat?” Tilly repeats.
“That’s mega-gross,” Matt declares. “I mean, why would—”
“There are sick people out there,” Reeve says, staring at Tilly, who sits rigidly upright, looking pale. “It’s not safe.”
Reeve has no doubt the rat was a message for Tilly. Was it really from Mister Monster? Could he strike this close?
An hour later, Reeve and Tilly are curled on the couch watching yet another PG-rated movie, when Matt comes in and sits down beside them. He’s not paying attention to the movie, Reeve notices. He’s fidgeting, kneading his thighs, and keeps looking at his sister.
After a couple of minutes, Tilly sighs with exasperation and demands, “What?”
“Um, you’re not really watching this, are you?”
“Not really,” she admits.
His voice drops. “That rat creeped you out, didn’t it?”
She stares at him for a long moment before giving a short nod.
“I thought so.” He swallows, anguish showing on his face “Okay, can I show you something?”
“I guess.”
Tilly reaches for the remote, but he blocks her hand, saying, “Leave it on,” with a glance toward the door.
This earns Tilly’s full attention. Whatever Matt has in mind clearly would not meet with parental approval.
He stands, saying, “Reeve, you can come, too,” and leads them down a hall to a part of the house she hasn’t explored. They enter a den that’s twice as big as Reeve’s father’s, with a massive mahogany desk, paneled walls, plenty of bookshelves, and an elk’s head mounted above a fireplace.
He shuts the door behind them, saying, “Okay, weird shit is happening, but this is the safest room in the house. So if anything ever happens, meet me here.”
Reeve glances around, wondering what makes this room safer than any other, noticing the double locks on the door.
“If there’s a real emergency, I just want you to know that I can protect you, if it comes to that.”
Matt’s snarky attitude has vanished, and Tilly nods at her older brother with solemn respect.
He crosses the room and stands beside the fireplace, saying, “Mom and Dad don’t want you to know about these, so don’t say anything, okay?”
He grips the vertical edge of a gleaming wood panel and slides it to the right, revealing a hidden compartment stocked with guns.
Tilly stares with a rapt expression, standing with her hands clasped behind her back and leaning so far forward that she’s balanced on the balls of her feet.
“Don’t ever play with these,” he says, pointing. “I’m a pretty good shot, so if anything happens, I’ll take care of it, okay?”
For an awful moment, Reeve is afraid he’s going to take out a gun and hand it to Tilly, but then he slides the panel closed and she breathes out relief.
“Wait a minute,” Tilly says, stepping toward him. “At least teach me how to shoot.”
He glances at the door and shakes his head.
“What if you’re not home? What if I’m here all by myself?”
“If you’re home alone and something happens, come in here, lock the door, and call 911. Then just wait here, okay?”
“Come on, you showed
me where the guns are, at least show me what to do.”
Matt rubs his face, thinking. He slides the panel open again, and says, “These three are rifles and these two are shotguns.”
For a moment, Reeve thinks she should stop him, but reconsiders. Maybe Matt actually knows what he’s doing. Given the circumstances, maybe this kid’s instincts are better than hers.
He takes down a rifle and hands it to Tilly, showing her how to hold it. “Now, this is just for absolute emergencies, okay? Grip it here. The safety is on, see? But always assume a gun is loaded. Don’t even put your finger on the trigger or point it at anyone you don’t want to see dead. You got that?”
“Yep, got it,” Tilly says quickly.
For the next several minutes, Matt conducts his own version of a gun safety course, and Reeve watches closely while Tilly learns the basics of how to aim and fire a rifle. The shotgun, he says, “has stopping power, but it’s too difficult for you because you to have to pump it.”
Tilly frowns at the rifle in her hands and asks, “How do I know when to shoot?”
“The thing is, you don’t want to shoot,” Matt says, taking the gun from her. “You just want them to run away. And trust me, anyone staring down the business end of a barrel is going to be scared.”
He fits the rifle back into its place and slides the panel closed.
The trio returns to the couch, and while the movie continues, they sit guiltily, quiet and watchful in the way of children trying to get away with something forbidden. Eventually, Matt slinks out of the room. Tilly chews her nails. And Reeve rubs the scar on the back of her neck, staring at the screen without seeing.
* * *
Later that night, Reeve is busy writing a last-minute e-mail to Emily Ewing when Tilly Cavanaugh borrows her father’s phone to send a short text message:
Dad says we can move. Thank you, Reeve!
xo, Tilly
And just like that, Duke has captured Reeve LeClaire’s phone number.
FORTY-THREE
Duke makes himself comfortable in his control room, opens his laptop, and in a few clicks is scrolling down Otis Poe’s blog, a favorite place for readers to pontificate about local issues, about crime, and particularly, of late, about Randy Vanderholt and the kidnapped girls. Poe’s coverage of the case has generated a growing number of followers, who simply click his link to join the discussion. For the most part, these postings bemoan the fate of the victims, criticize law enforcement, and condemn pedophiles. Several recent posts have heaped praise on Vanderholt’s killer, an irony that Duke appreciates.
Now it’s his turn.
Using two newly created identities, Duke sends both sides of what appears as a conversational posting:
* * *
[email protected]
Everyone knows that Tilly Cavanaugh is being treated by that SF shrink, Lame Lerner, but who is that babe who’s always with him? The hot one with the trendy hair?
[email protected]
kommon, you aren’t so knowledgeable. That’s Reggie LeClaire, obviously. Remember her? Edgy Reggie? She’s another patient of Lerner’s.
[email protected]
Reggie LeClaire? Isn’t she that girl who was kidnapped up in Washington State a few years back?
[email protected]
Yep. Looks like she’s doing some kind of victim-to-victim consultation. Hope these sob sessions aren’t paid for by our tax dollars.
