If he believed her at all.
For now Kaycee had to fight her fear alone. Just for a little while. Hannah was more important. Surely she’d turn up soon.
Minutes ticked by. Kaycee couldn’t get up. She could only continue begging God to protect Hannah and herself, careening from one nightmare to the other.
Kaycee’s bleary focus happened to graze the microwave clock. Eight-thirty.
My column.
Imminent responsibility rushed in. Kaycee lowered her head in her hands. She had three and a half hours to finish her work. This was the newspaper business. Her deadline could not be missed.
A deadline that could only be met by sitting at her computer. What if the dead man’s picture jumped onto the screen again?
A new thought spun into her mind. Kaycee’s breath hitched. What if the camera and photos were the work of some sick readers of her column? People preying on her worst fear. She’d never said where she lived in any of her columns. But with the Internet, plus the fact that she’d initially started writing for the Jessamine Journal in nearby Nicholasville, anyone who really wanted to find her could do it.
The idea bloomed within her. This had to be it. Some crazy “Who’s There?” readers were sneaking in and out of her house, hacking into her computer. So smart, so obsessed —
Could they have taken Hannah?
Kaycee stilled. Her insides went utterly cold.
But why would they? What would they want with a nine-year-old?
“No,” Kaycee said aloud. That was another dead end. Nobody had taken Hannah. The police didn’t think so, even if they did have to pursue a “worst-case scenario.” Hannah’s note proved she’d run away.
In fact, she’d probably done it for attention from her dad. Her note practically said so.
The twelve o’clock deadline ticked in Kaycee’s head. Time was running out.
She forced herself to her feet. She had to write the column and get it out of the way. If Hannah hadn’t been found by the time she was done, she’d insist on going out to help look.
And if those crazy people were out there watching as she searched, if they were watching this very minute through some hidden lens Mark never found — so be it. She’d beat them and her fear. She would.
Kaycee hadn’t gone two steps before terror nearly drove her to the floor.
SEVENTEEN
Lorraine had just scooped Tammy from bed when she heard Martin running down the hall. He carved to a stop in Tammy’s doorway, breathing hard.
“He’s here.”
Lorraine froze.
Tammy blinked from her to Daddy. “Who’s here? Where’re we going?”
Multiple sensations hit Lorraine at once. The warmth of Tammy’s body in her arms, the little-girl smell of shampoo and sleepiness. The abject terror on Martin’s face. What was happening here?
A car door slammed outside.
Lorraine clutched Tammy to her chest. “What should I do?”
Martin’s gaze bounced around the room. He bounded toward the closet and yanked open the door. “Hide in here.” He swept clothes aside on the hanging rod.
Tammy wailed. Lorraine pressed fingers over her mouth. “Shh-shh. It’s a game; you have to be quiet.” Ducking down, she shoved herself and Tammy inside, all the way to the deep back. She crouched on shoes and toys, their edges biting into her bare feet, and held Tammy tight.
Martin pushed the clothes back in place to hide them. “Don’t move till I come get you.” He banged the door shut. The closet went black.
“Mommyyy!” Tammy twisted in her arms.
“Shh.” Lorraine’s heart rammed against her ribs. The darkness closed in on her. Her leg muscles already burned, Tammy’s weight dragging at her shoulders. “You have to be quiet.”
“I’m scared!”
“Hush!” Lorraine pressed the little girl’s face against her thudding chest. Tammy squirmed and fought, fear driving her limbs. Lorraine held on tighter as Martin’s words echoed in her mind: He’ll kill us all.
Tammy bucked her head back and started to sob loudly. Lorraine did the only thing she could — what just minutes ago she’d have considered child abuse. She clapped a hand over her daughter’s mouth and dug her fingers into the tender cheeks.
EIGHTEEN
Kaycee edged inside her office and saw two things at once — the “flying boxes” of her monitor’s screensaver and a pool of coffee on her hardwood floor. She approached her desk and reached for the mouse as if it were a cobra. With the barest brush of fingers, she pushed it. The flying boxes disappeared.
Her sunset desktop filled the screen.
Kaycee let out a breath and turned back to the kitchen for a wet dish towel, carrying the coffee mug. She cleaned up the spilled liquid, laid the dirty towel and mug in one side of the sink, and washed her hands.
As she reentered her office a realization hit. When she got home she’d never checked upstairs.
She stopped in her tracks. They could be up there. Right now. All this time she’d been in the house, all this time, and they could be lurking up there.
Slowly Kaycee’s head turned in the direction of the stairs. She swallowed hard, trying to convince herself to just settle down and write.
We see you.
They were upstairs. She knew it.
No. This was just more paranoia. She wouldn’t give in.
Kaycee walked to her desk chair and placed a hand on its back, willing herself to sit. But her body wouldn’t obey. The upper level hovered in her mind like a preying monster.
She looked back toward the stairs.
Maybe she should call the police after all.
No, Kaycee. They were all out looking for Hannah.
Kaycee licked her lips, aware of her own breathing, the feel of her feet against the floor. She lifted her hand from the chair. All she had to do was check, prove to herself no one was up there.
Fight the fear.
