Exposure

by Brandilyn Collins

  By the time she reached her bedroom, Kaycee wanted this torture to be over. She stepped inside and took it all in with a glance. Her gold comforter and pillows, the two old dressers that once belonged to her mother. She walked around to the other side of the bed, then knelt down to check beneath it. All clear. Finally only her closet remained. Her courage faltered as she approached it, and she hated that.

  She didn’t want to live with fear any more.

  Jaw tight, she flung back the closet door — to the sight of her clothes hanging as she’d left them. The floor, the shelf were undisturbed.

  Cold relief washed over Kaycee. She closed the door, backed up, and sank upon her bed. Hand to her forehead, she willed her heart to slow. Minutes passed. She couldn’t move.

  Her column. Time was ticking.

  Kaycee struggled to gather pieces of her strength off the floor.

  Slowly, jaw set with determination, she rose and walked toward the stairs. As Kaycee descended, her ankles still trembled.

  Back in her office she sat at her desk and gazed at the sunset picture on her desktop. Hannah’s face rose in her mind. Kaycee breathed another prayer for the girl, then clicked into a new Word document. Headed the new column: “World’s Worst Dental Patient, Part 2.” Kaycee’s eyes fell on the time at the bottom right corner of her monitor. Almost nine. She’d left the Parksleys’ house shortly after nine last night.

  Hannah hadn’t been seen in twelve hours.

  Kaycee gazed at the page waiting to be filled, trying to focus.

  Her search through the upstairs rooms wedged back into her thoughts. They’d planned it this way, hadn’t they? She wasn’t supposed to find anything she could take to the police. It would have been far better if they had left something behind. Something tangible. Now she still had no proof they’d even been here . . .

  Kaycee swiveled around to look over her right shoulder, then her left. She scanned the office walls, the ceiling. They could have returned last night after Mark checked the house and hidden a video camera. They could be watching right now.

  Exposure.

  But they wanted more than just to watch. They wanted to drive her crazy. And these were high-tech people. Maybe they knew about the dark yellow floor in her dream because they caused her to have that dream in the first place. Somehow they’d pushed thoughts into her brain — sights, smells, and sounds. Maybe through hypnosis. Or through something like the subliminal advertising once used in movie theaters — when a split-second flash of buttery popcorn on the screen, too fast for the eyes to register, would send droves of customers to the concession stand.

  But why keep showing her pictures of that dead man? Who was he?

  Kaycee stared sightlessly at the computer screen. Her mind swirled until it numbed . . .

  She blinked. Awareness returned. She took in the white page, the bold heading of the new column. She had to write it. Now.

  Kaycee pulled in a deep breath. Placed her fingers on the keys. Come on, Kaycee Raye. You’ve done enough of these. Drag up some humor and write this thing.

  Through sheer will, she began to type.

  WHO’S THERE?

  BY KAYCEE RAYE

  WORLD’S WORST DENTAL PATIENT — PART 2

  I have a new outlook on drugs.

  Remember before my Death by Drilling appointment the dentist gave me a pill to take at home? To start the sedation “process.”

  “Take it at seven a.m.,” he said, “and we’ll see you at eight.”

  D-Day arrives. I pop the pill and settle on the couch to wait for my demise. Turn on the TV to keep me company.

  First fifteen minutes I feel fine. Next fifteen minutes, the same. At seven fifty-five, my designated driver, Tricia, will arrive to ferry me the whole two blocks to the dentist’s deadly domain.

  Suddenly, I am feeling . . . strange.

  Out the front window I see Tricia’s car pull up to the curb. She toots her horn.

  I get up and head for the door. The wall moves — right in front of me. I bounce off and shake my head hard.

  Outside, the porch has turned into a shifting sea. I stumble down my three steps like a drunken sailor. Tricia helps me into her car. “You okay?”

  “Yeeahhh.” I bare all my teeth in a smile.

  As we pull up to the dentist’s office, Miss Chipper receptionist is out the door before I can even fall from Tricia’s car. “Hiiiiey, good morning!” She takes my arm to guide me inside. Dratted doorway moves on me. I crash into it twice.

  Doc’s waiting for me inside, a concerned expression on his face. The fish in his large aquarium give me goggle-eyed glances.

