Between the bolt cutter blades she felt movement. Lorraine held her breath and pushed even harder. Heat coursed through her face. Her arms shook like an epileptic’s. Any minute now her head would explode.
The hasp wouldn’t give.
Another second, maybe two. That’s all the strength she had —
Lorraine dropped the tool and stumbled back, chest heaving. The bolt cutter clattered as it hit the ground.
Twisting her head left and right, she checked the streets.
She drew an arm across her forehead, swiping perspiration from her eyes. She snatched up the bolt cutter and heaved it into the van. Her gloved fingers could hardly function as she pulled the broken hasp and attached padlock off the door. She tossed them into the van as well.
Gasping, she bent down to pull up the unit door. Even that was hard for her exhausted muscles. The door rolled up with a grinding whir that echoed through the night. Surely it could be heard a mile away.
Lorraine’s mouth felt like desert-scorched cotton. She looked toward Huff and Starling streets. No cars.
A dry, closed smell wafted out of the unit. Little light filtered inside. Lorraine squinted into the dimness but couldn’t make out the shapes in the center. She grabbed the flashlight from the van, knowing what she would find. Already her next moves flashed in her head.
She aimed the flashlight into the unit.
Boxes.
Lorraine jerked backward. Rectangular boxes, about twice as long as they were high. No duffel bags.
No money.
A half moan, half hysterical laugh burst from her mouth. She back-pedaled to the van and leaned against it, all remaining energy draining away. Arguments ping-ponged through her brain. If the money wasn’t there, then Martin was innocent.
Not true. He
But if she’d read this part so wrongly . . .
Now what? She’d broken through some innocent renter’s door.
She could still run for her and Tammy’s protection. But not now. Not before attending her own husband’s funeral.
Her gaze fixed on the boxes. She counted them. Twelve.
Could those twelve boxes hold fifteen duffel bags’ worth of money?
Lorraine strode over and set the flashlight upright on the floor, aiming its beam toward the ceiling. She picked up a box. It was heavy in her weakened arms. Maybe close to Tammy’s weight. She set it down and picked up another. Exactly the same weight. And solidly packed. No rattling.
She put the box down and squatted, examining the tape around it.
Lorraine ran to the van and fetched the box cutter. Positioning the blade along the top edge of one box, she dragged the tool through the packing tape. Then she hustled around to open the other side. She lay down the cutter, grabbed one half of the box top in each hand, and pulled. The tape running down the middle popped open.
She knelt on the hard floor, not even sure what she wanted to see. If only she could know Martin had been completely innocent.
Holding her breath, Lorraine folded back the four box flaps.
FORTY-THREE
In slow motion, as if her neck was weighted with stones, Kaycee lifted her head.
A man stood before her. Dressed in black pants, a long black T-shirt. Hard-faced, cold-eyed. Dark hair fading to gray. Her cell phone lay in his left hand. His right thumb slid back and forth against his fingers as though itching for evil. One side of his mouth lifted in a satisfied smirk.
“Heard you on the telephone to your girlfriend this afternoon. I consider it a compliment you call me ‘they.’ As if I’ve managed the work of multiple men.”
Kaycee’s mind crumbled.
He raised his eyebrows, mimicking concern. “I understand you’ve been having some strange experiences.” His speech sounded refined, almost stilted. He glared at her with a mixture of victory and contempt.
No words would form. No breath.
The man smiled. Kaycee’s soul curled inward. “You hearing things? Seeing a dead man wherever you go?”
Her vision blurred. This was a nightmare. Not real.
“For a columnist who spills her guts, you don’t talk much.” He stepped toward her.
She shrank against the couch. “Wh – what do you want?”
“Ah. She speaks.”
Suddenly aware of her vulnerable position, Kaycee sat up. Her brain shouted fight-or-flight responses — scream, run,
“Get up.” His tone could cut steel.
She shook her head.
His expression flattened. “That cop in the barn won’t help you. I shot him twice. In the jaw and in the head.” A wicked smile spread his lips, a knowing look at her horror glinting in his eyes. “That’s right. Just like in the picture.”
Kaycee stared at him, her thoughts a million broken pieces. The blood she’d smelled had come true — on her own fingers. Now the dead man — the state policeman?
The floor of the barn — was it old bare wood, now dark-yellowed with age?
She whimpered. “How?
His gaze rose. He focused on the wall behind her as if seeing a movie unfold. “Your columns led me here, you know. For this past year I’ve been studying the fascinating depths of the mind.” His eyes blinked back to her, gleaming with vindication. “Apparently my education has proved effective.”
The words barely registered. Kaycee could only think one word:
The man surveyed her smugly, as though reading the horrible question she dared not ask.
“So you see how it is. Everyone who was supposed to protect you is gone.” He set her cell phone on the side table and lifted the bottom of his T-shirt. The top of a gun stuck out of his pants’ waistband. “Now you will come with me.”
“Why?” Kaycee’s voice held no life. “You’re going to kill me anyway. Might as well do it here.”
“I could have killed you a hundred times if that’s what I wanted.”
“What
“You haven’t asked my name.”
She gaped at him.
“It’s Rodney. As for what I want, my exercise in the mind is not yet over. I still need something from you.”
“Take it, it’s yours.”
“Unfortunately it’s not that simple.”
Kaycee stared dully at the floor. Didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. The constant fear of her life now stood in
