Exposure

by Brandilyn Collins

  Nico clenched his jaw. Bear wasn’t hearing a thing he said. One mistake in all his years. One time —

  “You got something to say, Nico?”

  “I tried to do what you said. Sometimes things happen.”

  “No. No. Things don’t just ‘happen.’ You did this. That short temper of yours — that’s what did it.”

  Nico bit back his answer.

  Bear glared at him. “What about the wife and kid? How’d you expect to get Giordano outta there without them seeing you?”

  “He told me they were gone.”

  “And you just believed him.”

  “He had too much money ridin’ on it to cross me.”

  “Apparently he didn’t get the message.”

  Nico said nothing.

  Bear knocked his knuckles against the desk. “The wife — can she finger you?”

  “Never saw me. She was busy with the kid.”

  “You hope so.”

  “That’s what she told the cops.”

  Bear’s hard eyes drilled into Nico. He slid a hand to his face. One finger traced the scar along his jaw line.

  Nico went cold.

  “Listen to me good, Nico. I don’t want you thinkin’ with that mule head of yours. I just want you to do what I tell you. Got it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “When you leave here, go home. Stay there. Tell your friends on the force to keep their ears out for any more word from the detectives on the case. We gotta be sure that crime scene opens up by tonight. When you hear it’s clear, call me. I want the money outta there long before dawn. Go at one a.m.”

  “Where you want me to take it?” Nico tried to keep his eyes from that trailing finger.

  “I’ll let you know. Right now I don’t care if we have to bury it in my backyard. I just want it out of there.”

  “Okay.”

  “Nothin’ goes wrong. Nothin’. We get the money. The cops and G-men stay clueless about the robbery and Giordano.”

  “It’s done. I guarantee you. It’s done.”

  Bear dropped his hand, but his gaze was cold. “You done a lot for the family, Nico. I’m givin’ you this chance to make things right. You understand?”

  Nico swallowed. “Yeah. I understand.”

  “Go.”

  As Nico left the room he could feel Bear’s eyes shooting daggers at his back.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Kaycee closed her kitchen door and tested the lock.

  They were out there somewhere. Watching.

  Weight descended upon her, as if the sky bulged down. The staring eyes lasered holes in her back. She spun around and cast wild looks over the yard.

  Her gaze fell on the storage shed. Had Hannah crept in there sometime this morning, now too afraid to show herself? Kids could be like that. They did stupid things when they were scared.

  Like adults.

  She headed over to the shed, hearing the grass swish under her feet, feeling the sun on her head. Her chin lifted, and she drew in a long exploring breath through her nose. No smell of blood. That sense hadn’t returned since she’d been on the stairs . . .

  At the shed Kaycee pulled back the creaky door. Its musty, dirt-drenched odor leaked out.

  Empty.

  She let the door fall shut and headed for the garage. Twice she stopped to look behind her.

  The small garage was dim. Kaycee hit the button to open the rollup door. Eyes flicking in all directions, she passed around the front of her PT Cruiser and got in. She pulled the car key out of her purse and tossed the handbag on the passenger seat. Buckled her seatbelt.

  Backing out the driveway, she reached for the remote button clipped to her visor to shut the garage door. Her fingers slid over the top of the visor — and hit a slick edge. What was that? Kaycee snatched her hand away and braked. The visor snapped down.

  A photo slipped out and into her lap. A five-by-seven of the dead man on the dark yellow floor. One side of the picture was smeared with red.

  “Ah!” Kaycee flung it away. She thrust the car into park and fumbled with her seatbelt. Shoved open her door and threw herself out on the gravel. One foot slid out from under her. Her legs scissored until the foot took hold. Kaycee righted herself and swiveled toward the car, panting.

  For a long moment she stared at the picture on the passenger seat floor. It lay face up and vivid. The dead man looked so real. Any minute now he’d sit up, right out of that photo.

  Her right fingers felt sticky. She jerked up her hand and saw red.

  Kaycee moaned. In her peripheral vision she saw more red on the door where she’d touched the handle. She jumped away.

