The Edge of Normal

by Carla Norton

  He shuts the door and grins at her, saying, “Hey there, I’m not too late for the open house, am I?”

  * * *

  Duke can be charming when he wants to be. He smiles and flirts as he follows the woman into the house, telling her that he has just found this listing and the house might be perfect for him.

  “What do you do?” Emily Ewing asks, turning on lights.

  “I’m an engineer. From Colorado. Sold my business, and now I’m looking to kick back here in Jefferson. I want to live close to the mountains, but I’m done with having to shovel snow. Doesn’t snow here much, does it?”

  He trails after her while she assures him that snow is rare. She shows him the home’s features, the Brazilian cherrywood floors, the imported tiles, the six-hundred-square-foot master suite.

  In the kitchen, he admires the granite countertop without raising a hand to touch it. In fact, he keeps his gloves on and touches nothing.

  “I like a lot of outdoor space,” he says, peering out the French doors. “How’s the back?”

  “I can’t wait to show you,” she says, opening the doors. “This is a five-acre lot, and the landscaping around the house is one of its best features. They put in deer-resistant and native plants, and you’ll see that it’s just beautifully laid out.”

  He follows her clicking heels out onto the back deck. “A hot tub? This is great. And there are no neighbors, are there?”

  She smiles. “No one nearby. It’s very private.”

  They go down the stairs onto a stone path, and she leads him over to the koi pond. “This is my favorite part!”

  A few colorful fish appear in the clear water. They rise and swim close, opening and closing their whiskered mouths. More join them until several white, black, orange and yellow fish crowd the surface, making hungry kisses, hoping for food.

  “Are you kidding me?” he exclaims. “Are these, whaddya call ’em, Japanese carp?”

  She beams at him. “Yes, Japanese carp. Or koi, same thing.”

  “Fancy that. And they come with the house?”

  She confirms this, smiling while pointing out the finest specimens. “With those markings, some of these koi are really quite valuable.”

  “Well now, will you look at that?” He squats down by the fishpond and places one hand on a softball-sized stone as if for balance, carefully working it loose. “And how many do you reckon we’ve got here? Ten? Fifteen?”

  She squats down next to him, studying the fish. “Gosh, two dozen maybe? I can ask the—”

  Duke smashes the stone against the side of her head with such force it knocks her into the pond with a splash that drenches his boots. He stands quickly, watching, breathing hard.

  She floats facedown in the water, a faint, red blush trailing from her head. The fish have disappeared.

  He glances at his watch and looks around. The hillside setting remains still and undisturbed. Peaceful.

  He waits a full five minutes—watching for any sign of struggle, just to be sure—then carefully replaces the stone in its muddy spot, the bloody mark showing on top.

  FORTY-FIVE

  Sunday

  Fourteen-year-old Abby Hill listens hard for clues to whatever is going on upstairs. She closes her eyes and curls up on her side, listening, locating. There’s a new sound, a repeating metallic noise that is somehow measured, but doesn’t seem to be mechanical. The noise is not directly overhead.

  She opens her eyes and tries to imagine what’s above. Assuming the wall with the socket and night-light continues all the way up into the main house, the noise is coming from that room, on the other side of the wall.

  Clunk, clunk … pause … clunk, clunk.…

  The man grunts in relation to this sound she almost recognizes but cannot place. There’s some kind of rhythm.

  She counts repetitions—seven, eight, nine, ten—then a hard noise that’s almost a crash reverberates through the floor.

  Is he lifting weights? The thought makes her cringe. She doesn’t want the man to get stronger. She wants him to weaken, and wither, and die, just like she is.

  She runs her hands over her bare ribs and absently wonders why she ever wished to be skinny. She lies on her back, measuring the protrusions of her hip bones with her thumbs, and vows for the millionth time that if she ever again has the chance, she will eat as much as she can and will never, ever go on another diet. Visions of meals with her family appear, her mother serving up all her favorite foods: chocolate cake, rocky road ice cream, honey-baked ham with mashed potatoes.…

  Her stomach growls and she stops. This is pointless. She’ll die here. Either she’ll starve to death, or the other man, the one she must call Master, will kill her.