  “Hey, fishies, hey, Doc! Let’s party!”

  At least that’s what I try to say. It comes out more like, “. . . heeeey, Doooccc, lesssss paarrrrteeeee.”

  I remember moving to the chair. The chair that normally wigs me out just to look at it. Now I don’t care. I plop right down. “Lessss doooo thiissss thinngggg.”

  Doc gives me more drugs. Whoooohawwww. They’re crystals under my tongue. Taste like Sweet’N Low. He let’s me sit so I can . . . drift . . .

  He comes back. Asks me if I’m ready. “Nuhhh-uuhh. Hittt meeee with sommmme mooorrrre.”

  “You sure? You look pretty wasted.”

  “Doonn wannaa feeeeel nuthinnnn, Dooooc.”

  He processes this. My being out cold is clearly in his best interest. “Okay.”

  I have this vague recollection of asking for a third hit.

  After that I’m ready, all right. For anything. All fear gone. You hear me — all fear. In the dentist’s chair. Man, I can take on the world!

  As long as I don’t need to stand up to do it.

  I feel the needle go into my cheek for numbing. I don’t care. Another needle. (Remember, I needed a lot of work.) I don’t care.

  The Big D comes at me. By this time I should have a heartbeat of 500, sweat pouring off me. But now? I don’t care.

  The drill goes on. The fun begins in my mouth.

  I start to hum.

  My next clear memory is Doc telling me I need to wake up so I can tell him if the temporary crowns feel okay. All of a sudden, I’m coming out of the drug haze. Just like that.

  Wow. This is crazy. “What time’s it?”

  “Almost twelve.”

  Twelve! Four hours in that chair?!

  Tricia leaves work to come get me. Doc’s assistant holds my arm as I get out of the chair. I say I’m fine. Except that a wall shifts on me — just a little. Which makes me giggle. “Doc, yurr bread’s the best thing since sliced drugs.”

  Tricia guides me out the door. To life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. I am so relieved, I could cry.

  For one glorious morning — in the dentist’s chair of all places — I discovered what it felt like to be fearless. I can’t begin to tell you how freeing that was. Like floating. Like I could do anything. Anything.

  I’m going to get that freedom back. Somehow. Without drugs.

  With that kind of power I could spit in the face of my worst fear come true.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Lorraine huddled in the black closet, clutching Tammy to her chest. Her arms had nearly gone numb from battling the little girl, and her leg muscles shook. Tammy now hung limp and sweating, her breath in a shallow pant. Terror squeezed Lorraine’s lungs. The sounds she’d heard from the living room and hall rattled in her head. Voices, running, someone crashing into a wall. Then a noise — twice — muted through two closed doors and all the clothes. Like a metallic smack.

  Gunshots? Shock raced through her veins.

  No, couldn’t be. They were arguing, and one of them knocked a chair over. Something like that.

  Finally — silence.

  She cocked her head, trying to listen above the whoosh of blood in her ears. Was that voices she heard? Calmer now, quiet. Or was she just imagining them?

  “Stay here until I come get you. ” Lorraine clung to Martin’s words. He would come any minute now. Any mi
nute.

  Lorraine waited.

  If only she’d thought to bring Tammy’s stuffed bear in with them. It would have been such a comfort for Tammy.

  Dread mushroomed in Lorraine’s chest, and Tammy grew heavier and heavier. The air gelled, too stale to breathe. She had no idea how much time had passed. Ten minutes? Thirty? Four times she started to push up, but each time caution overcame her. What if Martin and that man were still in the living room? What if she or Martin or Tammy paid some great price for her own impatience?

  Lorraine waited until she could wait no longer. Until she’d convinced herself that far too much time had passed in silence. The man had to be long gone.

  But where was Martin?

  Deep within her, dark voices whispered of a nightmare too terrible to imagine. She closed her heart, refusing to listen.

  “Tammy.” Her dry throat could barely form words. “We’re going out now. I need you to be quiet. Can you do that?”

  Tammy whimpered and nodded. Guilt swept through Lorraine. What she’d put her daughter through. Tammy would have nightmares for weeks.

