Kaycee got in the passenger seat, gripping the Ale-8-One bottle, her spine like stone. Chief started the engine and drove into the blessed afternoon.
She exhaled. One deep breath. Two. Sweat trickled down her temple.
Chief Davis put the car in park. “I’ll get the doors.” He gave her an encouraging nod. “Good for you, Kaycee. You did it.”
She looked back through the doors at the mine-like basement. A shudder jagged between her shoulder blades. The place looked like it would eat her alive.
Kaycee managed a wan smile. “Yeah. I did it.”
WHO’S THERE?
BY KAYCEE RAYE
GOOD-BYE AND HELLO
By now you’ve heard the whole story.
The media has a way of whisking the corners for the last bit of dust. Despite my efforts to crawl into a cave somewhere and hide, you’ve surely seen every detail on TV, read it in the papers (including the one in your hand), and devoured even more in magazines.
Contrary to certain rumors, I have no idea where the money is. I am not planning to snatch it up and disappear. Been done already. The statute of limitations may have passed for prosecution of the crime, but as far as I’m concerned, the Atlantic City Trust Bank still deserves its cash back. Some day, if my memories continue to surface, I may flash on where it is. If that happens, the bank will be the first to know.
It is true I almost stopped writing this column. It took a certain person to convince me it’s only just begun.
What now to say to you, my loyal readers, about fear? Bees, heights, closed spaces, the dentist’s drill, roller coasters — all of these things still make my gut tremble. Don’t suppose that will ever stop. But I have seen my worst fear come true and lived to tell the tale. In a surprising way, the experience has set me on the path to healing.
Okay, the path looks really long. And narrow. Did I mention curvy?
Confession time. I wanted to stop writing “Who’s There?” because I was afraid. Ha-ha.
Some weeks ago a certain man accused me of stirring up fear through this column just to make a few bucks. At the time I wanted to slug him. Guess what. He’s the one who’s now convinced me to continue “Who’s There?” He got in my face recently, this time accusing me of the worst affront of all in his book — withholding the truth.
“You helped me face my own fear, Kaycee,” he said. “Now write that column and tell them what you learned.”
So here I am. What truth did I learn? Fear is everywhere. But that’s only half the story. The other half?
God is bigger than fear.
Once upon a time I longed for a magic wand to make me all better. There isn’t one. Day to day I still struggle. And frankly, right now there’s lots of new stuff to work through. But a few nights ago I was gazing at the full moon, and an amazing thought occurred to me. God hung it. That’s a lot of power. If he could do that, why in the world did I fail to believe he could help me overcome my little problems?
Apparently God also invented irony. Soon after promising him I’d write about this epiphany, I took a walk to a friend’s house. I passed an empty field. Lo and behold — bumblebees.
One of these Cessnas with stingers decided on a flyby. You’ve seen cartoons of a bee in flight, screeching on the brakes and pulling a Uey? Happens to me every time.
The bumblebee came back around, closer. I screamed and ducked.
Don’t ever let anyone tell you bees are colorblind. No way. They take one look at my bouncy red hair and go nuts. Like it’s the grandest, juiciest flower they’ve ever laid eyes on in their entire life. Either that or they’ve just died and gone to heaven.
My movement scared the thing off, but not for long. In a flash it was back with a vengeance.
For all their flying power, bumblebees lack decent radar. On its final flyby the thing miscalculated and rammed into my head.
I shrieked bloody murder, and my knees gave out. The bee bounced off and buzzed away. Sorely disappointed, to be sure. The enticing flower had turned out to be hard and sweaty. And loud.
I cowered on the ground, gusting air. That’s when I noticed all the bumblebees in that field. Back and forth they flew, and I’d have to pass every one of them. A good half would do flybys of their own.
The thought sent me shaking.
Sure, I should fight any fear that holds me back from accomplishing something I need to do. That’s what fear usually does. But I didn’t have to walk in that direction. In the recent past, even if a diamond mine waited on the other side of that field, I’d have turned around. No more.
