He cleared his throat. “There is a benefit to you staying. If you’re here, that may draw these suspects out. Then we can move in. But your safety comes first. I’ll put two officers on your house tonight.”
“I’ll do it,” Mark said. “You haven’t slept.”
“Let me go sleep now. I’ll come back on duty at nine or ten, whenever you want.”
Kaycee threw Mark a look of gratitude. “But that would mean less officers looking for Hannah.”
The chief shook his head. “No it won’t. Soon as I get back to the station I’ll be calling the State Police for help with this case. There’s too much for us to handle. We’ll need more officers — plus volunteers — to help in grid searches. I might request the State Police to provide the second officer to watch this place tonight. I’m thinking one officer in the black barn to cover the left side of your property and one in Mrs. Foley’s house to cover the right.”
Mrs. Foley, great. Kaycee pushed hair off her face. “Mrs. Foley might not want to cooperate. When I found that picture in my car I went a little crazy. And she saw it.”
“I’ll talk to her,” Chief said.
Panic spiraled through Kaycee’s chest. This plan, her staying here tonight — it could really happen.
“This is workable, if you think you can handle it.” Chief Davis must be reading her mind. “Officer Burnett and the second man will be only a minute away if you need them. With lights off in Mrs. Foley’s first level, Mark can move from front to back to see out windows, and that barn’s dark at night. Plenty bowed slats to look through. Keep your cell phone with you at all times, and the officers will have theirs. I’ll remain on duty all night as well, and I won’t be far away.”
“Okay, but . . .” This was going to sound so paranoid. “Whoever these people are, they’re watching.” Kaycee whisked nervous fingers up and down the bottom of her purse strap. “If they see Mark going into Mrs. Foley’s house . . .”
If Chief Davis thought she was being crazy, he didn’t show it. His “velvet touch” at work. “Mark, dress in civilian clothes and wear a hat. Park across the street in your own personal car. Carry your weapon and laptop in a small suitcase. You’re a guest visiting for the night.”
“Okay.”
“As for the other guy, we’ll station him as unobtrusively as possible, also in plainclothes.”
Kaycee glanced from Mark to the chief. She was suddenly having trouble processing oxygen. “So . . . what exactly do we expect to happen?”
The chief spread his hands. “None of this is predictable. But with three episodes at your house in less than twenty-four hours, it’s not unlikely whoever’s bothering you will come around again. This time we’ll get them. And let’s hope they can lead us to Hannah.”
Let’s hope.
“You okay with this?” Chief raised his eyebrows. “The alternative is to go stay with your friend.”
Kaycee thought of the dream her watchers had somehow caused her to have at Tricia’s house. The “wrong number” call there asking for Belinda, a haunting name that had to be connected to all this. “If I’m not here, they’ll know. They . . . see things. They know.”
“Oh, brother,” Ryan muttered in disgust. He turned toward the crime-scene tape, hands at his temples. His eyes closed, and the cynicism drained from his features, replaced with abject pain. “This sounds so crazy,” he whispered. “But just . . . make it work. Bring Hannah back.”
Yes, God, please. But it only worked if they showed up. Which would be beyond terrifying.
The meeting broke up. Sam and Ryan wandered back to Sam’s vehicle to return to Ryan’s house — and wait. The chief crossed the side yard to knock on Mrs. Foley’s door. Kaycee could imagine their conversation. The old woman would play like she was being put upon while privately basking in her incredible fortune. She’d get to help a police officer snoop.
Mark lingered on Kaycee’s porch. She surveyed him, vulnerability swirling in her chest. Ryan Parksley’s words still bit deep.
Mark cleared his throat. “About last night. I’m sorry I didn’t believe you.”
Kaycee focused on her feet. Once again he’d surprised her. There was so much more depth to this man than he was willing to show. She wanted to reach down inside him, pull it out. “After four false alarms, why should you?”
Silence ticked by. She could feel his eyes upon her. For once she didn’t mind being watched.
Mark put a finger beneath her chin and nudged her to look him in the eye. “Guess what.”
Something whispered down the length of her, like silk. “What?”
“I read your column every week.”
She swallowed. “The one that only ‘stirs up people’s fears’?”
Instantly she wanted the words back. Why had she said that? Like she had to get in a dig.
Mark tilted his head as if considering his response. “Sometimes,” he said, “maybe it hits a little too close to home.”
Abruptly he turned and headed down her porch steps, leaving Kaycee to stare after him, half wondering if the moment had happened at all.
THIRTY-FIVE
Lorraine and Tammy sat on the bed, propped up with pillows, watching Sesame Street. That is, Tammy watched. Lorraine’s thoughts tumbled elsewhere. Tammy’s legs splayed apart, her right foot jerking back and forth. Belinda lay in her arms. With one finger Tammy absently rubbed the bear’s velvety nose.
Questions, always the questions. They snaked through Lorraine’s head, writhing from the bank robbery to Martin’s words that morning to hiding in the closet. Could she have done something different? Could she somehow have kept her husband alive?
“Please tell me this isn’t about the bank robbery.”
Lorraine knew Martin’s reactions too well. She’d always been able to read him. As he’d stared at that mouse in the toilet — was that just yesterday? — she’d seen his consternation. She’d had to tell him what to do, how to be the hero. Sometimes Martin’s dreams outran his head. He wanted so much for her and Tammy and was afraid he couldn’t always come through for them.
“We’re going to lose a lot of money.”
He’d done it, hadn’t he? He’d helped those robbers in exchange for a cut of the money. The man who killed him was supposed to come over and give Martin his share. That man told Martin to get her out of the apartment because he didn’t want her to see his face. But she wouldn’t listen.
Maybe the man never planned to give Martin any money in the first place. Her husband was set up to die like some worthless dog.
Tears burned Lorraine’s eyes.
Was all the money sitting in that storage unit this very minute?
The motel phone rang. The sound seared through Lorraine’s nerves, and she jumped. Exhaling, she picked up the receiver from the table by the bed. Detective Tuckney was on the line.
“I wanted you to know they’re done with your apartment.”
“Already?”
“I know it’s earlier than I told you. Sorry about the misinformation. We can’t always judge the timing.”
Lorraine’s focus hung on the TV as Cookie Monster counted by twos in his grating singsong. Now what should she do? She felt trapped between two worlds. This room was merely a waiting station. Her apartment was reality.
Reality was a dangerous place.
“Mrs. Giordano?”
“How bad is it?”
“How bad is what?”
“The blood. On the floor. I mean, do they leave a lot after . . . whatever they do?”