Maybe the money wasn’t in the storage unit at all. The two men, one tall, one short, their black clothes, the timing, their hurried movements — all coincidence.
If the money wasn’t there, she would have no vengeance for her husband’s blood. With no vengeance she couldn’t bring herself to run and hide without even seeing him buried.
She’d be right back where she was now, facing the first two choices.
But in her gut she knew. The money was in that unit. The Mafia had stolen it. And with Martin dead and unable to testify against them, they were going to get away with it.
Lorraine held her own eyes in the mirror, looking down, down into her soul, to the black hole that kept on growing. For a long minute . . . she stared.
She pictured her husband lying in his casket. No family to mourn him. Her heart cracked.
“Martin,” she whispered. “Forgive me.”
She swiveled and strode from the bathroom to dress.
FORTY-ONE
Kaycee cried out at the sight of the dead man on her TV screen. Her hand jerked. The remote flew from her fingers.
She gaped at the picture, heart flailing.
For one glorious second her mind flashed a stunning explanation of everything that had plagued her. This was a shot from some crime drama she’d watched before. The footsteps and screams, the dark place — they’d come next . . .
The picture on the screen didn’t move. This was no TV show. Just the dead man.
Kaycee doubled over and threw an arm over her eyes.
“ — this medication isn’t for everyone. Talk to your doctor . . .”
Her head snapped up. An ad for a prescription cholesterol pill played on the screen.
She froze, breath backing up in her throat. The dead man — he’d been there. Right? Maybe only for two seconds, but she’d seen him.
The TV switched to a dog food commercial. Kaycee sprang to her feet and snatched the remote from the floor. She jabbed a button, backing up one channel. No dead man. Backed up another. And another. Then surfed forward, back to the dog food ad, on past that, one, two, three, four channels. With each push of the button tension tightened like a turned screw in her chest. Five channels, six. Seven, eight. No dead man. Nine, ten, eleven. Not anywhere. Come on, come on, I know I saw it! Twelve, thirteen. No frozen bloody scene. Just commercials and shows and TV as she’d always known it.
Kaycee punched off the television and hurled the remote to the floor. It bounced off the hardwood, its battery cover popping off and skittering to rest at the base of a chair.
She fell onto the couch and thrust her head in her hands. Kaycee could barely breathe. How could these people get into her TV reception? You could hack a computer, put a camera on a table and a picture in a car. But her TV pulled in cable. How did they do that?
Terror washed over Kaycee in cold waves, trailing screams and running footsteps. The smell of blood flooded her nostrils, stronger than before. Kaycee yanked her head up. Where was that smell coming from, where?
She jumped up, searched the cushion where she’d sat. No blood. She pulled it off the couch and flipped it over. Nothing. With a gasp she shoved it back and grabbed the second. Seeing it clean, she snatched the third. When all three cushions were back in place, she ran both hands down her jeans, checked the backs of her legs. Felt around her T-shirt. No blood.
She still smelled it. It was here, right here.
Footsteps sounded. Shouts. Kaycee whirled left and right, every pore prickling. Where were they?
Panic stabbed her, bright and sharp. Kaycee ran. Past the staircase, through the living room. Small cries spilled from her mouth, her feet with minds of their own. Her wild eyes cut left and right, looking for blood, for a camera, a dead man. Kaycee barreled through the dining area, chased by screams. Into the kitchen. She banged into the table and bounced off, shaken. Darkness clouded her brain and snatched air from her lungs. She tumbled into the hall, rounded the corner to her office. Through the arched doorway back into the den.
No one was there. No dead man, no blood. Yet still she heard the screams. And that smell!
We see you.
Kaycee flung herself to a front window and edged back a curtain. Scanned what she could see of the porch.
No one.
What’s happening to me?
Maybe she had gone crazy. Maybe all of this was in her head — a far worse paranoia than her mother ever faced.
Mark. Kaycee whirled toward the couch and her phone. No matter that he’d think she was losing her sanity, she needed to tell him —
The blood smell vanished. The screams and footsteps stopped.