Weighted with dread, Kaycee turned and forced herself toward the staircase.
NINETEEN
Nico turned off Huff Street into AC Storage. He swung left and drove up to the office and Giordano’s apartment on his left. His gaze raked to the right — across the concrete and to the two long storage buildings. No one in sight.
He cut the engine on the old Chevy.
Nico kept this car hidden in his garage for jobs like this. It wasn’t registered with the DMV, and the plates were stolen long ago.
Where was Giordano’s car?
Nico gazed straight ahead, past the apartment. Must be in a parking space around the corner.
He pulled his Beretta 92 semi-automatic from the glove compartment.
The plan was simple. Nico had done it a dozen times. Get his hit into the car with some story — in this case the promise of handing over the money. Nico would tell Giordano to lie down in the backseat, since it wouldn’t do for the two of them to be seen together. Then he’d drive him to a back room of one of the family’s businesses and put a bullet in his head. The body would be boated some distance out into the ocean, weighted, and dumped.
Nico got out of his car. He stuck the Beretta in the waistband of his pants and strode toward Giordano’s apartment. He’d just check around the corner first, make sure he saw only one car there.
As he passed the door it opened. “Nico.” Giordano stepped back and waved him to come in.
Nico hesitated, then followed him inside. He shut the door.
Giordano stood frozen in his cluttered living room, looking shell-shocked. Everything about him — his expression, the way he stood, his heavy breathing — told Nico the guy had to go. If the cops got suspicious and came down on him, he’d cave.
“Get in the car. We’re goin’ for a ride.”
Giordano’s eyes widened. “Why?”
“You want your money, don’t you?”
“But you were supposed to bring it.”
“You think I’m gonna drive around with a hundred grand in my pocket?”
Giordano’s fingers curled toward his palms. “How am I getting back here?”
“I’ll bring you.”
“Then you’ll still be driving around with the money.”
Nico stomped over and thrust his face in Giordano’s. “What are you, some smart guy? Get in the car!”
Giordano shrank back. “Okay, just . . . okay.” His nervous gaze flitted around the apartment.
“What’re you lookin’ for?”
“Nothing.”
Nico stood aside and stuck out an arm — go. He didn’t want to have to get ugly and draw his gun. Not here. Giordano eyed him, then started toward the door.
From down the hall came a squeak and muted thump. Giordano hesitated midstep, his back muscles tensing. Then he jerked forward.
Nico slapped him in the shoulder. “What was that?”
“Nothing. Let’s go.” Giordano kept moving.
Nico raked his gaze down the hall. The first door on the right was closed. And he’d never checked around the corner for the second car. “Your wife and kid still here?”
“No!” Giordano whirled around, face flushed.
“I think they are.” If they’d looked out a window and seen him . . .
“No, it’s just a mouse. We get ’em all the time. I pulled one out of the toilet yesterday.”
“Pretty big mouse.”
Giordano swallowed hard. “Let’s just go, okay? Do what you said, no problem with me.”
“We got real problems if you didn’t do what I told you.”
“I did!” Giordano’s arms thrust outward and hung there. Sweat popped out on his forehead. “I told my wife to leave — she left.”
Nico turned toward the hall. “Let’s check.”
“No!” Like a madman Giordano rushed forward. He grabbed one of Nico’s arms and pulled. Nico cursed and pushed him back. Giordano stumbled into a coffee table and flailed his arms for balance.
Nico kept walking.
Behind him Giordano roared. Nico heard running feet. He swiveled around as Giordano rammed a head-butt off-center in his chest. Nico flew backward and crashed into a wall. Giordano leapt for him, but he scrambled to his feet and out of the way.
“Ungh.” Giordano landed hard on the floor. In an instant he shoved up and twisted around.
Rage shot through Nico. He whipped the Beretta from his waistband. “Stop!”
Giordano stilled.
“Get your hands up.”
The man’s arms floated upward. Giordano blinked as if in a daze. “Don’t kill me. Please.”
Nico’s eyes narrowed. When he gave this guy cement shoes, he’d be laughing. “Back up out of the hall. Now.”
Giordano moved backward, his arms shaking. Nico pressed him on until they both stood in the living room.
“When I tell you to, you’re gonna turn and walk out that door. You’re gonna get in the backseat of my car and lie down. Got it?” Nico’s voice was cold steel. Everything in him wanted to beat Giordano senseless right now. Forget driving the idiot to a family business. Nico was putting a bullet between his eyes the minute he lay down in the car. Then Nico would come back inside and finish off the wife and kid, and whoever else was in that room. Four old grandparents and the puppy too.
“Giordano, you hear me?”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t move.”
Keeping his eyes on his target, Nico sidled toward the living room window. He drew back a frayed sheer curtain with his left hand and threw a glance outside. All clear.
From the corner of his eye he saw Giordano launch like a rocket.
Nico jerked and his finger pulled the trigger. Crack, crack. Holes torched in Giordano’s left jaw and right forehead. The man’s body recoiled, and he stumbled backward. Both arms flew up.
He thudded to the floor, face down.