  Lorraine lowered the little girl to the floor. Her own leg muscles were too weak to crab-walk out, carrying the weight of a four-year-old. Tammy cried and grabbed fistfuls of her shirt. “No, no.”

  “I’m right here. I’ll keep a hand on you. We’ll go out together.”

  Gripping Tammy’s arm, Lorraine crawled over shoes and toys, urging her daughter along. She ducked under hanging clothes, the bottoms of shirts and pants sweeping over her head. She could smell her own sweat, her half-asleep feet prickling.

  She lifted a hand, feeling for the door. When it hit wood, she ran her fingers upward, seeking the knob. The door opened, flooding in light and fresh air. Lorraine blinked and sucked in a greedy breath, oxygen burning in her lungs.

  Together they crawled out of the closet.

  Lorraine tried to stand, but her stiff legs wouldn’t obey. She sank down hard on the carpet. Then listened.

  No sound of men talking. Or movement.

  The dark voices whispered in her head.

  Grimacing, she pushed to her feet. “Tammy, stay here for a minute.”

  “No!”

  “Stay here.”

  Lorraine made her way toward the door. Tammy sprang up and wrapped a little hand around her leg. Lorraine tried to unwind the fingers, but they dug into her skin. Tears bit her eyes. How was she supposed to do this?

  She listened again but heard nothing. Martin must have gone somewhere with the man. It would be safe to go out there with Tammy. It had to be. The little girl wasn’t about to stay behind.

  “Come on.” Lorraine reached down. “I’ll hold your hand.”

  Tammy let go of her leg and hung on to her fingers.

  At the bedroom door Lorraine gripped the handle and slowly, carefully turned. Somewhere along the way her hands started to tremble. She eased the door open an inch and pressed her ear to the crack.

  No sound.

  Pushing hair away from her face, she opened the door further. Lorraine nudged ahead of Tammy, leaned her head out the doorway, and looked toward the living room.

  Martin sprawled on his back at the edge of the hall, both arms flung out. Blood streaked his face and covered his hair, puddling beneath his head.

  Lorraine’s mind flew into a thousand pieces. She rushed forward, leaving Tammy behind. At her husband’s side she fell to her knees. A black, bloody hole gaped in Martin’s jaw, a second in his forehead. She gripped his shoulders, shaking, shaking. “Martin. Martin! ” His head lolled in rhythm with her yanks, the eyelids half open and unmoving. Beneath them lay nothing but cold frosted glass.

  “Daddyyyy!” Tammy ran up the hall and threw herself down next to Martin’s head, smearing blood on her pink pajama pants, her arms. The sight was too horrific to bear. Lorraine shoved up and wrenched Tammy away. The little girl kicked and screamed, loud, long shrieks that sizzled in Lorraine’s brain.

  She craned her head toward Martin. He didn’t move.

  No, no, no, no, no.

  The world tilted. It was falling through space and Lorraine had to get off. Clutching Tammy in her arms, she tried to run, but her legs wouldn’t move. An unseen force shoved at the small of her back. She stumbled past Martin onto the carpet, through the living room. The front door bulged and contracted as if sucked by a giant wind. An eternity passed before Lorraine reached it. Tammy wailed in her ear as she fumbled for the knob, her seizuring fingers unable to turn it. Three times her hand slipped off, the voices in her head shrieking accusations. She’d known, she’d heard, and she’d sat in the closet, too afraid to come out.

  Lorraine’s palm gripped the handle. She flung the door back and burst out into the fresh and sunny April day, screaming.

  TWENTY-TWO

  By the time Kaycee finished her column at eleven-thirty her nerves hummed. Half her consciousness had fixed upon the phone, praying for a call about Hannah. And the weight of watching eyes never lessened.

  As she saved the column, Kaycee steeled herself. She eyed the monitor, anger kicking around in her belly. If the dead man showed up again, she wanted proof. Kaycee pulled her camera from the bottom desk drawer and turned it on. She held it in her left hand, a finger on the button — and closed Word.

  The fiery sunset appeared.

  Kaycee exhaled and put down the camera. But she left it on. It would turn off by itself in a few minutes.

  She pulled up her email program, groaning at all the new messages. Reader mail. Most of it would be positive — Thank you for opening your soul to me in such a humorous yet poignant way. Thank you for helping me face my own fears. You are so courageous.