  Slowly Kaycee’s fingers raised to her nose.

  They smelled like blood.

  Something inside Kaycee snapped. She bolted around the car to the house.

  At the back door she grabbed the knob and twisted, knowing it was locked, knowing the key was in her purse in that violated car. Knowing they were here, so close, watching and laughing. They wanted her to think she was mad.

  But now she had evidence. Something to take to the police.

  Tears burned her eyes. She swiveled around and stumbled two steps toward the yard. Threw back her head and shouted, “Where are you?” Kaycee’s throat closed up and her muscles went stiff. “What do you want from me?”

  Mocking silence.

  She strode across the grass and turned in complete circles, looking, shouting. “Come out here! What do you want?”

  Motion from next door caught her eye. Kaycee wrenched around and saw Mrs. Foley, gaping at her like she was nuts. Kaycee’s mind bleached white. “Is it you?” she screamed. “Are you doing this to me?” She stomped toward the old woman. “Why are you doing this? Why?”

  Mrs. Foley whirled and disappeared into her house. The door slammed. A lock clicked.

  Kaycee pulled up short, breathing hard. She blinked through hot tears, logic slowly returning to her mind. What on earth was she doing?

  Grimacing, she peered at her blurred right hand. The red was smeared all over.

  That blood she’d smelled while climbing the stairs. Maybe it wasn’t from her dream at all. Maybe it was this blood now, on her fingers.

  How had she known this would happen?

  Was it from the dead man?

  Helplessness and panic whirled inside Kaycee. What was happening? Who was doing this to her? They were taking over everything. Her house, her car, her life.

  Her gaze cut to her car in the driveway. Its engine was still running, the driver’s door open.

  Hannah. She had to go find Hannah.

  Kaycee’s fingers curled inward. Okay. Whoever these people were, they’d made a big mistake this time. That photo and blood were evidence. Just wait till the police got hold of it.

  Mouth firming, Kaycee bent over to swipe her bloody fingers against the grass. Taking a deep breath, she walked toward the car.

  She closed the driver’s door. At the passenger side she peered through the window. The photo hadn’t moved. Somehow, she’d thought it might.

  Screams rose in her mind. Footsteps and running. A door opening to bright sun . . .

  Wait. That detail wasn’t in her dream. She’d seen a bright light but not a door opening. Where had this come from?

  Kaycee pressed both hands against the car, leaned in and breathed.

  Slowly the sounds and sights in her head faded. Kaycee pushed hair off her hot cheeks and gathered what courage she could find.

  It took all she had to open the car door.

  Her purse sat on the seat, her house key inside. Kaycee forced her gaze to the horrifying picture. She needed to put it in a plastic zip bag for protection. But she couldn’t leave it here while she returned to the house. She didn’t dare. By the time she got back out here, it could be gone.

  Kaycee drew the key from her purse and stuck it in her pocket. Gingerly, as if it were made of flesh-eating acid, she picked up the picture by a corner that wasn’t stained with blood. Holding it
out in front of her like the tail of a dead mouse, she made her way to the back door.

  Their eyes watched.

  The blood on the doorknob glistened as she inserted her key.

  Inside the kitchen she laid the photo on the counter and snatched a large plastic bag from a drawer. She slid the photo into the bag. As she closed it, blood smeared inside the plastic. She lowered her eyes and swallowed hard, steadying herself.

  Quickly, she washed the residue of blood off her hand.

  She picked up the bagged picture and carried it to the car. Set it on top of the Cruiser while she checked her seat. She didn’t want to sit in blood. She saw none there, but the inside handle of her door remained smeared. She’d clean it up later.

  Kaycee checked the visor. No blood there either. She pushed it up.

  With two fingers she slid the bagged picture off the roof of the car, then got behind the wheel. Kaycee laid the photo on the passenger seat near her purse. She tried not to look at it, but it pulled at her eyes. Her gaze sidled to the picture.

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

  It had faded completely to black.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  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.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  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?