Exposure
Page 3
“You okay?” Olga’s face shone with perspiration.
“Yeah.”
Another minute and the entire cart stood outside the vault. Martin’s insides still shook. But he could breathe.
He twisted his arm to view his watch. The robbers had been gone maybe five minutes. “Try to untie yourself.”
Dry-throated, Martin fought against his rope. Shelley struggled fitfully with hers, sniffing and swallowing hard enough to make her throat click. Olga made no sound.
Within minutes Martin’s skin burned.
Slowly his rope loosened. He pushed his thumb beneath the topknot and worked it. When he could turn one wrist perpendicular to another, he picked at the ties with the first two fingers on his right hand.
After twenty minutes his left hand wriggled free. He slipped out of the rope completely. Ignoring the pain in his wrists, he moved to untie Shelley, then Olga. His fumbling fingers had gone numb.
His nerves felt like raw meat. Nico hadn’t told him he’d be shackled in the vault. Martin wouldn’t sleep for weeks.
But they’d pulled it off.
Martin and Shelley pushed to their feet. Olga’s legs were stiff. She sat down on the floor and massaged her muscles. Martin stumbled toward the nearest bank alarm.
As he reached out his hand to set it off, he checked his watch. Nico and his three cohorts had been gone for almost thirty minutes.
Plenty of time for a clean getaway.
FIVE
Pulse fluttering, Kaycee followed Officer Mark Burnett as he checked the rooms in her house. He looked carefully, making sure all windows were locked. Every footfall felt like a step toward Kaycee’s grave. Around this corner, maybe the next, the people watching her would be waiting.
First Mark went through the open arched entry into the dining room, where he bent down to look under the table. Then under the matching arch into the large living room at the front of the house. Kaycee hung close, her spine rigid and brittle. She tingled with the sense of eyes watching from the dark outside. Before they left a room she closed all curtains and shades within it.
“We forgot the back bathroom and utility area.” She pointed with her chin toward the living room’s second arch, leading back to the kitchen.
“We’ll circle around.”
They crossed back into the kitchen, the offending bare table on their left, pantry on their right. Past the pantry and down the hall. Kaycee remained there while Mark checked the half bath on their left, then the utility room. “All clear,” he announced.
In the hall to the right was the door to Kaycee’s office, where she wrote her newspaper columns — thanks to Mandy Parksley. Four years ago Kaycee read Mandy some excerpts from her diary about struggling with the paranoia of being watched. Mandy knew someone at the Jessamine Journal, a local weekly paper, and made a phone call. “You’ve got something here, Kaycee,” she urged. “And that knack of yours for seeing a fear in others, even when they won’t admit it. The way you saw through mine. You can help people.”
It turned out that the only way Kaycee could publicly write about her fears was to inject a sort of self-deprecating humor. The technique was a hit. Within six months Kaycee’s local “Who’s There?” had gone national.
Kaycee pressed against the wall as Mark checked under her desk, which sat in front of a window facing Mrs. Foley’s house. His gaze roved around her filing cabinet, a table, an old stuffed armchair that used to belong to her mother.
The office led into the den at the house’s front corner. Not much furniture to check behind there. A couch, a TV, some tables and lamps. Most of Kaycee’s house was furnished sparsely. Five years ago the down payment alone had taken everything she had. Since then she’d added what pieces she could.
From the den they climbed the stairs and turned left. The upstairs area only covered the middle part of the house, leaving downstairs “wings.” Mark searched through the two bedrooms and the adjoining bath in the middle. He checked in the closets, under the beds, and behind the shower curtain. Kaycee hung back, feeling awkward and vulnerable as he looked through her private spaces.
We see you.
How would she ever sleep here tonight?
Back in the hall, Mark gave her a nod. “Everything’s clear.”
Kaycee didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
They descended the stairs in silence.
Mark unlocked the front door and walked outside. Kaycee turned on the porch lights and followed. Her white-columned porch wrapped partially around the side of the house, ending at the set-back dining room. From that part of the porch a sliding door to the right led into the living room, and a second one at the end led to the dining area. Mark inspected the locks on both doors. They were secure.
