Exposure (5 page)

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?

BY KAYCEE RAYE

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 . . .


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.

Fisting her fingers around the suitcase handle, Hannah walked as fast as she could. At Butler she turned left.

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 —

A whistle sounded far behind her.

Train.
Hannah froze. The warning went off, clanging the air like a hundred bells in her ears. A rumble began, growing louder. Hannah shrank away from the tracks, hardly able to bear the noise. She’d seen trains pass plenty of times during the day, but now, out here alone at night . . .

The clanging screeched, and the rumble turned into a roar. The whistle blew and blew. Hannah bent over, hands clapped to her ears and eyes squeezed shut. The train came screaming, wind funneling around her body.

I’m going to die
.

An eternity passed, and still the train rushed by like some hungry monster. Hannah couldn’t
stand
it. Yanking up her suitcase handle, she ran as fast as she could up the road, her mouth gulping air. As the caboose passed, she hit the road’s curve to the right, where it turned into Walters Lane.

Just one more long street and she’d be at Kaycee’s house.

Tears filled her eyes as she ran on, the dark world turning blurry.
Just go
,
just go
,
just go
. She passed the Bethel Pointe homes on her left and the gray Potters Inn B&B house on her right, thinking,
Almost there
,
almost there
. Hannah focused her mind on Kaycee’s pretty face, how she would hug Hannah and pull her inside to a warm, lighted home.

Past the Potters Inn was a small field. Somebody grew corn there in the summer. A house came up on Hannah’s left. She blinked against tears as she neared a large bush. She ran harder — and her foot scuffed over something in the street. She flew forward, the suitcase falling from her grasp. Hannah went down on both knees and her left palm. Pavement scraped her skin like a razor, right through her jeans. Hannah yelled out. She curled into a ball, crying at the pain, unable to move.

Something rushed from behind the bush. Hannah’s head jerked toward it. She looked up to see a figure towering against the night sky.

Her mouth opened to scream, but something hard clamped against it.

The figure snatched her up in silence.

Lorraine Giordano peeked through the curtains of the apartment’s living room window, hoping to see Martin. She’d heard a car engine. Behind her Tammy sat on the sofa, watching a tape of
Snow White
and hugging her ever-present stuffed bear — a present from her daddy. Lorraine’s roving gaze took in the lighted concrete lot and the off-white siding of the two long storage unit buildings that ran parallel to each other and perpendicular to the apartment.

Martin’s car was nowhere in sight.

The sound was coming from a blue van backing up toward number seven, a newly rented unit close to the middle of building one. Fifteen units, each ten feet square, formed that building. The opposite units in building two measured ten feet wide by fifteen deep. The front edge of that second building sat directly across from the window where Lorraine stood. She gazed diagonally toward unit seven. The van had entered from the north entrance off Starling Street — the same direction from which Martin would come. A man jumped from the passenger side and ran over to open the storage unit. He was very short for a man, but stocky. Dressed in black. It was hard to see his features from this distance, but Lorraine didn’t think he was the one who’d signed the rental contract for the unit. That man wasn’t so short. His name was Peter Johns, owner of a tire shop. He’d paid the down payment and first month’s rent in cash.

This man was sure in a hurry.

Lorraine’s gaze moved beyond him to the north entrance, seeking Martin’s car. She glanced back at the van as the door to the storage unit rolled up. The van jerked in reverse until its rear backed into the unit. From the far side of the van the driver slid out. Lorraine caught a glimpse of him at an angle over the hood before he disappeared behind the vehicle. The guy looked as tall as the other one was short. He was wearing a black shirt.

She searched the street beyond the north entrance again. No Martin. Letting the curtain fall closed, she turned from the window.

“Is it Daddy?” Tammy pushed back a strand of long hair. Her little eyebrows slanted up, her rosebud mouth pursed. The skin beneath her eyes looked blue, almost translucent. She’d not had a good day.

“No. But he’ll be here soon.”