So what did I do?
I took a deep breath, whispered a prayer for God’s help . . . and set out down that sidewalk.
And that is what I hope for you.
EPILOGUE
Some twelve hours after she’d fled Atlantic City, Lorraine Giordano found herself near Lexington, Kentucky. She needed to get off the interstate and find a place to stay. The April skies drizzled rain, the whir of the windshield wipers grinding her raw nerves. She hadn’t stopped to rest except for bathroom breaks, to feed Tammy, and do what she had to do. Her emotions had drained to empty. She felt nothing. Dead.
Lorraine turned off the interstate onto Highway 68.
Hours ago in the parking lot of an all-night grocery store she’d shined her flashlight into an opened box in the back of the van. She’d never planned to use a dollar of that blood money, but now she had no choice. Lorraine lifted out three hundred in twenty dollar bills.
In the store she bought hair dye and scissors. Her long strawberry blonde tresses were now gone, replaced by dark brown hair cut blunt above her shoulders. Tammy’s red curls were gone too. Lorraine had cut them all off and dyed what was left. Tammy sobbed as she felt the strangeness of her head.
“It’s a new game, honey.” Lorraine’s heart lay sodden with guilt. “You have a new name, too. Kaycee. Isn’t that cute?”
Before dawn, behind a Kmart in another town, Lorraine used her screwdriver to steal a license plate off an old car and put it on the van. She put her own plate in the glove compartment.
Now in the afternoon her fingers felt glued to the wheel, her backside as numb as her brain. Pure adrenaline and fear had kept her alert. Finally she felt her body shutting down.
The money in the back of the van thrummed and vibrated. Surely every driver could see it. Every police officer could smell it. Every time she stopped she’d wanted to get rid of the boxes. But where? That was a lot of weight to move. And how far were they behind her? She’d seen their headlights in the storage parking lot. They’d been close then, so very close.
Lorraine’s eyes flicked to the rearview mirror.
Highway 68 wound by green, rolling hills, white fences, and horses.
“Mommy, look at their tails swish.” Kaycee’s voice sounded throaty from coughing. She’d slept much of the way. Now she squirmed in her seat.
“Pretty.”
The road forked. A sign on the left read Highway 29. The way to Wilmore and Asbury College.
A college town. People coming and going. Lorraine bore left.
They rolled into town and fate intervened. Lorraine spotted a sign: Furnished Two-Bedroom Home For Rent. She followed the directions to a small white wood house. Pulling over to the curb, she stared at another sign in the front yard. For rent — go to 203, next door. She still needed a new name, new driver’s license. She had no idea how to get a new identity. And she’d need more money.
Lorraine drove away to a quiet street and opened the back of the van. From the closest box she drew out two thousand dollars in twenties and stuffed them in her purse.
The landlord at 203 was an elderly lady, Martha Wiscom. She took one look at Lorraine’s worn face and Kaycee’s puffy eyes, and invited them in for a sandwich. Before long Kaycee was sitting on her lap. Lorraine told the woman her name was Monica Stanling. She’d saved every dime to finally flee an abusive husband. Mrs. Wiscom rented her the house on the spot. Monica paid for the first month
in cash.
Tired as she was, she could not rest until she’d moved every one of the twelve boxes into the house’s unfinished basement. She withdrew another five thousand in bills and hid them under her mattress.
The next day while Kaycee stayed with Mrs. Wiscom, Monica drove to Cincinnati. She cruised residential streets, looking for a used car for sale. She found a gray Volvo station wagon, parked her van a block away, and walked back to buy the Volvo for two thousand dollars. In cash. She drove back to the van and got in it. She headed for a strip mall she’d seen on the next block. Behind the buildings she parked and pulled a large paring knife from her purse. She took the remaining three thousand out of her purse and put it into a brown grocery bag, leaving her wallet and driver’s license behind. She dropped the purse on the floor.
