Exposure

smile, even on the worst of days.

Kaycee’s stomach rumbled. She’d had nothing but coffee today, and that wasn’t good. Fear and lack of sleep already made her weak enough. But the mere thought of eating now — even a Tastebuds pizza — turned her stomach.

Past the drugstore lay Clay’s Barbershop, Union Station Texas-style Barbeque, and Jody’s Beauty Salon, followed by the white stone building that hosted City Hall and the police station. Kaycee jaywalked at an angle across the street and headed for the building.

“Don’t leave before I get there,” she’d told Mark. “I need to talk to you.”

She pulled open the glass door and stepped into the small entry area housing the Pepsi and Ale – 8-One machines. The police department ran the machines, using the proceeds for such thank-you events as a dinner for officers and their spouses at Christmas, an outing on the lake in summer. Ale – 8-One — A Late One — made in Winchester, Kentucky, had become Kaycee’s favorite soft drink since she moved to Wilmore. Before ordering a Tastebuds pizza, she’d stop by here to buy a bottle. It tasted like ginger ale, only deeper, better.

Bitterness rose in her chest as she knocked on the door to the station. This downtown block, once so comforting with its sights and smells and tastes, now loomed with horrifying unseen threats.

Emma Wooley let Kaycee inside. The administrative secretary hurried back to her desk to answer the phone. Emma was a large woman in her late fifties with a quick smile and sparkling brown eyes. After raising six kids and now grandmother to seven, she often declared nothing that happened on her job could surprise her.

Three stacks of colored flyers sat on Emma’s desk. Kaycee slid one from the top. Hannah smiled up from her most recent school photo. She was wearing her favorite pink shirt. Even then she looked unhappy. The smile didn’t reach her eyes.

Kaycee’s throat squeezed. She touched Hannah’s forehead, then pressed the flyer to her heart.

“Kaycee.” Mark Burnett stood up from the back area crammed with five desks and waved her over. One hand pressed a phone receiver against his chest. He looked worn, with circles under his deep-set eyes. This was supposed to be his time to sleep. At a nearby desk Officer Rich Hurlton, a salt-and-pepper haired man with a lined face, who reminded Kaycee of Harrison Ford, focused intently on a computer monitor.

Kaycee stuck a hand in her hair. Unwashed this morning, its kinky curls were even puffier than usual. And she wore no makeup. She had to look like something the cat dragged in.

Carrying the flyer, she walked toward Mark, passing the chief’s empty office on her right. Although his door was closed she could picture his steel gray desk topped with wood laminate, the white paint and blue-green wallpaper. At the rear of the office sat six screens, running live video from cameras placed around Wilmore. Four times in the past year Kaycee had faced the chief across his desk, nervously claiming she’d seen someone in her backyard, or watching her from the street. Each time he’d taken her back to have a look around.

Video.

“Okay, thanks,” Mark said into his phone. He replaced the receiver. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

They surveyed each other. Kaycee felt the lingering bittersweet of his thoughtless words at the chief’s party, followed by his apology last night. As for the camera in her kitchen, Mark hadn’t believed she’d really seen it. Maybe now he would.

She glanced at Rich. “He’s looking at video?”

“Yeah. We can type in the date and time for any camera in Wilmore. We got way more cameras than what’s on the six screens in Chief’s office. If Hannah walked up this street last night, we’ll know.”

If.

“Where are the other officers?”

“Chief’s at the elementary school, talking to everyone who knows Hannah. I’ll call him if we find something on the video. The others are still going door-to-door at the Parksleys’ neighborhood and searching the area. There’s that eighteen acres out there with the gutted house. Weeds as tall as I am. Plus Bohicket Road runs into the lane that goes down by the campground. Got gulch area and lots of brush not far from that road.”

Kaycee licked her lips. “But we know Hannah made it out of her neighborhood. And she didn’t go toward the campground.”

Mark winced. “We don’t know what happened after that.”

His tone said so much more. That he wanted to tell her everything would be okay, they’d find Hannah safe. But he could no longer promise it.

Kaycee sank down in the chair opposite Mark’s desk. Flecks of steel dredged through her veins. She couldn’t think about this. Hannah was alive and well out there somewhere. Kaycee looked away from Mark, her focus landing on the door that led to the back entrance and down to the lower level. The basement. She’d ventured down those bare wooden steps once, clutching the matching handrail and feeling the stutter of her heart. Chief Davis had taken her down to see the DARE car, a 1968 Ford Galaxy 500, like the last vehicle on Mayberry RFD. But she could hardly admire the car. With no windows, that basement terrified her. The floor was concrete, wooden posts rising up to attach to long, low ceiling beams like scaffolding in a deep, dark mine. Leaning up against one wall were the disassembled steel framework pieces of the old holding cell used years ago, called the “lion’s cage.” To the right of the DARE car the alarmed and locked evidence room held boxes of items from criminal cases. Another windowless room on the left side of the car, also locked, held supplies. At the walk-out rear of the basement were long double doors that opened up for the DARE car to drive through. Kaycee had vowed she’d never go down there again, not as long as she fought claustrophobia. Just think how dark and horrifying that place would be at night.

What if Hannah was in some place like that?

Heat flushed through Kaycee. Mandy’s worst fear had come true, now so had her own. What if the worst had happened to Hannah too?

Kaycee’s lungs swelled until they ballooned against her ribs.

“You okay?” Mark’s voice sounded far away.

Kaycee tried to nod. Panic bloomed through her stomach. She could barely breathe. Her fingers curled around the edge of her chair. Jesus, Jesus, Jesus. It was the only word she could pray.

Mark laid a hand on her arm.

Kaycee’s gaze roved to his face. He was bent over her, concern etching lines in his forehead. She raked in air. Slowly the panic receded.

“You okay?” He pulled his hand away and straightened.

“I . . . yeah.” She blinked hard.

Rich was eyeing her. The video on his screen stood frozen.

Kaycee’s cheeks flushed. “I’m sorry. I’m okay. Really. Just . . . Hannah and everything.”

“I know.” Mark’s voice sounded the most empathetic she’d ever heard it. Kaycee looked up at him, and their eyes locked.

He moved first. “Want some water?”

“Yes, thanks.”

She leaned back in the chair, eyes averted from Rich. His chair squeaked, followed by the sound of clicking as he resumed watching the video.

Mark returned with a plastic cup of water. Kaycee drank it down and placed the cup on the desk. “Thanks. I’m really sorry.”

“No problem.” He walked around his desk and sat down. “So. You said you had something to tell me.”

Great. After that little display this would not be the best timing.

Kaycee straightened her back. “This morning on my computer I saw that dead man again. He blipped on in place of my desktop for a couple seconds, then disappeared. On the bottom of that picture was written one word. Exposure.”

Mark surveyed her. “Why didn’t you tell me this?”

At least he wasn’t insisting she’d gone off the deep end. “You were looking for Hannah. That was more important.”

He shook his head. “Exposure. What does that mean?”

“One of my recent columns was titled that. I’m wondering if this is the work of some crazy ‘Who’s There?’