Curses burst from Nico. He shoved his pistol in the waistband of his pants and ran to Giordano. Yanked his shoulder to flip him over. Giordano’s eyes were at half mast, his breath a rattle in his throat. Blood pumped from his head and down his temple.
Fury flooded Nico. “Get up!” He kicked Giordano, then wrenched his arm, dragging him over the carpet. Blood smeared in his wake. “Get up!” When Giordano’s head hit the hall floor, Nico came to his senses. The guy wasn’t going anywhere. Nico threw the man’s limp arm down and straightened, glaring at him.
Giordano twitched — and his breathing stopped. The blood stopped spurting.
Nico ran a hand down his face. Good, real good. Now he’d have to load a deadweight body in the car in broad daylight.
The sound of a loud engine filtered from outside. Nico ran back to the window and edged away the sheers. A man climbed down from a pickup truck and walked over to open his storage unit in the first building. As Nico watched, a van turned into the parking lot and headed for a unit in the second building.
Too late.
He pulled back from the window, thoughts racing. Any minute now more renters were likely to show up. No way could he take the chance on waiting for them to clear.
He turned away, his gaze cutting to Giordano. Blood from the corpse had run onto the hall floor.
Beyond Giordano through the kitchen window, Nico caught a glimpse of black and white on Huff Street.
A police car. Slowing down.
For a stoplight? Or to turn into AC Storage? Maybe some cop coming to pick Giordano up — take him to the station where the Feds could question him?
Nico sprang for the apartment exit. He flung open the door, twisted the cheap lock into place, and slipped through, closing it behind him. Glanced around. The two renters were out of sight in their units. He couldn’t see the black-and-white. If the cop turned in, it would be in seconds.
He ran to his car, pulling the Beretta from his waistband, and jumped inside. Threw the pistol under his seat. He surged on the engine and veered right, up between the two storage buildings, toward the north entrance, forcing himself not to go too fast. As he passed each renter’s car, he flung a look in its direction. One man glanced around, then went back to his boxes. Nico checked his rearview mirror. No black-and-white near Giordano’s apartment. But too late to go back now.
Nico hit Starling Street and turned left.
His shoulders felt like steel. In seconds it had all gone wrong. And he was gonna pay. Bear would eat him alive for leaving Giordano for the cops to find.
Nico smacked the steering wheel and cursed.
TWENTY
At the bottom of the stairs Kaycee peered upward, shoulders lifted, one hand on the banister. She stopped to listen.
No sound from the second floor.
With a deep breath, she mounted the first step.
Certain places on the staircase always creaked, Kaycee knew that. Even so, when the third step groaned beneath her foot, a shiver scuttled across the back of her neck. Her beloved house, her haven for the past five years shape-shifted as she climbed. The walls closed in, the air thickened.
Kaycee reached the sixth step.
She told herself nothing was up there. In two minutes she’d be feeling like an idiot. If she were a child watching her mother mount the stairs with such horror, she’d be disgusted.
But hey, this fear wasn’t irrational. She’d just seen a dead man on her monitor.
At the ninth stair Kaycee smelled blood.
The sudden odor flooded her, carrying sound with it — the multiple screams and rush of footsteps from her dream. Only Kaycee wasn’t asleep. The noise banged through the house, her head, so very real.
I’m just imagining this. I’m just . . .
She bent low, a darkness she’d never known closing in. Her fingers curled around the worn banister, fighting to keep her steady. For a long minute she could only drag in air.
We see you.
Eyes bored into her back. She whirled around, knowing they hulked behind her — and nearly lost her balance.
No one below.
Slowly the sounds and smell faded until only t
he rumor of them remained.
Kaycee turned forward again. She scanned the landing above her, looking for she knew not what.
Her fingers cramped as she pried them from the banister.
Five more stairs.
The eleventh creaked louder than the third, as breath-catching as nails on a chalkboard. Kaycee’s shoulders jerked. She leaned to her right, looking up and around the corner into the hall. Her narrowed eyes searched the carpet for footprints, drag marks. Anything. She saw nothing.
One last stair and she reached the landing. She paused, head cocked, gaze raking across what length of hallway she could see. Her mind still throbbed with memories of the footsteps, the screams and smell. But they didn’t come back.
At the door to the hallway, Kaycee looked toward the dim guest bedroom a short distance on her right. Through its open door she spotted the foot of the bed, its yellow spread smooth to the floor, and one of the windows. The curtains were closed. Grasping her upper arms, she moved down the hall and into the room. She took in the whole bed, the maple dresser and nightstand, framed carousel prints on the walls. The second window’s curtains were also drawn. Kaycee pulled back all the window dressings, letting light into the room.
She thought of Mark the night before, checking all closed-off spaces. Heart knocking, she approached the closet. She fisted her hand around the knob and pulled back the door.
Coats and extra clothes hung as she’d left them. Boxes on the shelves. Kaycee shut the door quickly.
Before she could think twice she sank to her knees, bent down, and lifted the covers to check beneath the bed. Nothing there.
Gaining courage, she retraced her steps up the hall, past the doorway to the stair landing. Turned right into the bathroom. This one was easy. The shower curtain remained pushed all the way back, as Mark had left it. The tub stood empty.
Exposure Page 8