Exposure (21 page)

The motel phone rang. The sound seared through Lorraine’s nerves, and she jumped. Exhaling, she picked up the receiver from the table by the bed. Detective Tuckney was on the line.

“I wanted you to know they’re done with your apartment.”

“Already?”

“I know it’s earlier than I told you. Sorry about the misinformation. We can’t always judge the timing.”

Lorraine’s focus hung on the TV as Cookie Monster counted by twos in his grating singsong. Now what should she do? She felt trapped between two worlds. This room was merely a waiting station. Her apartment was reality.

Reality was a dangerous place.

“Mrs. Giordano?”

“How bad is it?”

“How bad is what?”

“The blood. On the floor. I mean, do they leave a lot after . . . whatever they do?”

Detective Tuckney made an empathetic sound in his throat. “They take samples, but that’s all. The room will be pretty much like when you left it. There is a lot of blood in the hall. There’s also some spatter on the walls.”

Lorraine gripped the phone.
Sesame Street
switched to Big Bird talking to a group of kids on the steps in front of a blue house. A sudden thought hit. If Lorraine had any chance of finding someone to watch Tammy while she cleaned, it was now, at the end of the preschool day.

Besides, how could she be in that apartment tomorrow, after the morning newspaper hit the streets?

“You don’t have to clean it up yourself, if that’s what you’re thinking, Mrs. Giordano. There are specialized companies you can hire to do that kind of work.”

“How much do they cost?”

“Unfortunately a lot. A hundred or more dollars per hour.”

Lorraine gave a little snort. “Oh, good. I can afford that.”

“
You
don’t have to pay for it; that’s the responsibility of the property owner.”

Would Mr. Houger do that? And would he pay for her to stay another night or two at the motel in the meantime? She couldn’t even afford that much. Lorraine would bet against the motel bill for sure. She’d only met Mr. Houger once — when he’d hired her. He was a busy man, with a hardness in his lined face. The owner of many commercial properties, he’d let her know, as if that made him superior. She hadn’t liked him, but she and Martin needed a place to live. They’d seen it as a part of building their dream. Live in that grungy apartment free for a while, and they’d have more to save toward a house.

“Look.” Detective Tuckney sounded apologetic. “Cleaning up after something like this happens isn’t so simple. If you see one spot of blood on a carpet, that could mean a foot-wide circle of it underneath on the floorboard. Also, blood and body tissue are considered biohazards and potentially infectious. When special cleaning teams come in, they know how to properly dispose of all the materials they used to clean. For that reason alone, most importantly for your own emotional welfare, this isn’t a job you should even think about undertaking yourself.”

Blood and body tissue. Lorraine couldn’t believe they were having this conversation. “Okay. I’ll call Mr. Houger.” She rubbed her forehead. “Do you know any more about . . . anything?”

“We’re working on all the evidence we have. And we’ll keep working. The autopsy is scheduled for tomorrow.”

What was she supposed to do tonight? How was she supposed to sleep
tonight
?

“I met with a funeral home,” her mouth said. “You wanted that information so they’d know where to take Martin?” Her mind flashed a picture of his bloodied face. Could they clean him up for an open casket? He had two holes in his head.

“Yeah, I’ll take that information right now if you like.”

Lorraine pushed off the bed and reached into her purse for the card from the funeral home. She read the address and phone to the detective. “I’ll probably go back home just long enough to pick up some things. If I can find someone to watch Tammy.”

And then what
,
Lorraine?
What about tomorrow, and the next day, and the next? Where would she and Tammy live? How could they feel safe anywhere in Atlantic City?

She should whisk her daughter away. Move anywhere — to a town in another state. Start a new life.

But she had no money to do that.

“All right,” the detective replied. “You’ve got my number if you need it. And I’ll be checking in with you as needed.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

Lorraine hung up the phone and put her head in her hands.

