The Edge of Normal

by Carla Norton

  SIXTY-FIVE

  Officer Kim Benioff was at her desk, making a late snack of stale cashews and cold coffee, waiting to hear some news, when Agent Barry Coulter’s ID finally flashed on her cell phone. She clicked it open and said, “Hey, rumors are buzzing here. What’s going on?”

  Agent Coulter grunted. “You’re still at headquarters?”

  “Yep. Call me a workhorse. So what’s the scoop? You got him?”

  “No, damn it, didn’t you hear?”

  “What happened?”

  “We were wrong from square one. Raided the wrong damn house.”

  Benioff muttered curses while Coulter summarized their botched raid on J.J. Orr’s father’s place.

  “Listen, there’s no time for finger-pointing,” Coulter said. “We need you to come over here, talk to somebody.”

  “Who?”

  “We have a witness.”

  “What?”

  “While we were storming that goddamn empty barn, a civilian found Hannah Creighton.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Listen, this is highly sensitive. Keep it quiet, but we need to act fast. And we need your help.”

  SIXTY-SIX

  Anger ticks inside her like a clock. A video camera on the ceiling watches Reeve with its accusatory lens while she sits and fidgets and reviews, trying to imagine what she’s done wrong. Instead, she keeps hearing banjo music and seeing blood on a yellow slicker.

  They had loaded her into the back of their car like a criminal. As they’d edged past the ambulance coming up the driveway, she’d protested that Hannah didn’t want to go to a hospital, but they ignored her and sped downtown, where they set her down in this stark room. She was not fingerprinted or charged with any crime, but no one would answer any of her questions, and they confiscated her phone.

  By the time Officer Kim Benioff and Agent Barry Coulter enter the room, Reeve is brimming with self-justification. She scarcely waits for their questions before launching into her story: The drive to Orr’s house, the man with the gun, the padlocked room, Hannah in her blanket, the sprint to her car. When Reeve has told them every detail that could possibly be important, she stops talking and looks from one set of eyes to the other, waiting for exclamations, or congratulations, or some kind of credit.

  Instead, she is given pen and paper and asked to draw a map.

  The instant she has finished, Agent Coulter snatches it up and bolts from the room. Benioff follows. But a few minutes later, she returns with a balding hulk of a man, saying, “This is Investigator Krasny.”

  “We’ve met,” they grunt in unison.

  The two sit facing her, and Benioff says, “We appreciate your cooperation, Miss LeClaire, but in relaying the events of tonight, you’ve been skipping something important. We need to know exactly how you came to believe that Hannah Creighton was at that particular address. We need to understand each and every step.”

  Reeve glances up at the dark lens in the corner, wondering who is watching. Tilly’s secret burns inside her. “Well, uh, you know that I was kidnapped, and that Dr. Lerner is my therapist, right?”

  “Yeah, sure.” Krasny leans forward, his forehead shining. “But what we’re wondering is how Dr. Lerner got you involved in all this.”

  “Oh.” She looks from stern face to stern face. “I’m working with Tilly Cavanaugh’s family.”

  “As a kind of mentor, correct?” Benioff says.

  “You have no training and no official status,” Krasny says roughly, “so what is your role here?”

  Reeve’s chair seems unsteady beneath her. “No, uh, you see, Tilly’s family asked to talk with me. You know, as a survivor of kidnapping.”

  Benioff sighs. “We understand that. But how was it that you went from talking about your own victimization—”

  “And recovery. That’s the point.”

  “Right, okay, but let’s be clear,” Krasny says, removing his jacket. “We don’t have much time.”

  “So tell us,” Benioff urges, “exactly how did you go from responding to a request that you speak with Tilly about your own personal experience, to ending up at a crime scene, witnessing a murder?”

  “Well, I…” She swallows. The air in the room is like a furnace.

  “This is getting us nowhere,” Krasny grumbles, rubbing his forehead with one broad hand. “We need answers, and we need them now.”

  Her throat is like sandpaper. “Um, could I have some water?”

  Krasny exhales loudly and Benioff shoots him a look. They know she’s stalling, but they’re polite. They get some water.