  She wonders idly if her body will ever be found, or whether she’ll decompose and turn to white bones in this pitch-black basement, the little night-light long burnt out. Will she turn into a skeleton, like in the movies, forgotten here for a hundred years until the house collapses, timbers and dust raining down, burying her remains in rubble?

  The noise continues above: Clunk, clunk … pause … clunk, clunk.… Slam! with a sharp curse.

  She lies still, clasping her arms across her chest, careful of the burns, listening to the sudden stillness above, waiting for the repetitions to resume.

  Nothing.

  She waits, but hears only silence.

  Maybe he died. Maybe he had a heart attack.

  She strains to catch some hint of movement, holding her breath. The silence continues, and her pulse thuds in her ears.

  At first, she thought she might be rescued. She imagined that she could scream and someone would hear, but the man always hits her if she screams. And the Master makes her bleed. The house must be far from other houses on the road, anyway, because she hears no traffic, and no one else ever comes.

  Maybe he’s resting. Maybe he’s taking a nap.

  She guessed it was daylight, but really has no idea of time. There’s never much light.

  She imagines a clock, the seconds ticking past. She imagines a calendar and wonders what day it might be. Today might be Thanksgiving, or Christmas, or her sister’s birthday. She’s mad at herself for not keeping track, somehow. But there is no way to do it, and really, what difference does it make? She sleeps as much as possible, just to pass the time. It’s her only escape.

  An eerie quiet permeates the house, and she feels a gnawing shame for wishing him dead.

  He takes care of her. He is her “keeper,” that’s what the Master calls him. He brings her food; he removes her waste. As if she were just an animal in a cage.

  If he dies, I die.

  Her stomach growls again, and she pictures her mother’s pot roast with all the trimmings for dinner, then shoves the image aside. She gets to her feet, and in two steps she’s across the room, crouching beside the night-light, hoping for sound.

  Move. Please move.

  She closes her eyes, listens.

  Don’t be dead, don’t be dead.

  She listens hard, waiting.

  Please.

  She hears only her own thudding heart. The concrete floor is like ice beneath her bare feet and goose bumps prickle her skin.

  What’s that? A slight scuffing sound comes from above. She listens.

  Nothing.

  Then Abby hears the man grunt and she exhales, realizing only now that she’s been holding her breath.

  With a creak of floorboards, his heavy feet hit the floor. She hears his tread, hears a door shut as he exits the room. His footsteps thump cross the floor overhead as he enters what is clearly the kitchen. She hears water running, then stop.

  She shakes herself, crosses the room, settles back down on her cot, and wraps herself in the thin blanket. She curls up tight and tries to warm her bare feet in her hands.

  She hears the high-pitched squeak of what she has concluded must be the refrigerator door. Next, she imagines that she hears the subtle clink of glass. Given the frequent odor on his breath, he’s
probably getting another bottle of beer.

  FORTY-SIX

  Mornings are a peaceful time on Duke’s riverfront property. Sometimes he takes a crossbow and creeps out before dawn in search of prey. On occasion, he carries tools and walks the fence line, fixing what needs attention. This morning, he carries a steaming mug of coffee down to the riverbank, absently checking for tracks in the mud while he carefully reviews the details of both recent executions.

  He figures that no one can connect either Vanderholt or Ewing to him. There’s no way. They’re both clean kills, one a shooting, one a drowning. No apparent link.

  Duke feels confident that Emily Ewing’s death will look like a simple accident. A slip-and-fall, the insurance people call it. Too bad she wore those silly shoes. He warms his hands with the coffee mug, glad that troublemaking woman is out of the picture. Serves her right.

  He takes a gulp of the fresh black brew and smacks his lips, sure he left no trace. No footprints, no witnesses, no risk. Twenty-five minutes after killing her, he dumped those tacky cowboy boots in a dumpster behind a liquor store. The hat he decided to keep.