Minutes later she called the preschool. She kept her back to Tammy, speaking in low tones. The director had heard the news of Martin’s murder and told Lorraine again and again how sorry she was. And how was Tammy? Lorraine’s automatic responses slipped out as if some other person spoke them. How odd her mind felt, as though fog wrapped itself around every thought. She needed to think clearly. But clarity seemed so far away.

One of the preschool teachers, a young woman about eighteen, said she could watch Tammy for the evening at her parents’ home. Lorraine could bring Tammy in half an hour. “And don’t worry about dinner — I’ll feed her,” Michelle said.

Lorraine’s shoulders sagged in relief. That would make Tammy happy. Michelle was one of her favorite teachers. “Thanks so much.”

Tammy giggled at the TV. Lorraine glanced over her shoulder to see Oscar the Grouch popping into his trashcan. She turned back, putting a hand over her mouth to further muffle her voice. “And Michelle? She doesn’t know yet. I just . . . haven’t figured out how to tell her.”

“Okay.” Michelle’s voice weighted with sadness. “I understand.”

Lorraine put off the call to Mr. Houger. She’d do that from the apartment, when Tammy wasn’t around.

Tammy was ecstatic to visit Michelle at her house. “What color’s her bedroom, Mommy?” The little girl’s eyes shone as Lorraine buckled her into the car.

“I don’t know. You make sure to tell me.”

Handing her over to Michelle, Lorraine promised it would only be a couple of hours before she returned.

“Don’t worry. We’ll be having fun.” Michelle smiled down at Tammy and squeezed her hand. “Right?”

Tammy grinned. “Uh-huh.”

Grief cut through Lorraine. She didn’t want Tammy to lose that happiness. She didn’t want Tammy to know her daddy wasn’t coming back.

At five forty-five Lorraine drove alone to her apartment, nervous and trembling. Even though the news reported she was staying away for the night, she couldn’t feel safe. She went around the block twice, down Huff Street, around and up Starling, craning her neck at the north and south entrances to check out the lot. She saw no one.

Lorraine pulled into her regular parking space around the corner from the front door and stared at Martin’s Pontiac. It looked so normal. As if he might come out any minute and drive off.

She wrenched her gaze away.

The yellow crime-scene tape was gone, and the police and technicians. All the storage units across the concrete seemed so eerily quiet. She could almost tell herself none of this had happened. It was morning on a healthy day for Tammy. Lorraine had just taken her to preschool and was returning. Martin was working at the bank.

As she got out of the van, Lorraine slid her gaze toward rental unit number seven.

She hid her purse underneath the front seat and locked the van. Slipping its key into her jean pocket, she walked around the corner to her front door. As she stood at the threshold to her apartment, she
felt
that storage unit behind her. Its contents throbbed under the late afternoon sun.

Lorraine inserted her key into the lock of her home. Her jaw flexed. For a moment she stood, one palm on the doorpost, her forehead resting against the wood. She imagined Martin inside, sitting on the frayed couch, watching television.
“Hi
,
honey. Where’ve you been?”

What kind of life would she give her daughter? All she could see was darkness and fear.

Lorraine had never been much of a praying person, but she prayed now — for the strength to go on and to raise her daughter. When her eyes reopened, one final thought hovered, even though it may not be one God approved of. Vengeance. Martin’s killer needed to
pay
.

She turned around and stared at unit seven.

A minute later, gathering what courage she could find, Lorraine stepped inside the apartment.

At four-thirty Kaycee, shaky with hunger, was headed for Tastebuds inside the drugstore. She’d ridden down to East Main in the back of Mark’s car, the chief in the passenger seat. By the time she was done eating, a tech should be ready to dust her house for fingerprints.

Flyers of Hannah now plastered the Main Street storefronts. The sight of one in the drugstore window brought Kaycee to a standstill. She hung there, staring at the poster.

“She must have been picked up in a car at this spot,” Seth had told Chief Davis as his hound paced aimlessly on Walters Lane. “Her scent just vanishes.”

Kaycee opened the door and stepped inside the drugstore.

