Exposure

by Brandilyn Collins

  The nine-year-old had just crossed the tracks on the other side of the street near the museum. One foot posed in front of the other, midstride. She clutched a small suitcase in both hands.

  Mark gestured with his chin. “Play it.”

  Rich pushed the button and the picture slid into action.

  In silent motion Hannah put down the suitcase and pulled it away from the tracks. Her shoulders were hunched, her head swiveling, as if searching the night for ghosts. She looked so small and alone. Kaycee longed to reach into the monitor and pull her out. Tell her everything was going to be okay.

  Abruptly Hannah stopped. Her head turned right.

  “She’s looking this direction,” Mark said.

  Hannah veered left and headed up Rice Street.

  Kaycee’s mouth creaked open. “Why would she go that way?”

  “The station.” Rich shook his head. “I think she didn’t want to pass by here.”

  In tense silence they watched her back as she continued up Rice Street. On her left ran the tracks.

  Thirty seconds later she twisted to look behind her. At the edge of the screen red lights began to flash.

  “A train’s coming,” Kaycee whispered.

  Hannah drew in her shoulders as if she wanted to melt into the pavement. The train shot from the bottom left of the screen and up the tracks. So silent on the film. But at night in the darkness, and so close — the sound must have terrified her.

  Hannah slapped her hands over her ears.

  The trains passing through Wilmore were long. As this one sped by, car after endless car, Hannah hunched over, ears covered. Finally her small form straightened. The train continued to pass. Hannah grabbed the handle of her suitcase and scurried up Rice Street. They saw her under the light of a street lamp, but the next one wasn’t working. Hannah’s form dimmed.

  Fingers pressed to her mouth, Kaycee watched the girl until she faded into blackness.

  THIRTY-ONE

  The first thing Lorraine did was stop by the apartment to pick up Belinda.

  As she turned her van into AC Storage, Lorraine clamped a lid on her emotions for Tammy’s sake — and partly for her own. She could so easily lose it right here, right now. She knew she teetered on the edge of that chasm in her soul. Get too close and she’d fall in. And there’d be no climbing out.

  She chose not to park in their usual place around the corner from the apartment. That area was too close to the yellow crime-scene tape. And next to her spot sat Martin’s Pontiac. Lorraine couldn’t bear to look at it.

  She pulled up beside the end of a storage building.

  “What those people doing at our house, Mommy?” Tammy screwed up her face. A crime-scene technician wearing gloves disappeared into the apartment. A uniformed officer holding a clipboard stood guard just outside the taped-off area.

  “They’re looking for things.”

  “Like what?”

  “Things to clean.”

  The answer made no sense, but Tammy seemed to accept it.

  Throat dry, Lorraine unbuckled her seatbelt and patted Tammy on the arm. “Stay here, okay? I’m just going to walk over and ask someone to bring out Belinda.”

  Tammy nodded, her brows knit together, as if she understood the grimness of the situation.

  The crime-scene tape fluttered in a slight breeze as Lorraine approached. Its yellow color stood out starkly against the gray of the office-apartment building and the sun-washed concrete. The young officer locked eyes with her as she drew to a halt. She didn’t recognize him from that morning.

  “May I help you?”

  “I want . . . that’s my apartment.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry.”

  She nodded. “My little girl needs her stuffed bear. It should be on her bed. It’s light brown and about so big.” She held one hand above the other a foot apart. “Real soft.”

  “Okay.”

  He walked to the door and opened it. Stuck his head inside. Lorraine heard his low voice, although she couldn’t make out the words. Beyond the doorway she could see movement. What could those people possibly be doing in there for so long?

  How strange it was to see her own home and not be allowed inside. Lorraine pulled her arms across her chest. She felt like a refugee. A lost orphan.

  The officer backed out of the threshold and closed the door. He held Belinda by one arm.

  “Here you go.” He offered the bear to her with a small, sad smile.

  “Thank you.” She clutched the bear in both hands.

  “Does your daughter have a name for it?”

  “Belinda. I don’t even know where she got that name. Must have heard it somewhere.”

  He tilted his head. “Kids pick up more things than you’d expect.”