All energy drained from Kaycee. Like a puppet with its strings cut, she fell onto the couch. Sinking onto her stomach, she buried her face in a cushion and begged God to heal her ravaged mind.
“Got to you, didn’t I,” a male voice sneered.
FORTY-TWO
Midnight.
Lorraine drove through the darkened streets, back straight and hands gripping the steering wheel. In the passenger seat Tammy leaned against the locked door, head lolling. She was still in her pajamas. Belinda lay tucked in beside her. Lorraine had first carried their small suitcase and her purse from the motel room, stowing them just behind her seat in the van. Then she carried Tammy and her stuffed bear out. Tammy woke up as Lorraine belted her into the seat. But she’d fallen back asleep by the time Lorraine pulled out of the motel parking lot.
Lorraine halted at a stoplight. She’d gone insane, bringing her daughter along on such a mission in the middle of the night. At every block after that she nearly turned around. Then, suddenly, the north entrance of AC Storage loomed on her right.
She slowed, gazing down the concrete between the two long buildings. Past the lot on the other side she could see Huff Street. Two tall lamps lit the wide area between the buildings, one near each end. Unit number seven, in the middle of the building to her right, lay in dimmer light.
The place was empty.
She could stop this madness right now.
Two gunshots echoed in her mind. She pictured Martin’s frozen face, his blood smearing the floor.
Lorraine didn’t know much about the Mafia. But she did know its members worked in layers, one man reporting to another. And some powerful “don” sat at the top. Whoever led the robbery and killed Martin would have to report to that leader. Imagine what would happen to the man when he claimed the money, all seven million dollars of it, had just up and disappeared . . .
Lorraine turned into AC Storage.
As she rolled past units, the memories kept flashing in her head. Tears bit her eyes. No turning back now. She’d come this far; she’d go through with it. No time to second-guess or hesitate. Just do.
Dry-throated, she drove down to the apartment and stopped in front of the door, leaving the engine running. She pulled the front door key from her pocket and went inside, holding her breath against the smell of blood. Screams and muffled gunshots echoed in her head. Without turning on a light, she fumbled her way toward the kitchen, making a wide arc around the top of the bedroom hallway.
From a cabinet she pulled out a flashlight. She opened a drawer, felt around inside, and took out a screwdriver.
Back in the van she placed the screwdriver inside the console and closed it, leaving the flashlight on top. She drove to unit seven, reversing to within a foot of its roll-up door, turned off the van and cut the headlights.
She glanced at Tammy. Still asleep. Lorraine picked up the flashlight and slipped out of the van.
Opening up the rear, she laid down the flashlight and pulled on the heavy gloves. She drew out the bolt cutter.
A car passed the Starling entrance. Lorraine froze, pulse whooshing in her ears. She shot a look toward the driver, seeing only the vague bulk of the person. But he (she?) didn’t even turn his head.
Lorraine glanced at Huff Street. Empty. From where she stood she couldn’t see the southern Huff Street entrance some distance b
eyond the office. The end of building two blocked her view. If someone turned into that entrance, she wouldn’t know until she saw the wash of headlights coming. By then it would be too late.
She turned toward the padlock. Here goes.
Her hands felt awkward in the heavy gloves. She wished for a second person to hold the padlock out of the way while she positioned the bolt cutter on the hasp. Alone, she had to nudge the lock aside with the blades. It shouldn’t have been that hard, but her arms were shaking. The padlock kept slipping back. In the dim light it was hard to see. She tried once . . . twice. Three times. Four. Her mouth creaked open, breath coming in short little bursts. This was stupid. If she couldn’t even do this much . . .
On the fifth try the blades closed around the hasp. Lorraine’s forehead itched with sweat.
She grasped the ends of the long handles and squeezed.
Lorraine knew this would take a few minutes. And it would require every ounce of strength she possessed, even though her arms were strong. She still carried Tammy a lot, and the little girl weighed close to forty pounds. Lorraine’s high school friend’s padlock hadn’t been as thick as this hasp. But then, neither had the bolt cutter been as powerful.