The familiar smell of pizza wafted as she crossed the black-and-white checked floor toward Tastebuds. Behind the red counter Liz, the owner, was sliding a pizza onto a white plate. Two customers — looked like college students — sat on a couple of the eight red-topped stools. Three of the four booths, with their old-fashioned pull-down red seats, were occupied.

A child had been abducted — and life went on.

Kaycee sank onto the stool nearest the end and propped her feet on the footrest.

“Oh, Kaycee.” Liz hustled over and peered at her. The countless times Kaycee and Hannah had sat at this very counter were reflected in Liz’s worried expression. “How are you?”

Kaycee smiled wanly. “I’ve had better days.”

“We all have.” Liz sighed. “What you need’s a soda.” Without waiting for a reply, she turned to whip up Kaycee’s favorite feel-good concoction, flavor — vanilla. Woodenly, Kaycee watched as Liz scooped real ice cream into a large glass, added vanilla syrup and finished it off with the fizzy liquid that made it a true old-fashioned. She placed it in front of Kaycee with a straw and long-handled spoon. Kaycee bent her head and took a long sip. She closed her eyes. Comfort.

Liz pressed a hand over hers. “I heard what happened with the track dog. We’re praying, you know that. The whole town’s praying.”

“Thanks.”

She squeezed Kaycee’s fingers, then drew away. “Which one today?”

No need to check the menu. Kaycee knew each Tastebuds pizza by heart. Hannah had always been enthralled at the fact that she could recite every ingredient. Besides the typical pepperoni and sausage, Liz had concocted specialties of her own. Spinach pizza, Portabello, the Chicken Caesar, the Cheeseburger pizza, and the Barbeque Chicken. The Waldorf had garlic, apples, walnuts, gorgonzola, bacon, and Tastebud’s ubiquitous four cheeses. The Taco pizza included salsa, beef, black olives, jalapenos, tortilla chips, and sour cream.

For the first time, not one of them appealed to Kaycee. But she really needed to eat.

“I’ll take the Cheeseburger.” Liz knew to hold the dill pickles.

“You didn’t bring in an Ale-8-One today.”

“Didn’t even think about it. I’ll just take water.”

Staring at the gray countertop, Kaycee spooned down her soda while Liz made the pizza.

Night was coming. Hannah was still missing. Her watchers were out there, lurking. And Kaycee would have to go home.

Time blurred. The smell of beef, red onion, and tomatoes filled the air as Liz slid Kaycee’s pizza before her. “There you go, hon.”

“Thanks.” Kaycee looked out the window. The sun would set around eight-fifteen. The thought of herself at home, alone — even with two officers nearby — filled her with dread.

Robotlike, Kaycee ate the pizza. Halfway through, she’d had enough, but she forced herself to eat more. Who knew when she would eat again? It was going to be a long night.

Stomach full, Kaycee headed back down East Main to the police station. She knocked on the door, and Rich let her inside.

“Find anything more on the video?” she asked.

He shook his head. “We got two officers going door-to-door through Jessamine Village right now. And they looked in that barn again. So far — nothing.”

As Seth had said, Hannah reached a spot on Walters Lane — and simply vanished. She was either hidden somewhere in the area or she’d been driven away.

A scene flashed in Kaycee’s mind. Hannah, bound in the trunk of a car. A dark, closed place. Like the place Kaycee had been trapped in her dream. In that dream she’d seen through someone else’s eyes.

Could those eyes have been Hannah’s?

Kaycee pressed a hand to her forehead, as if to force the horrific thought away.

“Officer Statler dusted your car,” Rich said. “He’s down in the basement. He’ll be up in a minute, ready to go to your house.”

The basement. Kaycee shivered. Another dark, closed space.

“Okay.” She wandered up toward Emma’s work area. The secretary had already left for the day. The stack of flyers on her desk had now dwindled to half a dozen. Kaycee picked one up and stared into Hannah’s eyes. They looked frightened, pleading.