  Lorraine shot him a look, but his expression belied no ulterior message.

  Her gaze pulled back to the apartment. She envisioned the scene inside. The horrible job that awaited her.

  A small seed of hope sprouted.

  She ran her tongue over her lips. “When the people are done in there, will they clean up . . . everything?”

  Remorse flicked over his face. “No ma’am. Afraid not.”

  She ducked her chin in a nod and turned away.

  Back in the car she held out Belinda. Tammy grabbed the bear and hugged it tightly, her eyes squinching shut with bliss.

  On the way to the bank Lorraine stopped at McDonald’s. Tammy wanted a Kids Meal. Lorraine managed to swallow three bites of a hamburger.

  When they reached the bank Tammy brought Belinda inside with her.

  In no time Lorraine and Tammy found themselves surrounded by Martin’s coworkers. Two assistant managers left customers at their desks to greet her and extend their condolences. Even the tellers stepped out from behind their windows when they could. Neither of the two women who’d been held up with Martin were at work. “We gave them the day off,” a senior manager with a name pin reading Sandy Tourner told Lorraine. Sandy was in her forties with sleek dark hair and a perfectly fitting black business suit. Lorraine felt grimy and unkempt in the jeans and top she’d managed to throw on after the 911 responders screeched up to her door.

  “Martin was a hero.” Sandy placed a hand on Lorraine’s arm. “Olga and Shelley both told me all he did. How he got them out of the vault and untied them. They said they owe their lives to him.”

  They owe their lives to him. The words sank down inside Lorraine. Yes. Yes. Martin deserved to be remembered that way. For his own sake and for his daughter’s. It didn’t matter what she suspected. The truth didn’t matter. The only thing Martin had left now was his reputation.

  Her gaze on Tammy, Lorraine made a silent vow to never say anything that could harm the memory of Martin Giordano.

  Sandy promised she would cut Martin’s final paycheck as soon as possible and personally see that it was deposited into their checking account. One less thing for Lorraine to worry about. “And please let us know when the funeral will be.”

  “Yes. I will.”

  Lorraine left the bank on wooden legs, Tammy’s fingers entwined in hers.

  One final stop. Before leaving the motel Lorraine had located a funeral home from the Yellow Pages. Her mind on hold, her heart dried up, she went through the motions of choosing a casket and making the arrangements for a ser vice. Tammy sat next to her on a chair, swinging her legs and talking to Belinda.

  Back in the motel Lorraine crawled onto the bed, not an ounce of energy left. How was she supposed to take care of Tammy now? How were they going to survive?

  Tammy smiled and talked to Belinda. She was obviously feeling better. “Mommy.” She nudged her mother on the arm. “Let’s play a game.”

  As Lorraine forced herself to sit up, a voice echoed in her brain. The newspaper reporter at her apartment that morning, yelling a question: “I heard you were home during the murder, Mrs. Giordano . . .”

  She tensed, her fingers digging into the side of the bed.

 
“Mommy, whassa matter?”

  Lorraine blinked at Tammy. “Nothing, nothing. Just . . . let me go to the bathroom first.” She fled into the tiny room and shut the door. There she sat on the closed toilet lid, staring at the floor.

  “I heard you were home . . .”

  The TV reporter hadn’t mentioned that when Lorraine watched the news — maybe because the woman only had a minute or two to tell the story. But tomorrow’s newspaper article would be full of every detail its reporters had gathered today.

  Lorraine lowered her head in her hands, a sick feeling worming its way through her stomach. Forget whether or not Martin’s murderer had informants on the Atlantic City police force. All that man had to do tomorrow was read the paper. He’d know she’d been home when her husband was killed. What if he thought she’d seen him through a bedroom window?

  If he’d stormed over in broad daylight to kill Martin, what would stop him from coming back for her?

  THIRTY-TWO

  Chief Davis arrived at the station soon after Mark called him with the news. Minutes before he drove up, Kaycee had been pacing on the sidewalk out front, hands fisted and her lungs unable to get enough air. Every shot of that video screamed in her mind. Over and over she envisioned Hannah on Rice Street, pulling that little suitcase. Sucked into the night.

