Exposure (30 page)

A car engine revved in the distance. Red lights strobed the forest, the cabin. A police vehicle surged to a stop behind Mark’s car, and Chief Davis jumped out. Hannah broke away from Kaycee, face lit with anticipation, and started toward the car. A second later she slid to a halt. “Where’s my dad?” she wailed.

Chief Davis ran to her and grabbed her shoulders. “Any minute, honey,” he said. “Any minute.”

More blood-red flashed through the night. In quick succession two police cars bumped up the driveway. Ryan Parksley leapt from one before it stopped. “Hannah!”

“Daddyyy!”

They ran to meet each other, arms outstretched. Kaycee watched through blurred eyes, her heart tied in a knot.

Chief Davis strode toward her. “You all right?”

She nodded.

He gave Mark a grim smile. “Good work.” He veered toward Nico’s body, where other officers were already gathering.

Mark turned to join them, then stopped. He looked back to Kaycee. Laid a hand against her cheek.

“This
is
over now. You’re going to be fine — stronger than before. You’ll see.”

Memories stabbed through Kaycee. Her father, dead and bloodied on a dark yellow floor. Belinda, fallen from her arms onto concrete. Her mother’s nervous glances in a rearview mirror.
I tried to give you a better life . . .

Kaycee’s throat convulsed. If she fought her way back to strength it wouldn’t be of her own power.

“Yeah. I will.”

One side of Mark’s mouth crooked upward. “And don’t forget — you promised me a date.”

Kaycee held his gaze until she managed a weary smile. “It’s not going to be on a Kings Island rollercoaster, Mark Burnett.”

Feed your faith and your fears will starve to death.

Unknown

Kaycee stepped from the white stone police station building, a cold Ale – 8-One in her hand, and gazed up East Main. May in Wilmore. On both sides of the street, cherry trees blazed pink. Another few weeks and the town would hang the large multicolored baskets of flowers from hooks on every lamppost. These would stretch from the railroad tracks up East Main, then to the right on North Lexington, all the way to the outskirts of town.

She tipped the Ale – 8-One to her mouth and drank.

Today was her
monthaversary
— Mark’s word. One month ago today she’d looked
them
in the face.

“One man,” Mark had reminded her last night over supper in Lexington. It was their ninth date — but who was counting? “He was just a man.”

Kaycee prickled. “Easy for you to say.”

“Hey, I’m not saying he wasn’t dangerous.” Mark held up both palms —
peace
,
peace.
“Downright evil. I’m glad I killed him.”

She thought of Officer Nelson’s wife and two children at his funeral. Hannah’s nightmares. Her own father’s dead face, her mother’s life on the run. “Yeah. Me too.”

Chief Davis had alerted the FBI regarding Rodney’s claim of an Atlantic City bank robbery twenty-six years ago. Over the past four weeks of investigation the story had unfolded. A record heist at the time, unsolved until now, and the inexplicable circumstances of Martin Giordano and his wife and daughter. The families of La Cosa Nostra in Atlantic City had long since lost their power, but in the early 1980s the organization was alive and well. Rodney List — Joel “Nico” Nicorelli — had been a part of the Lucchese family. Like Mark said — just one man. With his own failures and fears.

Mark slid his hand across the table and placed it over Kaycee’s. “You make peace with Mrs. Foley?”

“I’m not screaming at her anymore if that’s what you mean.”

“At least she knows you’re not crazy. You’re vindicated.”

“Like she’d ever admit it.”

Mark’s lips curved. “How’s Hannah?”

“Haven’t talked to her for days now. Her dad’s still mad at me. Can’t blame him.”

“You brought her back. Safe.”

“I’m the reason she was taken in the first place.”

Mark shook his head.

“I’m just giving them time.” Kaycee lifted a shoulder. “That family has so much healing of their own to do. Hannah needs to be talking to her father and stepmom right now, not me. And she’s getting better. They all are.”

So was Kaycee. She looked over her shoulder less these days. In time she would regain the strength she’d had before Mandy’s death. And one day she would conquer her paranoia completely.

Mark squeezed her fingers. They were silent for a moment.

“You write that column?” he asked.

“You know I did, Mr. Self-Satisfied.”

“See. I was right.”

“Yeah, well. Don’t let it go to your head.”

Now standing on Main, Kaycee smiled at the memory. She took another drink of Ale – 8-One and started up the sidewalk. Behind her, the glass door swished. “Kaycee.”

She turned around. “Hey, Chief.”

“Where you headed?”

“To Tastebuds for a pizza and soda. Wanna come?”

“Can’t, I’m going out to do DARE in a minute.”

The DARE car — the spiffy 1968 Ford Galaxy 500. “You promised me a ride last week.”

“That’s why I came out. Here’s your chance.”

“Cool. I’ll wait here; you bring it around.”

He glanced toward the building. “It’s just down in the basement.”

Okay. Hidden agenda. He’d obviously been talking to self-appointed therapist Mark. Kaycee gave him a look. “What happened to your velvet touch?”

One side of his mouth turned up. “You coming or not?”

It was a chance to face down a fear. The basement would be lit. Chief would be with her.

It would be terrifying.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m coming.”

She followed him back inside the building and through the station. Out the rear door and to the rickety-looking wooden steps to the basement.
Oh
,
boy.
Kaycee hung tight to the banister on the way down.

The fear gripped her before she hit the last stair. Kaycee’ s knuckles whitened around the Ale-8-One bottle. Her mouth creaked open.
Breathe
.