  Duke studies the gray surface of the river, so wide and deep here that it appears placid. A dangerous deception. The swift, cold water claims new lives every year. He drains his coffee and turns away, heading back toward the house, thinking that Vanderholt’s killing was the more elegant of the two. Riskier, but all the risks were calculated.

  He had entered the warehouse before dawn. The lock took only seconds. He climbed the stairs and got settled on the roof, setting up the small tripod, adjusting the scope. The roof was uncomfortable, but it was flat and he wasn’t there to sleep. Best of all, he blended with the deep shade of the air conditioner as the sun rose to the east.

  The sniper rifle he used was a sweet, army-issue M24 that he bought for peanuts from a junkie vet in Vegas. He had trained on it for many long hours over the years. Staring down its scope, perfecting his aim over incredible distances, timing shots between breaths, between heartbeats.

  It’s a seasoned, accurate weapon. He’ll hate getting rid of it.

  Using the warehouse was a no-brainer. It was vacant and for sale. Emily Ewing’s former employee, Skeeter Jones, had shown it to him, along with five other commercial properties, plus twelve homes, four of which he’d bought. All great deals. All with basements. All legal and neat and hard to trace.

  Duke had carried fake IDs, of course, when meeting with his attorneys in Reno. For the first three houses, he used an LLC set up by a baby-faced loser named Yow. Later, for Fitzgerald’s place, he used an entirely different setup, judging it wise to use a different LLC for future purchases. Duke practiced the signatures in advance and signed each document with a flourish.

  Dealing with attorneys is always dicey, but if pressed, Duke could get rid of Yow. The guy smelled like a gambler, and judging from his frayed suit and junk heap of a car, he had serious money problems. Guys like that disappear all the time.

  Duke had considered ways of taking out Clyde Pierson, too, but that would cause major headaches. Besides, why press his luck? None of his keepers knew Duke’s true identity. If Vanderholt had made noises about a coconspirator, if he’d been on the brink of handing over a physical description, Duke had hit him just in time, before Pierson had a chance to cut a deal.

  Vander-dolt had spilled only blood.

  Halfway back to the house, Duke stops to light a cigarette. He looks around, notices the fat, rotten stump of an old oak tree, and comfortably rests the heel of one boot on the stump while he smokes.

  Being a man who appreciates irony, Duke allows himself a laugh, because it’s ironic that, with so many cops crawling all over this case, the only living person who might even come close to guessing Duke’s pattern is that snoopy little bitch. Untrained, and not even that bright.

  He has been giving Reggie LeClaire a lot of thought, and has just about decided how to get rid of her. He has worked out a plan so that he can satisfy his appetites without having to coax or train or control another keeper. The risks are manageable, and afterward, he will dispose of the girl without raising the slightest whisper of suspicion.

  It will be so ironic.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  Once again, Reeve has been vexed by the downtown maze of one-way streets. Having almost turned the wrong way into oncoming traffic, she has ended up parking far downhill and is panting heavily by the time she has hiked back up to the right block. Closing in on Buster Ewing Realty, she sees that the parking lot is empty, and the happy “WE’RE OPEN!” placard is gone. The building looks deserted.

  Reeve stands on the porch, aggravated. She has left three messages for Emily Ewing, but has gotten no response. Maybe that’s what happens when you’re pestering a real estate agent for information rather than shopping for a home.

  She pulls Ewing’s business card from her wallet and again tries her cell. Getting no answer, she clicks off and punches in the office number. She hears the phone ringing inside and then, to her surprise, a voice answers with a flat, “Hello.”

  “Oh! Hello, are you open? I’m standing outside.” Reeve cups her hand to the window and peers inside.

  A woman turns around to stare at her. “What do you want?”

  “Um, I’m looking for Emily.”

  The woman hangs up, and Reeve stands there feeling as if she’s been slapped. But an instant later the door swings open, and she finds herself before a young woman with red, puffy eyes. “I’m sorry,” Reeve says, “who are you?”