  She’s handed a plastic cup, and she sips, holding the cup in both hands. Worrying about whether the murderer is the same guy as the dirty cop. Trying to think of any way to protect the promise she has sworn to Tilly. And keenly aware of the lens pointed in her direction.

  “Okay, I’m done being nice.” Krasny slaps his thighs. “We need details, missy, and you’re going to be sorry if you don’t cooperate.”

  Benioff looks at him sideways, tucks a curl behind her ear, and leans in. “Tell us: How did you find Hannah?”

  Krasny brings a fist down hard on the table. “And how the hell did you find J.J. Orr?”

  Benioff rocks back. “Krasny, for god’s sake! You’re the one that botched the address. Don’t take it out on her.”

  “But she can’t—”

  “I’ll take it from here,” she says curtly. “Go get some coffee.”

  “Fine!” He shoves his chair back and gets to his feet. “But for the record, I did nothing wrong, and I’m not taking anything out on anybody.”

  Benioff sits with arms crossed and watches him stomp out the door, then folds her hands on the table and says gently, “What you did tonight was very brave. You must be exhausted. I understand that you’d probably like to call it a night, go home, get some rest. But we still have questions, okay? And we need you to help us put things together.”

  “I, um…” She wonders who is listening and tries to shuffle her thoughts, but they spill away from her like slippery cards. “Um, do you know if Hannah’s okay?”

  “She’s at the hospital. She’s in good hands.” Benioff pauses, peering into Reeve’s eyes. “But we need you to remember that Abby Hill is still out there. She could still be alive.”

  The events of the past few days roil inside her. Emily Ewing. Otis Poe. Mister Monster. With a glance at the lens on the ceiling, Reeve whispers, “Is there somewhere else we could talk?”

  SIXTY-SEVEN

  Every member of Texas Hold ’em turns off his cell phone before the band takes the stage, even on a weeknight, even in a rowdy beer joint like The Pony Express. They mostly do covers of their favorite country artists—crowd pleasers—but they also like to present a few originals. The late-night crowd seems to favor the newer songs by Nick Hudson. And the manager, a former ski champion named Roxie, pays attention.

  The bar is nearly full, and cash is flowing as fast as the beer. Locals who frequent the town’s busy music scene—many of them musicians themselves—make a point of stopping in whenever Texas Hold ’em is on the bill. More than a few are of the opinion that Vegas and Hollywood are missing out, and friendly bets are waged on how long it will be before these boys quit their day jobs.

  When the last note is played and the applause has quieted down, the bar starts to empty out. The drinkers pay up and the smokers head outside.

  Roxie’s policy is to make sure that each member of the band gets a fresh glass of their preferred beverage at the end of the final set. And she takes personal pleasure in handing a glass of Jack Daniel’s on the rocks to Nick Hudson.

  He has taken only a few sips when he checks his cell phone and shakes his head. “Damn. Eight calls, ten messages.”

  He cups his phone to his ear as Roxie hums, “Mm-mmm, aren’t you the popular one?”

  Hudson winces once, twice, then pulls the phone away from his ear as if scorched. Muttering curses, he thumbs the phone severa
l times before dropping it into his pocket and snapping shut his guitar case. Barely saying good-bye to Roxie, he bolts out the door.

  SIXTY-EIGHT

  Wednesday

  It’s after midnight by the time Kim Benioff manages to contact the small, select group that Agent Coulter wants. She sets up in the same briefing room that had been overflowing earlier with the adrenaline-charged Hostage Rescue Team.

  Crime scene analyst Myla Perkins is the first to join her, carrying a large, steaming mug in one hand and a thick file in the other. Jackie Burke enters a moment later, carrying a briefcase and looking just as crisp as if she were stepping into the courtroom, followed by her assistant, Nick Hudson, who looks scruffy and smells of whiskey.

  Benioff checks her watch as they cluster at one end of the table. When a tall woman strides in, Benioff introduces Special Agent Yolanda Martin, and the two tip their heads together for a brief, hushed exchange.