Using her screwdriver she replaced the stolen license plate with the van’s original one. Back in the van Monica slid the stolen plate into the grocery bag of money.
She picked up the paring knife and held it for a long time, heart scudding.
For you, Kaycee.
She drew the blade across her left forearm.
The blinding sting hissed air through her teeth. Instant tears bit her eyes. Monica pressed her hand over the cut, smearing blood on her palm and fingers. She swiped those fingers over the seat, pressed them into the dashboard.
From the glove box she took a dishtowel and wrapped it around her arm.
The keys remained in the ignition.
Monica got out of the van again, eyes blurred, and walked back to the Volvo. She carried the grocery bag. Halfway between Cincinnati and Wilmore she pulled the license plate out of the bag and threw it away.
For the next few weeks Monica held the cut on her arm closed with tight Band-Aids. She didn’t want to explain to some doctor how she’d gotten it. The cut would eventually heal into a ropey scar.
The boxes of money sat in her basement, ticking time bombs. She had to find a way to get rid of them.
She bought a small television and watched news constantly. The Atlantic City police along with the FBI were searching for her and her daughter, as well as the seven million stolen from Trust Bank. They still weren’t sure what the connection between the two crimes might be. A lock on one of the storage units where Lorraine Giordano served as manager had been cut through, her apartment’s front door kicked in. A man’s footprints were found in the blood on the floor. The mother and daughter apparently had been abducted. Authorities feared for their lives.
Footprints in her apartment. A busted front door. They had come for her.
Monica couldn’t stop trembling.
The next day with Kaycee along she drove four hours to Nashville and stayed until she found a man who furnished her a driver’s license and social security number in the name of Monica Stanling. She didn’t ask how he managed it. She paid him five hundred dollars in cash.
Everywhere she went, Monica cast frightened glances over her shoulder.
She took Kaycee to the physician in Wilmore, with an office down on East Main. The doctor drew three vials of Kaycee’s blood for tests. Poor Kaycee screamed and cried. The physician also gave her two “scratch” tests on her wrists, one for TB and one for some disease Monica had never heard of — histoplasmosis, a fungus on the lungs.
When the ordeal was over, Monica treated Kaycee to an old-fashioned ice cream soda at the nearby drug store. Only then did Kaycee stop crying.
Within four days the histoplasmosis wrist was red and swollen up to her elbow.
“No treatment for it,” the doctor said. “But in a year or two she should be fine. Make sure she gets lots of rest in the meantime. Feed her plenty of protein. Give her all the steaks and milkshakes she wants.”
After all the expensive tests in Atlantic City, it came down to one simple “scratch” by a small-town doctor. And no money needed for treatment. Day after day Martin’s desperate voice echoed in Monica’s ears. “I just want Tammy to get well . . .”
She fed Kaycee steak and took her to the drugstore for an ice cream soda three or four times a week.
One night as Monica washed dishes she heard her old name on the news. The van had been found. Bloody fingerprints inside matched her blood type. Authorities were now looking for the bodies of Lorraine and Tammy Giordano.
But they knew the truth.
Monica’s paranoia grew. She searched for them constantly, not even knowing what they looked like. A glance too long in her direction could send her reeling. She fought to hide her fear.
Within a month she landed a clerical job, working for the City of Wilmore’s Utility Department. Kaycee attended preschool at a church when she was well enough. On sick days she stayed with Mrs. Wiscom. Monica worked hard and gained the favor of her boss. Soon she was taking on extra responsibilities.
To house supplies, the department used a locked storage room in the police station’s cave-like walkout basement. Looking at the white stone front of the station, a person wouldn’t even know the basement existed. The entrance around the back was fairly secluded, nothing nearby but the rear of other buildings fronting Main and the railroad tracks. The basement had a low-beamed ceiling, part stone walls and a concrete floor. Monica found the place eerie.
One day a pipe broke in the Utility Department’s storage room ceiling. Water doused everything and stood two inches on the floor before maintenance stopped the flow. Monica hustled down to the room to help move out supplies.