* * *
Duke sits back and smiles, watching the conversation take off.
In no time, there are indignant responses, followed by long-winded expositions on post-traumatic shock disorder, plus a few good wishes—posted with lots of exclamation points!!!—that are intended for Reggie LeClaire, Beth Goodwin, Tilly Cavanaugh, and every other victim of every other sex crime ever committed.
Duke leaves the room, fixes himself a snack, eats it in the kitchen, follows it with a cigarette, then comes back and posts:
* * *
[email protected]
Hey, guess what: Reggie LeClaire has changed her name, too. She calls herself Reeve. What kind of name is that?
* * *
Duke smiles, watching the responses. Some congratulate Reeve for moving on. Others rant indignantly that the poor girl’s anonymity has now been ruined by this insensitive writer. Some call him an asshole. Others, for various convoluted reasons, are glad that he has outed her.
He follows the online chatter for only a few minutes. There are other, more important tasks competing for his attention.
It takes just a quick search to locate the proper address, a few minutes more for the correct inmate number.
He pulls on latex gloves, loads paper into his printer, and prints out a few choice selections from Poe’s blog. Lastly, as a single line on a blank sheet, he prints out Reggie LeClaire’s current phone number, which he has collected thanks to Tilly’s recent text message.
He slips these sheets into a self-sealing priority mail envelope—leaving no saliva to trace, thank you very much—and addresses it to Daryl Wayne Flint, Inmate 44610906FP, c/o Olshaker Medical Hospital, Forensic Services Unit, South Turvey, Washington.
FORTY-FOUR
Saturday
The late Buster Ewing would have been dismayed to see the present state of the realty office he left to his only child. He had quit this world believing that Emily would inherit a thriving enterprise that would continue to grow, but the years have chewed away at Buster Ewing Realty. His contemporaries have grown frail and been eulogized, one by one, and the promising young employees whose careers Buster had cultivated and encouraged have all left for more lucrative endeavors.
Emily Ewing has been forced to downsize and then downsize again.
Just last month, her favorite real estate agent, a young guy named Skeeter, gave up and moved to Oregon. Now business is so slow that she has only one person working for her, a scrappy young woman named Nicole who opens the office on weekends.
But Emily Ewing’s strength is her dogged optimism, and she breezes into the office this rainy Saturday morning with a smile that defies the weather. “Good morning, Nicole! Wait until you hear what we’ve got going today,” she sings, as if this dreary day were brimming with opportunities.
Nicole welcomes Emily’s sunny attitude and appreciates her tutelage. She loves going to networking meetings, updating ads, and working with clients. She is so young that she expects life will only get better, though she’s beginning to sense how much she has to learn.
“Let me guess,” Nicole says. “You have an open house scheduled for today.”
“The Baker house!” Emily exclaims, hanging up her raincoat. “God, I love that house. The koi pond? The kitchen? And those beautiful floors!”
“Right. I did the open house there two weeks ago, remember? It was dead.”
“But this is always the slow season, with the holidays and all. Just wait, things will pick up after the Super Bowl, you’ll see.”
“So why even bother with another open house today?”
She sighs, gazing out at the gloomy weather. “I promised the Bakers.” Her smile hardens. “Besides, while I’m out of the office, you’ll have the place all to yourself. You never know when a hot client will walk in. And anyone shopping in this kind of weather has got to be a serious buyer.”
* * *
Two hours later, Emily Ewing is out in the rain, putting up her signs. Her heels are impractical, and the Lexus is not the ideal vehicle for carrying around so many cumbersome “For Sale” signs, but she has had a lot of practice lifting signs out of car trunks and placing them on strategic corners. Any kind of trunk, wearing any kind of shoes.
The signs are heavy, made of sturdy materials that withstand even strong winds, and each displays a flattering picture of her from an earlier, happier time. Despite the cold and rain, she’s overheated by the time she drives up the steep driveway and parks outside the three-car garage.
She uses the lockbox
to let herself in. She cleans herself up, tidies the bathroom, sets out a vase of flowers, polishes the kitchen appliances, starts cookies baking in the oven, arranges stacks of her business cards, sets out newly printed four-color brochures, and waits. This is her sixth open house here, not counting Nicole’s. If nothing happens before the end of the year, she’ll have to ask the Bakers to consider another price cut, but that’s risky. The house is already worth much more than they’re asking, and she’s afraid they’ll replace her with another agent.
She’s fretting over this when she hears a car door slam, then two more. She uncovers the dish of freshly baked cookies and smiles at the family that comes in scowling.
* * *
Later, Emily Ewing checks the time and sighs. Is there anything she could have done differently today?
Yes, she should have downplayed the landscaping with the overweight family that complained about the small refrigerator, perhaps suggesting another fridge in the garage. And she should have come up with some kind of helpful response for the elderly couple that hated the koi pond, though it must have shown on her face that she was appalled by the idea of “filling it with concrete and putting a shed over it.”
She looks around at the house. It’s gorgeous. It deserves to be loved.
She throws the flowers away, knowing she may not be back here for days or weeks, and there’s nothing more depressing than a vase of dead flowers. She puts the six remaining cookies in a ziploc bag and carries them out to her car.
The rain has let up, but the ground is soggy and the looming evening darkens the sky. Wrapping her coat tight, she makes a mental note to limit showings to earlier hours until the days start to lengthen in the spring.
She heads down the steep driveway to retrieve the “OPEN HOUSE!” sign and is muscling it into her trunk when a vehicle turns up the driveway. She stops and squints. The sedan parks, its headlights die, the door opens, and she watches while a man’s cowboy boots find the ground. He unfolds from the car and nearly stands, but then leans back inside for a moment, and re-emerges, standing very tall while topping his head with a dove-gray felt cowboy hat.