The blades didn’t move. She might as well have been trying to cut through a boulder.
She pushed harder.
Her arm muscles burned. She ignored them.
Scenes of the men loading the storage unit last night flashed in her head. She’d never seen what they’d put inside. But Martin said the robbers had left the bank with fifteen duffel bags of money, separated by denomination.
The hasp was holding. Lorraine loosened her grip on the bolt cutter and rested her hands, panting. After two deep breaths she squeezed again.
If she didn’t find those duffel bags inside, she’d drive straight to the police. Tonight.
And let on that Martin was involved, Lorraine?
The blades wouldn’t move. She gritted her teeth.
So she couldn’t tell the police anything Martin had said. Nothing about losing money or the Mafia. But she could beg them to hide her and Tammy.
Sweat trickled down Lorraine’s temple. The nerves in her arm flared all the way to her shoulders. She pushed harder.
She’d tell the police how frightened she was for her and Tammy’s safety. Maybe she could lie and say someone had been skulking around her motel door. She thought they were being followed . . .
Lorraine’s arms were going to break. Her back muscles screamed. She eased up on the bolt cutter handles and leaned her forehead against the unit door, sucking in oxygen.
This was impossible.
Lorraine looked right toward Starling, left toward Huff. The streets were empty. But any minute her husband’s murderer could appear. What if they decided to move out the money in the middle of the night?
Terror and rage sped through Lorraine. She didn’t want to die here. But neither did she want to leave seven million dollars for the man who shot her husband. And it was here, wasn’t it? She could smell it.
A low grunt rattled in her throat. She would do this.
Gathering her strength, Lorraine wrapped her hands around the bolt cutter handles and squeezed with all her might. Cords tightened on her neck. She pressed her eyes shut, tears pushing through her lashes.
Between the bolt cutter blades she felt movement. Lorraine held her breath and pushed even harder. Heat coursed through her face. Her arms shook like an epileptic’s. Any minute now her head would explode.
The hasp wouldn’t give. Come on, come on . . .
Another second, maybe two. That’s all the strength she had —
Crack. The hasp snapped. Her arms jerked. The end of the bolt cutter thwacked against the unit door.
Lorraine dropped the tool and stumbled back, chest heaving. The bolt cutter clattered as it hit the ground.
Twisting her head left and right, she checked the streets.
She drew an arm across her forehead, swiping perspiration from her eyes. She snatched up the bolt cutter and heaved it into the van. Her gloved fingers could hardly function as she pulled the broken hasp and attached padlock off the door. She tossed them into the van as well.
Gasping, she bent down to pull up the unit door. Even that was hard for her exhausted muscles. The door rolled up with a grinding whir that echoed through the night. Surely it could be heard a mile away.
Lorraine’s mouth felt like desert-scorched cotton. She looked toward Huff and Starling streets. No cars.
A dry, closed smell wafted out of the unit. Little light filtered inside. Lorraine squinted into the dimness but couldn’t make out the shapes in the center. She grabbed the flashlight from the van, knowing what she would find. Already her next moves flashed in her head.
For you, Martin.
She aimed the flashlight into the unit.
Boxes.
Lorraine jerked backward. Rectangular boxes, about twice as long as they were high. No duffel bags.
No money.
A half moan, half hysterical laugh burst from her mouth. She back-pedaled to the van and leaned against it, all remaining energy draining away. Arguments ping-ponged through her brain. If the money wasn’t there, then Martin was innocent.
Not true. He was involved. They just hadn’t put the money here.
But if she’d read this part so wrongly . . .
Lorraine. You know.
Now what? She’d broken through some innocent renter’s door.
She could still run for her and Tammy’s protection. But not now. Not before attending her own husband’s funeral.
Her gaze fixed on the boxes. She counted them. Twelve.
Could those twelve boxes hold fifteen duffel bags’ worth of money?
