Exposure (16 page)

She stilled, staring. Her eyes widened. Slowly she picked up the photo and brought it toward her face.

It had faded completely to black.

Fear nearly paralyzed Kaycee as she pulled out of her driveway. The photo-that-no-longer-was lay upside down on the floor of her passenger seat. The only thing left was a black rectangle and some smeared blood.

How to prove to police it had been a picture of the dead man?

Sure, she could tell her story, just like she’d told Tricia. Tell them about her dream, the photo on her desktop, and now this bagged one. She could tell them about smelling blood as she climbed her stairs. Hearing screams and footsteps. That would work, all right. Chief Davis would sign her into the mental ward on one of those mandatory seventy-two-hour mini-vacations.

But there was still blood on that faded photo. They couldn’t discount that.

Hannah.
Even now Kaycee didn’t want to pull one officer off of searching for the runaway. Kaycee would hand over this evidence — what remained of it — and help in the search for Hannah. Once she was found Kaycee could tell Chief Davis everything. They’d deal with it then.

Kaycee’s mind chanted a mantra that her young friend was safe. Anything else was too horrible to consider. But hours were passing. Hannah should have called by now.

Kaycee reversed left onto South Maple and pushed the Cruiser into drive.

She rolled past the old homes on her street, focusing on the scenery she knew so well. Anything to keep her mind from thinking. Large bare-limbed trees dominated the green front lawns after the April rains. Here and there bright yellow forsythia bushes bloomed. On the right houses gave way to the long white building of Crouse Concrete.

Wait.

Kaycee slowed and gazed at the building. It ran long with a flat roof, the left side of the building a number of feet higher than the right. Three extra tall garage doors faced the street. The only windows were in two layers on the left side. The building looked quiet as usual. She wasn’t even sure if it was used much anymore.

What if Hannah was in there?

Kaycee turned into the cracked parking lot.

As she got out of the car Kaycee felt eyes upon her. Her tormentors were watching. She knew it.

Kaycee turned in a complete circle, gaze darting. She saw no one.

Drawing both arms across her chest, she walked to the door and tried to open it. Locked.

Kaycee cupped her hands around her eyes and looked through a window. It was so dim inside she could hardly see. Was it an office or a much bigger room? She saw no movement.

She stepped back, every part of her body tingling. Go look around back — that’s what she should do. This place was so close to her house. Hannah might have crept back there to hide.

Kaycee looked to the right and over the roof. A thick copse of trees thrust bare-limbed branches into the sky. All those trees behind the building — where
they
could be hiding.

She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t go back there alone.

Didn’t matter, she rationalized. Hannah wouldn’t be there anyway. Even if she’d come here in the night, she wouldn’t have hidden back there this long. Besides, the police had been searching this neighborhood. Surely they’d already looked.

Kaycee bit her lip. All the same, she should check.

A shudder ran down her spine. She pictured the dead man’s face — on her own computer. Remembered the smell of blood on her own staircase.
We see you.
If her house wasn’t even safe . . .

Abruptly Kaycee turned toward the Cruiser.

She slid into the driver’s seat, sick to her stomach. So much for fighting the fear. She couldn’t even bring herself to search behind a building for a lost child.

Kaycee lowered her forehead to the steering wheel and closed her eyes. A storm kicked up within her, swirling. All the years of fighting her destructive fears, all the columns and vows to herself. Just an hour ago she’d finished writing the final part of the dentist story. Such determination she’d ended on, such hope. Now look at her. No better. Good for nothing.

Defeat washed over her in cold, briny waves.

Pray against the fear
. Tricia’s mantra.
You’ve got to keep praying.

Kaycee pushed back from the wheel as if her head weighed a hundred pounds. Dully she stared at the white building. Truth was, she didn’t want prayer. She wanted a magic wand.

God
,
just bring Hannah back safe
,
and I promise I’ll talk to you all day long.

Kaycee’s cell phone rang. She jumped, then fished it out of her purse. The ID read Wilmore Police. Her heart leapt.

“Hi, it’s Kaycee.”

“It’s Mark. You coming to the station?”

“On my way. Did you find Hannah?”

“No.” His voice sounded grim. “But we have some new information.”

On the motel bed Lorraine lay propped on one elbow, watching her daughter. Tammy was sleeping on her back, a fist beneath her chin. Her little-girl snores were quiet and feathery. It had taken her some time to fall asleep. She’d been crying for her stuffed bear. Lorraine reached out and touched Tammy’s hair. How to tell her that she would never see her daddy again?

Fresh grief hit Lorraine like an avalanche. Its icy weight snatched the breath from her lungs. She flipped onto her stomach, buried her head in a pillow, and sobbed. The bed shook. Lorraine didn’t want to wake Tammy. She clutched the pillow to her chest and rolled off to the floor.

So many things to mourn. She sobbed for Tammy’s future without a father. For their days stretching on and on. Lorraine would not make it through this afternoon, this minute. How could she possibly live through a week, a month, a year? She cried for Tammy’s first day of elementary school — without a father to kiss good-bye. For her graduations and someday, a wedding. Lorraine cried for no medical insurance, an empty bed at night. For the face she would never see again, the voice she would never hear. For the still body and the half open, glazed eyes, and Tammy smeared with her daddy’s blood. For the
senselessness
of a life taken. Lorraine cried until her head pounded and her eyes dried out, and all energy seeped from her pores into the worn carpet.

Finally she rolled over and lay still, spent. Her eyes fixed upon the far wall, unseeing.

Something shifted inside her.