Back inside, Kaycee relocked and bolted the front door. She faced Mark in her living room, arms crossed. The worn hardwood floors and the comfy sofa in her peripheral vision didn’t feel so homey now. The walls pulsed with unseen threat.
“That camera was here, Mark. Somebody put it in my house.”
He nodded. “You want to make a statement? I’ll add it to the file.”
“Bet that file’s getting pretty thick.” Kaycee couldn’t keep the defensiveness from her tone.
Mark looked at a loss for words — almost as if he wanted to believe she wasn’t crazy but couldn’t find the evidence.
Kaycee’s heart panged. She shifted on her feet. “So what do we do now?”
“I’ll be on patrol all night. You can have my cell phone number. And I’ll drive by here often.”
“And what if whoever brought that camera comes back between drives?”
“Call me and I’ll come — ”
“I could be dead by the time you get here.”
Mark pulled in a long breath. “Kaycee, I’ll do whatever I can to keep you safe. I am taking this seriously.”
“Really? Or are you thinking, ‘Sure, sure, this is just crazy Kaycee.’ ”
“I don’t think you’re crazy.
Maybe sometimes your fears make you see things . . .”
“I told you that camera was here.”
Mark held up a hand. “Okay.”
For a moment they faced off, his hurtful words from last month echoing in her head. Even if they had revealed more about his own issues than hers, they still hurt. Kaycee swallowed. “And I am not making this up just to give me fodder for my next column.”
“I never said anything like that.”
“Close to it . . . last month at the birthday party for Chief Davis. You told me all my column does is stir up other people’s fears, and I don’t really want to overcome my own, because then what would I do for a living?”
“If I said that, I didn’t mean it.”
“You did say it. You know you did.”
Mark looked away, forehead creasing. Kaycee continued to eye him. Why couldn’t he just admit he had fears like everybody else? His were written all over him. Ever since his fiancée broke their engagement and moved away three years ago, he’d kept his distance from women, clearly scared to death of being hurt again. But no, he had to put on this act like he didn’t need anybody.
Mark swung his gaze back to her. “I’m sorry, Kaycee. I’d had a bad day. I don’t really think that about you.”
Kaycee’s eyes burned. She didn’t care what most people said about her — Kaycee Raye’s whole life was laid out in “Who’s There?” But this man was different.
She lifted a shoulder. “Never mind. It’s okay.”
Silence ticked by. Mark cleared his throat. “Maybe you shouldn’t stay alone tonight. Is there somewhere else you can sleep? A friend’s house?”
Kaycee glanced at her watch. Going on ten o’clock. Not too late to call Tricia. Kaycee certainly didn’t want to stay in this house. The very thought of turning out the light, trying to sleep . . .
A terrifying thought flared. “Mark, the words on that photo said, ‘We see you,’ ” Kaycee blurted. “Could somebody have hooked up v
ideo cameras in here?”
Great, now he really would think she was crazy.
He spread his hands. “I searched all over the house.”
“You were looking for people.”
“You want me to look again — for cameras?”
“Well, if I’m in a starring role, at least I should know about it.”
“Was that a yes?”
She nodded tightly.
Again they walked through every room. Mark searched corners, window sills, within the leaves of plants — anywhere a tiny video camera might be hidden. He found nothing. By the time he finished, Kaycee’s nerves sizzled.
Mark stood in her kitchen, hands on his hips. “So how about that friend’s house?”
Kaycee crossed her arms. How she wanted to leave. The darkness beat giant wings against her windows. But there was nothing in this house. No intruder. No lens. If she stayed with someone she’d be giving in. How would she ever regain the strength she’d had before Mandy’s death if she caved in to her fears?
“Kaycee, you don’t have to fight this one,” Mark said, as if reading her thoughts.
