Exposure

WHO’S THERE?

BY KAYCEE RAYE

GOOD-BYE AND HELLO

By now you’ve heard the whole story.

The media has a way of whisking the corners for the last bit of dust. Despite my efforts to crawl into a cave somewhere and hide, you’ve surely seen every detail on TV, read it in the papers (including the one in your hand), and devoured even more in magazines.

Contrary to certain rumors, I have no idea where the money is. I am not planning to snatch it up and disappear. Been done already. The statute of limitations may have passed for prosecution of the crime, but as far as I’m concerned, the Atlantic City Trust Bank still deserves its cash back. Some day, if my memories continue to surface, I may flash on where it is. If that happens, the bank will be the first to know.

It is true I almost stopped writing this column. It took a certain person to convince me it’s only just begun.

What now to say to you, my loyal readers, about fear? Bees, heights, closed spaces, the dentist’s drill, roller coasters — all of these things still make my gut tremble. Don’t suppose that will ever stop. But I have seen my worst fear come true and lived to tell the tale. In a surprising way, the experience has set me on the path to healing.

Okay, the path looks really long. And narrow. Did I mention curvy?

Confession time. I wanted to stop writing “Who’s There?” because I was afraid. Ha-ha.

Some weeks ago a certain man accused me of stirring up fear through this column just to make a few bucks. At the time I wanted to slug him. Guess what. He’s the one who’s now convinced me to continue “Who’s There?” He got in my face recently, this time accusing me of the worst affront of all in his book — withholding the truth.

“You helped me face my own fear, Kaycee,” he said. “Now write that column and tell them what you learned.”

So here I am. What truth did I learn? Fear is everywhere. But that’s only half the story. The other half?

God is bigger than fear.

Once upon a time I longed for a magic wand to make me all better. There isn’t one. Day to day I still struggle. And frankly, right now there’s lots of new stuff to work through. But a few nights ago I was gazing at the full moon, and an amazing thought occurred to me. God hung it. That’s a lot of power. If he could do that, why in the world did I fail to believe he could help me overcome my little problems?

Apparently God also invented irony. Soon after promising him I’d write about this epiphany, I took a walk to a friend’s house. I passed an empty field. Lo and behold — bumblebees.

One of these Cessnas with stingers decided on a flyby. You’ve seen cartoons of a bee in flight, screeching on the brakes and pulling a Uey? Happens to me every time.

The bumblebee came back around, closer. I screamed and ducked.

Don’t ever let anyone tell you bees are colorblind. No way. They take one look at my bouncy red hair and go nuts. Like it’s the grandest, juiciest flower they’ve ever laid eyes on in their entire life. Either that or they’ve just died and gone to heaven.

My movement scared the thing off, but not for long. In a flash it was back with a vengeance.

For all their flying power, bumblebees lack decent radar. On its final flyby the thing miscalculated and rammed into my head.

I shrieked bloody murder, and my knees gave out. The bee bounced off and buzzed away. Sorely disappointed, to be sure. The enticing flower had turned out to be hard and sweaty. And loud.

I cowered on the ground, gusting air. That’s when I noticed all the bumblebees in that field. Back and forth they flew, and I’d have to pass every one of them. A good half would do flybys of their own.

The thought sent me shaking.

Sure, I should fight any fear that holds me back from accomplishing something I need to do. That’s what fear usually does. But I didn’t have to walk in that direction. In the recent past, even if a diamond mine waited on the other side of that field, I’d have turned around. No more.

So what did I do?

I took a deep breath, whispered a prayer for God’s help . . . and set out down that sidewalk.

And that is what I hope for you.

EPILOGUE

Some twelve hours after she’d fled Atlantic City, Lorraine Giordano found herself near Lexington, Kentucky. She needed to get off the interstate and find a place to stay. The April skies drizzled rain, the whir of the windshield wipers grinding her raw nerves. She hadn’t stopped to rest except for bathroom breaks, to feed Tammy, and do what she had to do. Her emotions had drained to empty. She felt nothing. Dead.

Lorraine turned off the interstate onto Highway 68.

Hours ago in the parking lot of an all-night grocery store she’d shined her flashlight into an opened box in the back of the van. She’d never planned to use a dollar of that blood money, but now she had no choice. Lorraine lifted out three hundred in twenty dollar bills.

In the store she bought hair dye and scissors. Her long strawberry blonde tresses were now gone, replaced by dark brown hair cut blunt above her shoulders. Tammy’s red curls were gone too. Lorraine had cut them all off and dyed what was left. Tammy sobbed as she felt the strangeness of her head.

“It’s a new game, honey.” Lorraine’s heart lay sodden with guilt. “You have a new name, too. Kaycee. Isn’t that cute?”

Before dawn, behind a Kmart in another town, Lorraine used her screwdriver to steal a license plate off an old car and put it on the van. She put her own plate in the glove compartment.

Now in the afternoon her fingers felt glued to the wheel, her backside as numb as her brain. Pure adrenaline and fear had kept her alert. Finally she felt her body shutting down.

The money in the back of the van thrummed and vibrated. Surely every driver could see it. Every police officer could smell it. Every time she stopped she’d wanted to get rid of the boxes. But where? That was a lot of weight to move. And how far were they behind her? She’d seen their headlights in the storage parking lot. They’d been close then, so very close.

Lorraine’s eyes flicked to the rearview mirror.

Highway 68 wound by green, rolling hills, white fences, and horses.

“Mommy, look at their tails swish.” Kaycee’s voice sounded throaty from coughing. She’d slept much of the way. Now she squirmed in her seat.

“Pretty.”

The road forked. A sign on the left read Highway 29. The way to Wilmore and Asbury College.

A college town. People coming and going. Lorraine bore left.

They rolled into town and fate intervened. Lorraine spotted a sign: Furnished Two-Bedroom Home For Rent. She followed the directions to a small white wood house. Pulling over to the curb, she stared at another sign in the front yard. For rent — go to 203, next door. She still needed a new name, new driver’s license. She had no idea how to get a new identity.