  Kaycee stared with burning eyes past the red boxcar museum on Rice. She wanted to turn back time. If only she could place herself right here last night, ready and waiting to intercept Hannah.

  The weight of being watched fell heavily on Kaycee’s shoulders. She swiveled to look up Main Street. A woman was entering the office of the Good News organization. Two people were coming out of the nearby Jessamine Creek Berry Company. On Kaycee’s side of the street a mother with toddler in tow headed for the drug store. No one paid Kaycee any heed.

  Where were her tormentors? Had they taken Hannah?

  Chief Davis pulled into the parking area and slid from his car. Kaycee watched him approach, dark imaginings tumbling through her head.

  “Kaycee.” He nodded to her without slowing. “Come on inside.” He swung open the glass door to the building.

  Kaycee scurried after him, casting final glances up the street.

  In the police station, she, Mark, and the chief gathered around the desk where Rich sat. Once more Rich ran the film of Hannah turning up Rice Street. Kaycee watched with hands clasped beneath her chin, unable to tear her eyes away. Chief Davis looked on in silence.

  When the sequence ended he inhaled deeply. “You looked further on in the tape?” he asked Rich.

  “Yeah, while you were getting here. Haven’t seen her appear again.”

  “Any vehicles come down from Rice Street soon after that?”

  “No.”

  “How about turning onto Main from South Maple?”

  Rice Street curved right and became Walters Lane, which ended at South Maple in front of Kaycee’s house. Someone could have picked up Hannah, come down South Maple, and turned onto East Main, either right or left. As Kaycee remembered, at least one of the screens she’d seen in Chief Davis’s office displayed Main Street farther up, toward the Subway sandwich shop on the corner of South Lexington — Highway 29 — and Fitch’s IGA behind it. Perhaps other cameras showed Highway 29 both to the right and left of the Main intersection.

  “A few. We didn’t see any sign of her in those cars, but I got their license plates. I’ll run them down. I’ve done a slow fast forward for the next hour on the camera aimed at Rice Street.”

  “Switch over and do an hour on the South Maple intersection.”

  “Okay.” Rich turned back to his work.

  “She could have made it to my house.” Kaycee could barely speak above a whisper. “Maybe she waited there a long time, hoping I’d come home . . .”

  Chief Davis nodded. “Keep watching the tapes, Rich.” He turned to Mark. “Where’s that picture with the blood?”

  “Here.” Mark walked over to his desk and picked up the bagged photo. He gave it to the chief.

  Narrowing his eyes, Chief Davis studied it. He turned it over to see the back, then returned it face up. “Kaycee, I need to hear everything you told Mark. Let’s go in my office.”

  Ever calm, that voice of his. Kaycee heard no judgment in his tone. Even so, the words ripped through her. She should have told him about the picture on her desktop that morning. If she’d made this possible connection to Hannah’s disappearance sooner, maybe these last hours wouldn’t have been wasted. Wordlessly she picked her purse off the chair near Mark’s desk and followed the chief into his office.

  The chief sat down at his desk, Mark and Kaycee taking chairs on the other side. Behind the chief the six screens ran live video. He leaned forward, fingers laced, and focused on Kaycee. “I’m listening.”

  She started at the beginning with the previous evening, since the chief still hadn’t had time to read all of Mark’s report. Then she told him about the desktop picture, and finally, the blackened photo now lying on his desk. As with Mark, she didn’t mention her dream and its dark yellow floor come true. Or how she’d smelled blood while going up her stairs — before it smeared on her fingers from the third photo.

  The chief asked her a string of questions about last night and this morning. He wanted details on all three pictures she’d seen. He found it significant that the blood on this third photo had not dried by the time she found the picture, meaning it couldn’t have been on there long.

  “Where’s your car?” he asked Kaycee.

  “Across the street. I drove it here.”

  “Is it locked?”

  She nodded.

  “Would you leave me the key? We’ll need to dust it for prints. We’ll also need to dust certain parts of your house and take a look at your computer — ”

  Rich stuck his head in the door. “Nothing coming from South Maple over the next hour.”