  At that moment, Agent Barry Coulter bursts in, his expression grim. “Thanks for coming, everyone. You all need to catch up, and we have to act fast.” Gesturing, he says, “Agent Martin is a Hostage Rescue Team leader, and Myla has been running crime scene.” To them, he adds, “You two know more than anyone, so feel free to correct me if I get something wrong.”

  The two women nod, and he spreads papers and photographs across the tabletop. Speaking quickly, he recounts the botched raid on J.J. Orr’s father’s place.

  “We found a cantankerous old man and an empty barn,” Yolanda Martin grumbles. “That was it.”

  “Okay, but this is where it gets cockeyed,” Coulter says, putting up his hands. “In the meantime, we apparently had a civilian tracking down our target, who’s the old man’s son, an ex-con named J.J. Orr, Junior.”

  “No kidding, a civilian!” Myla Perkins says.

  “A young woman by the name of Reeve LeClaire,” Coulter continues, “who was apparently at the scene when Orr was shot, and somehow managed—”

  “Wait a minute,” Hudson interrupts. “Reeve was there? She saw the shooter?”

  “Right. Let me back up,” Coulter says. While he gives a barebones account of Hannah Creighton’s rescue, Hudson keeps muttering, “Holy shit,” and, “I can’t believe this.”

  “It’s surprising, I know, but get over it. We have work to do. The thing is, she couldn’t see the shooter’s face, unfortunately.” Coulter glances down, checking a printed sheet. “She states that she was hiding under a vehicle and only saw him from the back. Describes a tall man wearing a black, hooded poncho, carrying a large handgun. That’s it.”

  “Before you ask,” Myla Perkins says, displaying another set of photos, “I’ve been to the location and processed parts of the scene. It’s all panning out just like the witness described.”

  “We just missed him, too,” Yolanda Martin mutters. “Orr’s body was practically still steaming.”

  “Okay,” Coulter continues, “first Vanderholt was taken out, now Orr is dead. Two perps executed with two different weapons, right?”

  “Right, but it’s likely we’re talking about the same shooter,” Myla Perkins says. “Or at least, that’s our working theory. Because, check this out.” She lines up two photographs on the table. “This is Vanderholt’s place,” she says, pointing. “And this is Orr’s. Note that the girls were held in basements with identical locks on the doors.”

  Someone groans as the group studies the photographs.

  Coulter addresses Jackie Burke: “You came here straight from the hospital, right?”

  “Right, Hannah Creighton is safe and alive and being treated, although we practically had to drag her in the door.”

  “Okay, bring us up to speed.”

  “It’s not pretty.” Burke sets her briefcase on the table and summarizes the events of the past few hours. “Hannah’s recovery is the most important thing, of course, but now we’re at a crossroads. Because there’s evidence that both Hannah and Tilly suffered abuse by the same man.”

  “This does not leave this room,” Coulter warns, looking from face to face.

  “Wait a minute. What are you saying?” Hudson asks.

  “That there is someone else involved,” Burke says. “I talked with both girls, individually, and they each described another man, another abuser, who is apparently the instigator behind these two kidnappings.”

  “Or maybe three,” Yolanda Martin says, “if we can find Abby Hill.”

  “That’s correct,” Coulter says. “This guy’s a serial kidnapper who works with subordinates. He’s organized, high-functioning, and clearly dominant.”

  “Like a mastermind of some kind?” Hudson asks.

  “Correct. Vanderholt and Orr weren’t bright enough to coordinate all this themselves. Successful abductions with no witnesses. Prolonged captivity. Secure locations.” He shakes his head. “We’re looking for a sexual predator who’s pretty damn smart. And I’ll tell you, he’s a criminal of a type I’ve never seen.”

  “Wait. Jackie, you said both girls described the same man. This was tonight?” Hudson asks.

  “Right after I talked with Hannah, I talked with Tilly,” she responds.

  “But how come Tilly didn’t come forward with this days ago?”

  “We’ll get to that in a minute.” Coulter turns to Burke, saying, “Jackie, please speed through this. Focus on the girls and the abuse and wrap up.”