That one sentence, coming from Mark, was all it took. Any resolve Kaycee could find within herself melted away. “Maybe I’ll just . . . call somebody.”
“Good. I’ll escort you wherever you go. Tomorrow you can come down to the station and fill out a report. And if you want an officer to come back into the house with you, whoever’s on duty will do that.”
“Okay.”
Soaked in defeat, Kaycee picked up the phone and dialed the familiar number. Tricia Goodwin answered on the second ring. “Of course you can come,” she said. “What happened?”
“Tell you when I get there. Don’t freak when a policeman pulls up behind me.”
Mark waited in the living room while Kaycee threw some clothes and toiletries into a small bag upstairs. The dead man’s face throbbed in her mind.
They left through the back door. Kaycee locked the bolt and walked alongside Mark to her car, throwing glances into the dense and hovering darkness.
Mark followed her to Tricia’s small wooden house near Asbury Seminary. As Kaycee trudged up the front sidewalk, her thoughts spun back to the first “Who’s There?” column she’d written four years ago. “Soaked Up” — the story of how her paranoia began at the age of nine. Never as she penned those words could she have imagined this night.
We see you.
Only as Tricia opened the door did Kaycee realize the terrible mistake she’d made in running to her friend. What was to keep them from following her here?
WHO’S THERE?
BY KAYCEE RAYE
SOAKED UP
When did I first notice the fear in my mother? Don’t remember. You might as well ask when I first noticed I had toenails.
My father was killed in a car accident when I was a baby. My mother never remarried. No doubt because she’d make any man crazy. Every night she’d double check the locks on our windows and doors. In public she always glanced over her shoulder. And when she drove, she constantly looked in the rearview mirror as if some monster was chasing us. Made me feel all jittery. Like maybe there were monsters back there . . .
Children are sponges. By the time I reached nine I’d soaked up her habit quite nicely and was looking over my shoulder as well. In the car it wasn’t fair. My mom had the rearview mirror; I had to turn around. No subtlety in that. Mom acted like she didn’t notice. But I knew she did. And it seemed to make her sad.
I took to humor to cheer her up.
“Knock-knock.”
“Who’s there?”
“Kaycee.”
“Kaycee who?”
“’Kay, see what you’ve done?”
“What have I done?”
“Fallen for my dumb joke.”
My mom died a little over a year ago. I can’t help but wonder if her constant fear of being watched caused the heart attack that cut short her life. Not a pleasant thought, seeing as how I’m managing to carry on her tradition.
In fact my mother’s fears now pale in comparison to mine. I’ve managed to branch out. None of my new fears make any more sense than the paranoia. Bees (no, I’m not allergic). The dentist’s drill. (The mere sound of that thing!) Heights. Claustrophobia — especially dark, closed spaces. (Oh man, just thinking about that one. It’s second only to the fear of being watched.) Plummeting downhill, as in roller coasters.
Since the age of nine I’ve fought the fears. With that much experience under my belt, I have found ways to cope.
How about you? Not that I expect you to be plagued with as many fears as I have. But everyone is afraid of something. Better to get those fears out in the open where we can fight them. Because whatever they are, they too often guide our choices. They hold us back.
Not to mention they form our worst nightmares.
Think about it; torturing me would be easy. Just put me on a roller coaster in a dark, closed cage filled with bumblebees and a madly drilling dentist.
Hang on a sec. I’m starting to hyperventilate . . .
SIX
Minutes from home, Hannah almost turned back. The darkness made her insides feel like jelly. The streetlamps weren’t very far apart, but it still seemed so dim between them. Maybe it wouldn’t seem so dark if she were with somebody, but by herself . . . And lots of houses didn’t have porch lights on. Hannah tried to tell herself that was good — neighbors wouldn’t be so likely to see her. But the farther she went, the heavier her fear grew. Now she could hardly breathe.
At the end of her street — Brookwood Lane — Hannah stopped. She was shivering, but her palm felt moist, clamped around the handle of her suitcase. She dried her hand on her jeans.
The night was so very big.
