By the time Kaycee finished her column at eleven-thirty her nerves hummed. Half her consciousness had fixed upon the phone, praying for a call about Hannah. And the weight of watching eyes never lessened.
As she saved the column, Kaycee steeled herself. She eyed the monitor, anger kicking around in her belly. If the dead man showed up again, she wanted proof. Kaycee pulled her camera from the bottom desk drawer and turned it on. She held it in her left hand, a finger on the button — and closed Word.
The fiery sunset appeared.
Kaycee exhaled and put down the camera. But she left it on. It would turn off by itself in a few minutes.
She pulled up her email program, groaning at all the new messages. Reader mail. Most of it would be positive —
Yeah, right.
Kaycee emailed the new column to her syndicate, then turned off the computer. There. No more chances of a dead man on the screen.
She replaced her camera in the bottom drawer.
Motion outside the window caught her eye. Kaycee saw Mrs. Foley weeding the flower bed in her side yard. She wore faded orange sweatpants and a bright green T-shirt, a yellow bandana holding gray frazzled hair out of her eyes.
Kaycee stared at Mrs. Foley. Once Hannah had run off into the night, wouldn’t the darkness have petrified her? Maybe she’d tried to run here after all . . .
Kaycee jumped up and headed for the front door. Outside she crossed her porch toward Mrs. Foley’s house.
Watching eyes followed.
She whirled around, gaze flicking left and right. Every part of her body tingled. She saw the black barn across the way, the emptiness of her own street. A slight breeze ruffled the yellow flowers of a forsythia bush in a neighbor’s yard. Everything looked so peaceful on a beautiful spring day.
She knew better. They were there, somewhere.
Hands fisting, Kaycee turned back toward Mrs. Foley and stepped off the side of her porch. She crossed over to her neighbor’s lawn. “Mrs. Foley?”
The elderly woman shuffled around on her knees. The back of one bony hand wiped against her chin. With beady eyes, a large nose, and hollow cheeks, she looked like a suspicious Muppet.
Kaycee ran a hand through her kinky hair. Mrs. Foley’s stare always made her feel like some exasperating child. “You know Hannah Parksley, the nine-year-old girl who comes over here a lot? She’s missing. I wonder if you saw her around my house last night.”
Mrs. Foley blinked twice. “How would I know who’s around your house?”
No reaction that a child was missing. What was wrong with this woman?
“I was just wondering if you happened to look out the window . . .”
“Don’t go peering out my windows at night. I have better things to do.”
“I
Mrs. Foley sniffed. “You must be mistaken.”
Uh-huh. She’d no doubt watched Mark Burnett’s police car come and go as well. Probably knew exactly how long he’d been in Kaycee’s house.
“Mrs. Foley, Hannah is missing. The police think she may have tried to make it over here. If you saw her or anybody else around my house last night, they really need to know.”
“I
With the raised chin of put-upon royalty, Mrs. Foley turned her back on Kaycee and resumed weeding.
Kaycee’s jaw clenched as she retraced her steps across the porch. Witchy old woman, rattling around in that big house of hers. Probably had corpses in the basement.
Back inside her office Kaycee called the police station. Hannah should have been found by now. What if someone had kidnapped her after she ran away? What if they’d hurt her? If she’d been kidnapped, every hour that passed decreased the odds of her safe return. Kaycee pressed thumb and fingers to her temples. She couldn’t think about that. It was too terrible.
On the fourth ring Emma Wooley, the police station’s administrative secretary, answered. The chief was out, but Mark Burnett hopped on the phone. “Kaycee, you hear something?”
The sound of his voice rustled through Kaycee like warm wind. “No. But I’ve stayed home long enough now. I want to help look for Hannah.”
“What did Chief tell you to do?”
“He said stay here for at least a couple hours. That’s passed. Hannah’s not going to show up here now. With everybody looking for her, she’s not walking the street in broad daylight. And she’s got my cell phone number.”
Mark sighed. “Okay. Come down. A friend of the Parksleys has printed up flyers. He and some other neighbors are taking them around. Maybe you can help.”
“Thanks, be there soon.” Kaycee’s stomach growled. She hadn’t eaten all morning.
“Hey.” Mark’s voice gentled. “How about you? You okay?”
Kaycee’s throat swelled. The softness in his tone betrayed his thoughts. He really did seem to be sorry for what he’d said at Chief Davis’s party. For a moment, she so wanted to tell him about her dream, the picture on her desktop . . .
Kaycee stared at her dark monitor. “I’m fine, Mark. Let’s just find Hannah.”
She hung up and hurried to her kitchen to pick up her overnight bag, still sitting by the door. Carrying it, she climbed the stairs to change her clothes. Kaycee felt eyes follow her every move, but she steeled herself against the fear. This was no time to give in. Hannah was still out there somewhere, and Kaycee was going to find her.
TWENTY-THREE
Lorraine slumped in an uncomfortable metal chair at the police station, Tammy on her lap. Her daughter was half asleep, worn out from crying and terror. The heat from her little body made Lorraine’s chest feel sweat-slicked and clammy. They sat in a small, grim room with one table, a couple more chairs. A round-faced, beefy detective with a badge that read Jim Tuckney had been questioning her for over an hour. He’d stepped out to talk to somebody. How long he’d been gone — it didn’t matter. Didn’t matter when she left here or where she went. She and Tammy had no life to go back to.
Her mind played the tape of Martin’s body on the floor. All that blood. Vaguely Lorraine remembered screaming outside her apartment, two men running out of different storage units. One of them called 911. He said he’d glanced up when a car drove out of the storage lot, but all he remembered was an old white sedan. He hadn’t seen the driver’s face.
Lorraine and Tammy were still in their bloodied pajamas when the police arrived. Lorraine could not recall getting dressed.
Electricity had sparked through the police station as Lorraine was ushered to the interview room. She heard snatches of talk about last night’s robbery: seven million dollars . . . the FBI . . . no suspects . . . stupid reporters demanding information.
Lorraine had a tiny bit of money in a savings account. She would have to use it for a cheap hotel tonight. Yellow crime-scene tape already cordoned off the apartment by the time the detective drove her and Tammy away. She’d been told she couldn’t go back until this evening. Fine timing. What was she supposed to do, step over her
