And she’d need more money.
Lorraine drove away to a quiet street and opened the back of the van. From the closest box she drew out two thousand dollars in twenties and stuffed them in her purse.
The landlord at 203 was an elderly lady, Martha Wiscom. She took one look at Lorraine’s worn face and Kaycee’s puffy eyes, and invited them in for a sandwich. Before long Kaycee was sitting on her lap. Lorraine told the woman her name was Monica Stanling. She’d saved every dime to finally flee an abusive husband. Mrs. Wiscom rented her the house on the spot. Monica paid for the first month in cash.
Tired as she was, she could not rest until she’d moved every one of the twelve boxes into the house’s unfinished basement. She withdrew another five thousand in bills and hid them under her mattress.
The next day while Kaycee stayed with Mrs. Wiscom, Monica drove to Cincinnati. She cruised residential streets, looking for a used car for sale. She found a gray Volvo station wagon, parked her van a block away, and walked back to buy the Volvo for two thousand dollars. In cash. She drove back to the van and got in it. She headed for a strip mall she’d seen on the next block. Behind the buildings she parked and pulled a large paring knife from her purse. She took the remaining three thousand out of her purse and put it into a brown grocery bag, leaving her wallet and driver’s license behind. She dropped the purse on the floor.
Using her screwdriver she replaced the stolen license plate with the van’s original one. Back in the van Monica slid the stolen plate into the grocery bag of money.
She picked up the paring knife and held it for a long time, heart scudding.
She drew the blade across her left forearm.
The blinding sting hissed air through her teeth. Instant tears bit her eyes. Monica pressed her hand over the cut, smearing blood on her palm and fingers. She swiped those fingers over the seat, pressed them into the dashboard.
From the glove box she took a dishtowel and wrapped it around her arm.
The keys remained in the ignition.
Monica got out of the van again, eyes blurred, and walked back to the Volvo. She carried the grocery bag. Halfway between Cincinnati and Wilmore she pulled the license plate out of the bag and threw it away.
For the next few weeks Monica held the cut on her arm closed with tight Band-Aids. She didn’t want to explain to some doctor how she’d gotten it. The cut would eventually heal into a ropey scar.
The boxes of money sat in her basement, ticking time bombs. She had to find a way to get rid of them.
She bought a small television and watched news constantly. The Atlantic City police along with the FBI were searching for her and her daughter, as well as the seven million stolen from Trust Bank. They still weren’t sure what the connection between the two crimes might be. A lock on one of the storage units where Lorraine Giordano served as manager had been cut through, her apartment’s front door kicked in. A man’s footprints were found in the blood on the floor. The mother and daughter apparently had been abducted. Authorities feared for their lives.
Footprints in her apartment. A busted front door. They had come for her.
Monica couldn’t stop trembling.
The next day with Kaycee along she drove four hours to Nashville and stayed until she found a man who furnished her a driver’s license and social security number in the name of Monica Stanling. She didn’t ask how he managed it. She paid him five hundred dollars in cash.
Everywhere she went, Monica cast frightened glances over her shoulder.
She took Kaycee to the physician in Wilmore, with an office down on East Main. The doctor drew three vials of Kaycee’s blood for tests. Poor Kaycee screamed and cried. The physician also gave her two “scratch” tests on her wrists, one for TB and one for some disease Monica had never heard of — histoplasmosis, a fungus on the lungs.
When the ordeal was over, Monica treated Kaycee to an old-fashioned ice cream soda at the nearby drug store. Only then did Kaycee stop crying.
Within four days the histoplasmosis wrist was red and swollen up to her elbow.
“No treatment for it,” the doctor said. “But in a year or two she should be fine. Make sure she gets lots of rest in the meantime. Feed her plenty of protein. Give her all the steaks and milkshakes she wants.”
After all the expensive tests in Atlantic City, it came down to one simple “scratch” by a small-town doctor. And no money needed for treatment. Day after day Martin’s desperate voice echoed in Monica’s ears.
She fed Kaycee steak and took her to the drugstore for an ice cream soda three or four times a week.
One night as Monica washed dishes she heard her old name on the news. The van had been found. Bloody fingerprints inside matched her blood type. Authorities were now looking for the bodies of Lorraine and Tammy Giordano.
But
Monica’s paranoia grew. She searched for them constantly, not even knowing what they looked like. A glance too long in her direction could send her reeling. She fought to hide her fear.
Within a month she landed a clerical job, working for the City of Wilmore’s Utility Department. Kaycee attended preschool at a church when she was well enough. On sick days she stayed with Mrs. Wiscom. Monica worked hard and gained the favor of her boss. Soon she was taking on extra responsibilities.
To house supplies, the department used a locked storage room in the police station’s cave-like walkout basement. Looking at the white stone front of the station, a person wouldn’t even know the basement existed. The entrance around the back was fairly secluded, nothing nearby but the rear of other buildings fronting Main and the railroad tracks. The basement had a low-beamed ceiling, part stone walls and a concrete floor. Monica found the place eerie.
One day a pipe broke in the Utility Department’s storage room ceiling. Water doused everything and stood two inches on the floor before maintenance stopped the flow. Monica hustled down to the room to help move out supplies.
“Man,” her boss complained as they huffed boxes of who-knew-what out to the center area of the basement, which remained dry. His face was sweaty and gray. “Most of this stuff goes way back. Never even seen that rear wall, and I’ve worked here for twenty years.”
Monica surveyed him. “You don’t look so good.”
“Think I’m gettin’ sick.”
When they were done it was almost five o’clock. Monica stood staring at the big room as workers moved in to mop up the water.
“Looks different, doesn’t it.” Her boss sagged against the wall.
She’d found what she needed in the basement of a police station. The irony pierced.
“Get home and go to bed,” she said. “I’ll return tonight and move everything back in.”
“You can’t do that yourself.”
“Pay me double-time, and I’ll show you what I can do.”
He sighed. “At least wait until tomorrow. Maybe I’ll be better then.”
“No you won’t. Besides, I have that big project starting in the morning, and you know it. I won’t be able to leave my desk for days.”
Her boss gave in. He handed her his keys to the basement door and storage room.
That night in her house, Monica stood over two open boxes of the stolen money, biting her cheek. One box held twenties, the other held hundred-dollar bills.
Blood money.
This would be the last time.
She pulled out a total of fifty thousand in twenties and hundreds and hid it in her closet. Savings, for when she and Kaycee had to move on.
When that day came, Monica promised herself, she’d let her daughter’s beautiful red curls grow back. And she’d change their last name one more time, to cover their tracks here. Maybe to Raye. She liked the sound of that.
With the fifty thousand taken out, Monica was able to consolidate what was left in the two boxes into one. She resealed the box with packing tape. It would take two trips to drive all eleven boxes to the policestation basement. Kaycee would have to ride along.