  Yeah, right.

  Kaycee emailed the new column to her syndicate, then turned off the computer. There. No more chances of a dead man on the screen.

  She replaced her camera in the bottom drawer.

  Motion outside the window caught her eye. Kaycee saw Mrs. Foley weeding the flower bed in her side yard. She wore faded orange sweatpants and a bright green T-shirt, a yellow bandana holding gray frazzled hair out of her eyes.

  “I asked Kaycee if I could live with her, but she said no. So I’m leaving.”

  Kaycee stared at Mrs. Foley. Once Hannah had run off into the night, wouldn’t the darkness have petrified her? Maybe she’d tried to run here after all . . .

  Kaycee jumped up and headed for the front door. Outside she crossed her porch toward Mrs. Foley’s house.

  Watching eyes followed.

  She whirled around, gaze flicking left and right. Every part of her body tingled. She saw the black barn across the way, the emptiness of her own street. A slight breeze ruffled the yellow flowers of a forsythia bush in a neighbor’s yard. Everything looked so peaceful on a beautiful spring day.

  She knew better. They were there, somewhere.

  Hands fisting, Kaycee turned back toward Mrs. Foley and stepped off the side of her porch. She crossed over to her neighbor’s lawn. “Mrs. Foley?”

  The elderly woman shuffled around on her knees. The back of one bony hand wiped against her chin. With beady eyes, a large nose, and hollow cheeks, she looked like a suspicious Muppet.

  Kaycee ran a hand through her kinky hair. Mrs. Foley’s stare always made her feel like some exasperating child. “You know Hannah Parksley, the nine-year-old girl who comes over here a lot? She’s missing. I wonder if you saw her around my house last night.”

  Mrs. Foley blinked twice. “How would I know who’s around your house?”

  No reaction that a child was missing. What was wrong with this woman?

  “I was just wondering if you happened to look out the window . . .”

  “Don’t go peering out my windows at night. I have better things to do.”

  “I saw you looking out your window last night when I drove in.”

  Mrs. Foley sniffed. “You must be mistaken.”

  Uh-huh. She’d no doubt watched Mark Burnett’s police car come and go as we
ll. Probably knew exactly how long he’d been in Kaycee’s house.

  “Mrs. Foley, Hannah is missing. The police think she may have tried to make it over here. If you saw her or anybody else around my house last night, they really need to know.”

  “I told you I saw nothing. As for the child, I’m sure she’ll turn up. They usually do.”

  With the raised chin of put-upon royalty, Mrs. Foley turned her back on Kaycee and resumed weeding.

  Kaycee’s jaw clenched as she retraced her steps across the porch. Witchy old woman, rattling around in that big house of hers. Probably had corpses in the basement.

  Back inside her office Kaycee called the police station. Hannah should have been found by now. What if someone had kidnapped her after she ran away? What if they’d hurt her? If she’d been kidnapped, every hour that passed decreased the odds of her safe return. Kaycee pressed thumb and fingers to her temples. She couldn’t think about that. It was too terrible.

  On the fourth ring Emma Wooley, the police station’s administrative secretary, answered. The chief was out, but Mark Burnett hopped on the phone. “Kaycee, you hear something?”

  The sound of his voice rustled through Kaycee like warm wind. “No. But I’ve stayed home long enough now. I want to help look for Hannah.”

  “What did Chief tell you to do?”

  “He said stay here for at least a couple hours. That’s passed. Hannah’s not going to show up here now. With everybody looking for her, she’s not walking the street in broad daylight. And she’s got my cell phone number.”

  Mark sighed. “Okay. Come down. A friend of the Parksleys has printed up flyers. He and some other neighbors are taking them around. Maybe you can help.”

  “Thanks, be there soon.” Kaycee’s stomach growled. She hadn’t eaten all morning.

  “Hey.” Mark’s voice gentled. “How about you? You okay?”

  Kaycee’s throat swelled. The softness in his tone betrayed his thoughts. He really did seem to be sorry for what he’d said at Chief Davis’s party. For a moment, she so wanted to tell him about her dream, the picture on her desktop . . .