“Man,” her boss complained as they huffed boxes of who-knew-what out to the center area of the basement, which remained dry. His face was sweaty and gray. “Most of this stuff goes way back. Never even seen that rear wall, and I’ve worked here for twenty years.”
Monica surveyed him. “You don’t look so good.”
“Think I’m gettin’ sick.”
When they were done it was almost five o’clock. Monica stood staring at the big room as workers moved in to mop up the water.
“Looks different, doesn’t it.” Her boss sagged against the wall.
She’d found what she needed in the basement of a police station. The irony pierced.
“Get home and go to bed,” she said. “I’ll return tonight and move everything back in.”
“You can’t do that yourself.”
“Pay me double-time, and I’ll show you what I can do.”
He sighed. “At least wait until tomorrow. Maybe I’ll be better then.”
“No you won’t. Besides, I have that big project starting in the morning, and you know it. I won’t be able to leave my desk for days.”
Her boss gave in. He handed her his keys to the basement door and storage room.
That night in her house, Monica stood over two open boxes of the stolen money, biting her cheek. One box held twenties, the other held hundred-dollar bills.
Blood money.
This would be the last time.
She pulled out a total of fifty thousand in twenties and hundreds and hid it in her closet. Savings, for when she and Kaycee had to move on.
When that day came, Monica promised herself, she’d let her daughter’s beautiful red curls grow back. And she’d change their last name one more time, to cover their tracks here. Maybe to Raye. She liked the sound of that.
With the fifty thousand taken out, Monica was able to consolidate what was left in the two boxes into one. She resealed the box with packing tape. It would take two trips to drive all eleven boxes to the policestation basement. Kaycee would have to ride along.
First Monica took a black felt tip pen to the side of each box, writing in large capital letters: Bank Records. Keep.
On the concrete behind the police station, Monica left the Volvo idling as she unlocked the basement’s wide double doors. She pulled them back, drove her car inside, and shut them. One night-shift policeman would be on patrol in town. Not likely he’d find her down there, if he happened by the station at all. Even if he did, she had reason to be there.
She unlocked the windowless
storage room and flipped on the light switch. Back in the Volvo she cut the headlights. The basement fell into darkness lit only by the light seeping from the empty storage area.
“Mommy, I’m scared.” Kaycee started to cry.
“Shh, you have to be quiet.”
“It’s scary!”
“I’ll turn the light on in the car. Stay here.”
Monica practically ran from car to storage room, moving the money, a horrific night from not so long ago playing in her head. Kaycee wouldn’t stop crying. Monica was afraid someone would hear her. One by one she heaved the first six boxes onto the deep rearmost shelves and shoved them to the wall, the writing face out. Her nerves sizzled for her daughter, for the incredible chance she was taking. Kaycee sobbed on.
When the car was emptied, Monica returned to the house for the final load. Kaycee quieted on the way home. But when they entered the basement for a second time, she wailed all over again.
Monica’s throat was dry by the time she pushed the last box of bills into place. She ran to the Volvo and her crying daughter. “It’s okay, Kaycee, it’s okay. Just a little while longer.”
Kaycee’s face was red and splotchy. What Monica had put the little girl through. She’d thought her soul would feel so much lighter without the money. But guilt over Kaycee replaced whatever weight she had lost.
For the next hour Monica hauled the now dry Utility Department supplies off the basement floor and into the room, pushing them in front of the eleven boxes. She didn’t bother to go through and throw anything away. No time, and besides, she wanted as many boxes as possible to hide the ones containing her sins.
Kaycee sobbed all the way home. Monica wanted to cry too. Tonight, finally, it was over. Except now they faced the rest of their lives.
When she got out of the car her legs shook.
“Mommy, hold me.” Kaycee reached out her sweet little arms. Monica picked her up and hugged her tightly. “Shh, it’s okay now. Mommy’s here, she’s always here.” She carried Kaycee into the house, sat down on the couch and rocked her.
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