She stood at the corner of East Margaret Street. Once she turned right she’d go to Butler Boulevard and turn left. Then it was a long way down even just to Main. Hannah thought of that right turn on Main, heading up toward the railroad tracks, and shivered.
Behind her a dog barked. Hannah jumped, then swiveled, searching the yards. She couldn’t see it, but it sounded like a big one. What if it came after her?
She veered onto East Margaret and broke into a run. At the next block her suitcase bumped down the curb, its wheels too loud against the pavement. Reaching the other side of the street, she barely slowed, and the wheels caught on the curb. Her suitcase jerked her back, and the handle bit into her palm. Pain tore through her shoulder. Hannah gasped and dropped the handle. Her bag twisted and fell on its side.
Hannah hunched over, cradling her right arm. Tears stung her eyes. This was stupid. Kaycee’s house was too far away. Why did she ever think she could get there in the dark?
Her shoulder hurt. And her palm. Hannah massaged them both.
She had to go back home.
Wiping tears away, she righted her suitcase. She turned it halfway around, then stopped. She couldn’t go back. All the house doors were locked. She’d have to ring the bell. Gail and her dad would be so mad. Hannah would be in big trouble. Probably couldn’t play with any of her friends for weeks. Or see Kaycee. She’d sit in her room day after day, listening while her “family” went on with their happy lives.
Why hadn’t she unlocked the garage door?
Some distance down, a car turned off Butler and drove toward Hannah.
She swung her suitcase back around and trotted for the closest house, pretending like she lived there. Its yard was dark. She turned up its sidewalk, then slowed, stealing glances at the car. As it passed, she picked up her suitcase and stepped onto the porch. Hannah held her breath.
The car drove on.
She waited until it was a few blocks up before turning around.
Back on the main sidewalk, she took a deep breath. No going back now. If she could just get past the railroad tracks, she wouldn’t be that far from Kaycee’s. And when she got there, Kaycee would realize how very sad she was at home. Surely Kaycee would say she could stay.
The sidewalk was narrow with lots of cracks. On the other side of the street lay a large field full of weeds. In the middle stood a bunch of trees. They looked so frightening in the dark. Hannah kept glancing at them, wondering who might be hiding there. Each block took forever. Hannah had to take them one at a time, telling herself, Just one more, just one more.
When she finally reached Main, her whole body trembled.
She crossed Main to the sidewalk and turned right to head up toward the tracks. This part of town felt old and spooky, with small houses close to the road on the other side. The street lamps on her side lit the way with puddles of light. Hannah walked faster between each lamp. Every tree branch seemed to bend toward her like in a scary cartoon, ready to snatch her up.
Two cars passed. Hannah’s muscles knotted as she waited for the cars to slow and ask her what she was doing out by herself at night. But they drove on by.
Maybe they hadn’t seen her. Maybe they didn’t care.
Maybe one of them would come back and kidnap her.
Hannah moved faster.
The sidewalk ended in gravel, making it hard to pull her suitcase. Hannah trudged over the rocks and reached the railroad tracks. She could swear she’d been walking for hours. Her nerves snapped with every step, and her ankles shook. Picking up her suitcase to step over the tracks, Hannah looked right and left for trains, even though the signals lay silent. About forty trains passed through town every day. Hannah could hear them from her house. So could Kaycee.
In each direction the tracks faded to blackness.
Hannah crossed over as fast as she could and put down her suitcase. She glanced at the police station, then veered left past the red boxcar that was the Rail-Side Museum, and onto Rice Street.
The darkness deepened. There were street lights, but one up ahead wasn’t working. After the Rail-Side Museum on her left were a couple of old white trailers that nobody lived in. The tracks ran parallel to the road. On her right was the Jessamine Christian Health Care clinic. Her doctor had an office there. Hannah’s suitcase wheels sounded so loud in the stillness. Her heart beat hard against her ribs, her breaths shallow and fast. She shouldn’t have come this way. Better to take a chance on the Main Street lights —