  “Right. Okay. It gets worse. This guy burned both of these girls repeatedly.” She splays photos across the table and they all stare at close-ups of small, round burns in distinctive, matching patterns.

  “Cigarette burns,” Myla Perkins observes.

  “Same thing with Tilly?” Benioff asks.

  “Same thing. This is Tilly’s arm,” Burke says, pointing, “and this is Hannah’s. The scars are virtually identical.”

  “Holy mother of Christ,” Yolanda Martin breathes.

  Coulter claps his hands. “Okay, look around and you might notice that there is a disproportionate amount of estrogen represented in this room.”

  “For a change,” Myla Perkins says.

  “It’s intentional. And you’ll know why in a minute, because this is where I need your help.” Coulter nods at Benioff, saying, “You found the link between the residences using that list, right?”

  “What list?” Hudson asks.

  “Emily Ewing’s list,” Benioff says to him, “which she gave to Reeve LeClaire, which you took from Reeve.”

  “That list? But it was—”

  “On your desk, cowboy. Pinched it while you were out singing.”

  “Let’s not get distracted, people,” Coulter interrupts. “The point is, that list shows important information about both places—Vanderholt’s and Orr’s—that we hadn’t found earlier. We’ve analyzed those elements, done some tracing, and found that both residences were purchased by the same LLC, set up in Reno, by an attorney named Justin Yow.”

  “Reno?” Burke mutters. “A shadow corporation of some kind?”

  Coulter puts up a hand. “Our field agents there had some trouble tracking him down, but they finally got ahold of Yow about”—he checks his watch—“about forty-five minutes ago. The preliminary report is disturbing, and we’ll be notified the instant they get confirmation.”

  The individuals in the room exchange puzzled glances.

  Leaning forward and putting his palms flat on the table, Coulter says. “We’re here to focus on this guy. To find Abby Hill, or her remains, if we can, and to get this guy pronto, tonight, before he knows we’re on to him.” He says to Burke, “You have a judge lined up for warrants?”

  “Standing by.”

  “Okay. Both victims attribute their burns to the same sadistic son-of-a-bitch and describe the same suspect: Dark hair, brown eyes, tall, smoker, with a tattoo of barbed wire circling his left bicep.”

  Something catches in Benioff’s throat.

  At that moment, Agent Coulter’s cell phone rings. He flips it open, listens for a moment. “You’r
e sure? Same guy bought all three houses?” He nods at Yolanda Martin, who nods back. “Okay, we’re secure, I’m putting you on speaker.”

  He sets the phone in the center of the table and a metallic voice says, “We talked to Yow and we’re looking at his files. The short version is, you’ve got a dirty cop.”

  SIXTY-NINE

  For the third time in several long hours, Hostage Rescue Team leader Yolanda Martin approaches a dark, low-profile structure in a rural area. The storm has blown past, and a brisk wind sends clouds scudding across the sky. Treetops whistle, branches chatter against a metal shed, and Agent Martin, alert to the fact that their target is a trained killer, is glad for the noise.

  She squats with her Kevlar-vested team in the brush outside, using hand signals to direct two sets of agents to advance around the sides of the house, while another pair takes cover behind the SUV parked in the carport. One man checks the vehicle, putting a palm on the hood, and signals that it is cold.

  She waits thirty long seconds, then holds up three fingers and counts down—two, one, go!—and sprints to the door, flanked by two men. They burst inside at the same instant the side door crashes open.

  The living room is empty. The armed team rushes from room to room, adrenalin pumping, trigger fingers ready, and makes sure the kitchen and laundry room are also empty.

  At Martin’s signal, four team members move down the hallway, one agent taking position at each of the closed doors. Everyone pauses, weapons ready, listening. The crackling silence is worse than gunfire.

  At her nod, the men kick the doors open.

  An instant later, a voice from the first room calls, “Got him! He’s down!”

  More agents crowd through the doorway and, one by one, slowly lower their guns.

  “Christ, you’re kidding me,” one grumbles.

  The body is sprawled sideways in an office chair, an ugly mess, with blood and brains spattered on the computer screen, down the wall, across the rug.