Exposure

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.