Shoulders drawn in, she stepped onto the concrete floor. She glanced around, eyes grazing the wood and stone walls, the door to the storage area. The shiny DARE car sat in the center, backed in and facing the basement’s wide double doors.

The wooden posts and low-beamed ceiling closed in. Kaycee’s stomach flipped. Her right hand jerked to the base of her neck.

“You okay?” Chief asked.

She nodded stiffly, eyes bugged.

“We’ll be out real soon.” He hurried over to push the doors wide open. Sunlight streamed in. “Okay, in the car.”

Kaycee got in the passenger seat, gripping the Ale-8-One bottle, her spine like stone. Chief started the engine and drove into the blessed afternoon.

She exhaled. One deep breath. Two. Sweat trickled down her temple.

Chief Davis put the car in park. “I’ll get the doors.” He gave her an encouraging nod. “Good for you, Kaycee. You did it.”

She looked back through the doors at the mine-like basement. A shudder jagged between her shoulder blades. The place looked like it would eat her alive.

Kaycee managed a wan smile. “Yeah. I did it.”

BY KAYCEE RAYE

By now you’ve heard the whole story.


The media has a way of whisking the corners for the last bit of dust. Despite my efforts to crawl into a cave somewhere and hide, you’ve surely seen every detail on TV, read it in the papers (including the one in your hand), and devoured even more in magazines.


Contrary to certain rumors, I have no idea where the money is. I am not planning to snatch it up and disappear. Been done already. The statute of limitations may have passed for prosecution of the crime, but as far as I’m concerned, the Atlantic City Trust Bank still deserves its cash back. Some day, if my memories continue to surface, I may flash on where it is. If that happens, the bank will be the first to know.


It
is
true I almost stopped writing this column. It took a certain person to convince me it’s only just begun.


What now to say to you, my loyal readers, about fear? Bees, heights, closed spaces, the dentist’s drill, roller coasters — all of these things still make my gut tremble. Don’t suppose that will ever stop. But I have seen my worst fear come true and lived to tell the tale. In a surprising way, the experience has set me on the path to healing.


Okay, the path looks really long. And narrow. Did I mention curvy?


Confession time. I wanted to stop writing “Who’s There?” because I was afraid. Ha-ha.


Some weeks ago a certain man accused me of stirring up fear through this column just to make a few bucks. At the time I wanted to slug him. Guess what. He’s the one who’s now convinced me to continue “Who’s There?” He got in my face recently, this time accusing me of the worst affront of all in his book — withholding the truth.


“You helped me face my own fear, Kaycee,” he said. “Now write that column and tell them what
you
learned.”


So here I am. What truth did I learn? Fear is everywhere. But that’s only half the story. The other half?


God is bigger than fear.


Once upon a time I longed for a magic wand to make me all better. There isn’t one. Day to day I still struggle. And frankly, right now there’s lots of new stuff to work through. But a few nights ago I was gazing at the full moon, and an amazing thought occurred to me. God hung it. That’s a lot of power. If he could do that, why in the world did I fail to believe he could help me overcome my little problems?


Apparently God also invented irony. Soon after promising him I’d write about this epiphany, I took a walk to a friend’s house. I passed an empty field. Lo and behold — bumblebees.


One of these Cessnas with stingers decided on a flyby. You’ve seen cartoons of a bee in flight, screeching on the brakes and pulling a Uey? Happens to me every time.


The bumblebee came back around, closer. I screamed and ducked.


Don’t ever let anyone tell you bees are colorblind. No way. They take one look at my bouncy red hair and go nuts. Like it’s the grandest, juiciest flower they’ve ever laid eyes on in their entire life. Either that or they’ve just died and gone to heaven.


My movement scared the thing off, but not for long. In a flash it was back with a vengeance.


For all their flying power, bumblebees lack decent radar. On its final flyby the thing miscalculated and rammed into my head.


I shrieked bloody murder, and my knees gave out. The bee bounced off and buzzed away. Sorely disappointed, to be sure. The enticing flower had turned out to be hard and sweaty. And loud.


I cowered on the ground, gusting air. That’s when I noticed
all
the bumblebees in that field. Back and forth they flew, and I’d have to pass every one of them. A good half would do flybys of their own.


The thought sent me shaking.


Sure, I should fight any fear that holds me back from accomplishing something I need to do. That’s what fear usually does. But I
didn’t
have to walk in that direction. In the recent past, even if a diamond mine waited on the other side of that field, I’d have turned around. No more.


So what did I do?


I took a deep breath, whispered a prayer for God’s help . . . and set out down that sidewalk.


And that is what I hope for you.


Some twelve hours after she’d fled Atlantic City, Lorraine Giordano found herself near Lexington, Kentucky. She needed to get off the interstate and find a place to stay. The April skies drizzled rain, the whir of the windshield wipers grinding her raw nerves. She hadn’t stopped to rest except for bathroom breaks, to feed Tammy, and do what she had to do. Her emotions had drained to empty. She felt nothing. Dead.

Lorraine turned off the interstate onto Highway 68.

Hours ago in the parking lot of an all-night grocery store she’d shined her flashlight into an opened box in the back of the van. She’d never planned to use a dollar of that blood money, but now she had no choice. Lorraine lifted out three hundred in twenty dollar bills.

In the store she bought hair dye and scissors. Her long strawberry blonde tresses were now gone, replaced by dark brown hair cut blunt above her shoulders. Tammy’s red curls were gone too. Lorraine had cut them all off and dyed what was left. Tammy sobbed as she felt the strangeness of her head.

“It’s a new game, honey.” Lorraine’s heart lay sodden with guilt. “You have a new name, too. Kaycee. Isn’t that cute?”