Lorraine strode over and set the flashlight upright on the floor, aiming its beam toward the ceiling. She picked up a box. It was heavy in her weakened arms. Maybe close to Tammy’s weight. She set it down and picked up another. Exactly the same weight. And solidly packed. No rattling.
She put the box down and squatted, examining the tape around it.
Lorraine ran to the van and fetched the box cutter. Positioning the blade along the top edge of one box, she dragged the tool through the packing tape. Then she hustled around to open the other side. She lay down the cutter, grabbed one half of the box top in each hand, and pulled. The tape running down the middle popped open.
She knelt on the hard floor, not even sure what she wanted to see. If only she could know Martin had been completely innocent.
Holding her breath, Lorraine folded back the four box flaps.
FORTY-THREE
In slow motion, as if her neck was weighted with stones, Kaycee lifted her head.
A man stood before her. Dressed in black pants, a long black T-shirt. Hard-faced, cold-eyed. Dark hair fading to gray. Her cell phone lay in his left hand. His right thumb slid back and forth against his fingers as though itching for evil. One side of his mouth lifted in a satisfied smirk.
“Heard you on the telephone to your girlfriend this afternoon. I consider it a compliment you call me ‘they.’ As if I’ve managed the work of multiple men.”
Kaycee’s mind crumbled.
He raised his eyebrows, mimicking concern. “I understand you’ve been having some strange experiences.” His speech sounded refined, almost stilted. He glared at her with a mixture of victory and contempt.
No words would form. No breath.
The man smiled. Kaycee’s soul curled inward. “You hearing things? Seeing a dead man wherever you go?”
Her vision blurred. This was a nightmare. Not real.
“For a columnist who spills her guts, you don’t talk much.” He stepped toward her.
She shrank against the couch. “Wh – what do you want?”
“Ah. She speaks.”
Suddenly aware of her vulnerable position, Kaycee sat up. Her brain shouted fight-or-flight responses — scream, run, hit him. She couldn’t move.
“Get up.” H
is tone could cut steel.
She shook her head.
His expression flattened. “That cop in the barn won’t help you. I shot him twice. In the jaw and in the head.” A wicked smile spread his lips, a knowing look at her horror glinting in his eyes. “That’s right. Just like in the picture.”
Kaycee stared at him, her thoughts a million broken pieces. The blood she’d smelled had come true — on her own fingers. Now the dead man — the state policeman?
The floor of the barn — was it old bare wood, now dark-yellowed with age?
She whimpered. “How? Why?”
His gaze rose. He focused on the wall behind her as if seeing a movie unfold. “Your columns led me here, you know. For this past year I’ve been studying the fascinating depths of the mind.” His eyes blinked back to her, gleaming with vindication. “Apparently my education has proved effective.”
The words barely registered. Kaycee could only think one word: Mark. If this man knew about the state policeman, he knew about Mark. Her mouth sagged open. She dug her fingers into the front of the couch, a vision of Mark shot dead blazing in her mind.
The man surveyed her smugly, as though reading the horrible question she dared not ask.
“So you see how it is. Everyone who was supposed to protect you is gone.” He set her cell phone on the side table and lifted the bottom of his T-shirt. The top of a gun stuck out of his pants’ waistband. “Now you will come with me.”
“Why?” Kaycee’s voice held no life. “You’re going to kill me anyway. Might as well do it here.”
“I could have killed you a hundred times if that’s what I wanted.”
“What do you want?”
“You haven’t asked my name.”
She gaped at him.
“It’s Rodney. As for what I want, my exercise in the mind is not yet over. I still need something from you.”
“Take it, it’s yours.”
“Unfortunately it’s not that simple.”
Kaycee stared dully at the floor. Didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. The constant fear of her life now stood in the flesh. In her living room. He’d killed two men because of her, one of them Mark. He’d probably killed Mrs. Foley too. Mark. Kaycee couldn’t think of that, couldn’t bear it.
Exposure Page 17