At the center of her soul where hope used to live, a black dot appeared. It grew bigger. Deeper. Eating toward the outside. The hope that had guided Lorraine’s life began to crumble into the pit and disappear. In her mind’s eye she could see the pieces breaking off the edge like shale, falling, falling until the darkness swallowed them up. Until nothing was left but a bare, unstable rim.

From the bottom of that black hole she felt the throb of a new suffocating spirit.

Fear.

For a long time Lorraine couldn’t move. When she pushed to her feet, exhausted and shell-shocked, she found herself wandering the room aimlessly. At some point she turned on the TV, keeping the volume low, and flipped through channels, searching for local news.

“. . . this morning . . .” A blonde female reporter stood between the two AC Storage buildings. Behind her, yellow crime-scene tape stretched in front of Lorraine’s apartment. Someone in street clothes ducked beneath the tape and entered the front door. Lorraine’s fingers curled into her palms. That was her and Martin’s home. Tammy’s home. How dare strangers so casually walk in and out.

A strand of hair blew onto the reporter’s cheek. She brushed it away. Such a normal motion. How could she act so calm on this terrible, deathly day?

“. . . In a strange twist, we’ve learned that the victim, Martin Giordano, was an assistant manager at Atlantic City Trust Bank, which was robbed last night of a record seven million dollars. Police investigating the two cases aren’t talking, but one source within the department did say there is conjecture of a connection. Did the four robbers come to believe Giordano recognized one or more of them? Or is this just an unfortunate and tragic coincidence?”

Lorraine blinked at the TV, her dulled brain trying to sort through the words. At least the “connection” the police wondered about didn’t include Martin’s involvement in the crime. Or if it did, they weren’t saying it.

Martin had said nothing to her last night about recognizing one of the robbers. That couldn’t be it.

“If he finds you here we’re going to lose a lot of money.”

Had Martin
helped
those robbers? But if so and they didn’t trust him, her question to Detective Tuckney remained. Why didn’t they shoot him before they left the bank?

“. . . questioned by the police,” the reporter continued. “Meanwhile the victim’s wife and daughter are at an undisclosed location for at least tonight.”

Lorraine stared at the screen. They knew that already? That she and Tammy weren’t going home tonight?

The news switched to another topic. Bitterness rose in Lorraine. That’s all the time her wonderful husband deserved? Two lousy minutes?

She sank onto the edge of the bed. A phrase from the story echoed through her mind.
One source within the department . . . One source within the department . . .

Lorraine sat up straighter. Reporters had sources on the police force. Why couldn’t the Mafia?

She thought about it. They did. Of course they did. With everything the Mafia controlled, surely they paid dirty cops to give them inside information. What if one of those paid sources told them what Martin had said in his interview last night? What if Martin
had
recognized one of those men and just didn’t want to tell her about it? Maybe that’s why the man came by this morning. Martin was trying to assure the robbers he wouldn’t talk. He’d do that to protect her and Tammy.

That was it. Had to be.

Lorraine buried her face in her hands. “Martin, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for doubting you.”

“If he finds you here we’re going to lose a lot of money.”

“No.” She shook her head. Martin had just been scared for her and Tammy. He wasn’t talking straight.

“I just want Tammy to get well.”

Anger at her own traitorous thoughts shoved Lorraine off the bed. She swept hair from her eyes. Enough of this. She’d go crazy spending the rest of the day in this motel room, with nothing to do but think. She should go out and take care of the horrible business that awaited her. She needed to stop by the bank and talk to someone about picking up Martin’s final paycheck. She had to find a funeral home and casket for Martin that she could afford. Detective Tuckney said it might be a few days before Martin was released after the autopsy, but she should get this much over with.

Because maybe, just maybe, cleaning her husband’s blood off the floor wouldn’t be the worst of her tasks. What if that voice inside her head was right? What if she and Tammy were no longer safe in this town?

“He’ll kill us all . . .”

But where would she find the energy to do these tasks now? The mere thought turned her limbs to water.

Tammy stirred on the bed. Lorraine watched her daughter, feeling so helpless. She didn’t want Tammy to wake up. She didn’t want to answer the questions and dry the tears.

“I just want Tammy to get well.”

Tammy’s eyelids rose, her gaze still blank from sleep. She sighed and uncurled the fist at her neck, then slid the hand down to her belly. One leg straightened. Her chin tucked down, and she blinked at Lorraine. “Hi, Mommy.”

The little voice brought fresh tears to Lorraine’s eyes. “Hi, sweetie. How do you feel?”

A huffy breath. “Better.”

“I’m glad.”

Tammy looked around the room. “Where’re we?”

“The motel. Remember I brought you here to sleep?”

“But why can’t we go home?”

“Because . . .”

“Where’s Daddy?”

“He’s . . .” Lorraine sat on the edge of the bed, summoning courage, but all she felt was exhaustion. Her throat tightened. “He’s at work.”

“But he got hurt. Wasn’t he hurt?”

Lorraine nodded.

Her daughter’s eyes rounded, and the bottom lip pooched out. “Will he get better?” Tammy whispered.

An ache spread in Lorraine’s chest. She searched her brain for something to say. Not a lie, but not the truth. Not yet. She pressed her lips in a sick smile. “Come here, honey.”

Tammy sat up, and Lorraine drew her into both arms, resting her chin on the warm head. Her daughter snuggled in, trusting in her so completely. Lorraine’s eyes squeezed shut.

“Mommy?”

“Hm?”

“I want my bear.”

Lorraine thought of the scene on TV. The yellow crime tape, strangers going in and out of her apartment. And here they were — homeless. Tammy had lost her daddy. And now she couldn’t even have the stuffed animal that comforted her most.

“Okay, sweetie. I have to go out and do a few things. On the way we’ll stop by the apartment and get Belinda.”