  Chief absorbed the news. “Okay. Keep looking on both intersections. I’m going to go ahead and call in a volunteer tracking team. The dog can start where we last saw Hannah.”

  Search and rescue. Kaycee’s last bit of hope that Hannah was hiding somewhere gusted away, a milkweed on the wind. Kaycee’s tone flattened. “How long until a team can get here?”

  “Depends on who’s available. Numerous volunteers live around Wilmore. I’ll start with them and work my way out.” Chief Davis reached for the phone, shooting a look at Mark. “When I’m done with this call I want us to take a walk up Rice Street. Then I’ll deal with this blood sample.”

  Mark nodded and rose. Kaycee pulled the car key from her purse and placed it on the chief’s desk, then followed Mark from the office. They stood by Emma’s work area, at the moment empty. Kaycee averted her eyes from the heartrending sight of Hannah’s sad face gazing up from the stacked flyers. “When you walk up Rice Street I want to come with you.”

  Mark pulled in a deep, tired breath. “If Chief says it’s okay.”

  She looked away. “What will he do with the blood?”

  Mark’s hands fell to his waist, one resting on his weapon. Why did policemen stand like that so often? Like they were going to draw the gun any minute. “We’ll send it to the lab.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Frankfort.”

  The capital of Kentucky, about an hour’s drive away. “To do a DNA test to see if it’s Hannah’s?”

  “That takes weeks. But it won’t take long to see if it’s human blood, and if the type matches Hannah’s.”

  What if it did? Kaycee’s knees weakened. Her gaze rose past Mark’s shoulder to Rich, who sat staring at the monitor. She could hear the chief on the phone. Sounded like he’d gotten through to some track-dog team.

  “If it matches Hannah’s . . .” Kaycee’s throat closed up. She lifted a hand, palm out, and shook her head.

  Mark touched her shoulder. Her skin tingled beneath his fingers. “Whatever happens, Kaycee, you’re not to blame for this.”

  “But I am.
If somebody’s out to get me, and got Hannah instead . . .”

  “We don’t know that. There are still way too many unanswered questions. And even if it turns out to be true, that’s not your doing.”

  It would be because of her, and that was enough. Hannah’s face on the flyers pulled at Kaycee’s eyes. She’d thought being watched in her own home was her worst fear come true. That wouldn’t come close to feeling responsible if something had happened to Hannah.

  Kaycee’s mouth trembled. “You were right, Mark,” she whispered. “I should never have written my columns. They started all this.”

  “Listen to me; we don’t know that.”

  She pressed her lips together hard and closed her eyes. After a shaky moment she cocked her head in an unconvinced nod.

  In his office Chief Davis said thanks to someone on the phone. Kaycee heard the clatter of a replaced receiver. He strode through his door and headed for Rich at the monitor. “Anything new?”

  “Not yet.”

  He scratched his eyebrow. “I got Seth Wheeler and his hound on the way. They’ll be here in half an hour.” The chief handed Rich Kaycee’s key. “Would you get somebody on to dusting Kaycee’s Cruiser for prints? It’s across the street. Tell them to pay special attention to the driver’s door and visor. The tech also needs to go to her house. We’ll need to do doors and the kitchen area there. And the office. Plus we’re going to have to find someone to look at her computer system. For right now Mark and I are going to take a walk up Rice Street.”

  Rich had grabbed a pen and paper and was jotting notes. “Sure.”

  “Thanks.” Chief Davis swiveled on his heel to approach Mark. “All right, let’s see if we can find anything out there.”

  “Please let me come with you,” Kaycee said. What else would she do? She couldn’t drive her car anywhere, and presumably she couldn’t go back into her house until a tech was with her to dust for prints.

  The chief considered her for a moment. “Okay.”

  Emma returned to her desk as the three of them filed out. Chief Davis told her where they were headed. As they stepped out of the building into sunlight, a new petrifying thought launched through Kaycee’s head. If she’d smelled blood while climbing the stairs — before it smeared on her fingers — what about the screams and footsteps she’d heard? Maybe she was sensing them ahead of time too.