  “I’m Nicole, Emily’s assistant.”

  “Well, um, could I speak with Emily?”

  “Emily’s dead.”

  Before Reeve can absorb this, Nicole sways, staggers backward, and crumples, but Reeve swiftly catches her under the arms and begins maneuvering her inside.

  “I’m sorry … I’m such a mess,” Nicole murmurs as Reeve sets her down on one of the upholstered chairs. The young woman’s face is pale and wet and streaked with tears. “I just heard the news.” She shakes her head. “I just can’t believe it.”

  “My god. What happened?”

  “They say she fell. Hit her head or something.”

  Reeve feels dizzy.

  “I don’t know why she had to do that damned open house,” Nicole continues, her voice quavering. “I should have done it. It was my turn, and if I had, maybe…”

  Reeve looks around, hands Nicole a box of tissues, and sits heavily. “I’m—I’m so sorry.”

  “The coroner’s office just called. Can you imagine? They were looking for relatives, but there’s no one. Her father’s dead,” Nicole says, wiping her eyes and blowing her nose.

  “How? I mean—”

  “They said a neighbor found her. The neighbor who was feeding the fish, you know, for the owners?”

  “Fish?”

  “Yeah, they found her body in the koi pond.” Shuddering, she takes another tissue and blows her nose again. “She loved that damn house.” She looks up at Reeve with a miserable expression. “I think she wanted to buy it herself, actually.”

  The two sit in silence for a long moment. Reeve gets up and turns around, looking for something to do. She gets a coffee mug, fills it with tap water, and hands it to Nicole. “Have some water.”

  Nicole sips once, sets the mug aside.

  “I’m so, so sorry,” Reeve says at last, rising to leave. “I wish there were something I could do.” She feels a need to say something of substance, but the words seem insignificant as dust. And she knows so little about Emily Ewing that she can only add, “I only just met her, but she seemed like a very nice person. Really energetic. And kind. And helpful.”

  Nicole looks up at her, frowns, and gives a quick shake of her head. “Oh, wait. You’re Reeve LeClaire, aren’t you? I nearly forgot. Emily left an envelope for you. It’s on her desk.”

  * * *

  Driving along, Reeve feels hyperaware of the unopened envelope on the seat beside her. Traffic flows downtown and seems to
carry her directly to a Starbucks, the very same place she stopped when she first arrived in Jefferson more than a week earlier.

  She pulls into the Starbucks parking lot, stops, and looks at the envelope. It is marked in bright blue ink: For pick-up by Reeve LeClaire.

  This was surely one of the last things Emily Ewing ever wrote.

  Gingerly, she lifts the envelope and opens it. Inside are six pages of small print, along with a pink sticky note:

  Hi Reeve,

  Per your request, I did a search. No problem at all! Here are the abbreviated listings of all houses with basements sold within the past three years.

  Nice meeting you, and please keep me in mind if anyone you know needs a Realtor!

  Reeve pulls off the sticky note and sighs. Is this the way life always goes? The good ones suddenly die, and the evil ones just keep hanging on?

  She glances at the list and sees a listing near the top, highlighted with yellow marker. The Redrock house.

  A chill passes over her, and she’s hit with the strange notion that Emily Ewing was murdered.

  She considers this for a moment.

  No. That’s crazy.

  She puts the papers back in the envelope and starts to get out of her Jeep, but the pink sticky note catches her eye. It’s stuck to the seat and she plucks it off, considering Emily Ewing’s cheerful handwritten message, which blurs around one phrase: please keep me in mind.

  Clucking softly, Reeve fishes her cell phone out of her pocket and punches in Nick Hudson’s number. He doesn’t answer, and when it beeps to voice mail she can’t think of any message that doesn’t sound insane, so she clicks her phone off and climbs out of the Jeep.

  Inside, she orders a hot chocolate. The barista blinks at her, unmoving, and Reeve repeats her order.