Dying Breath

  “What?”

  “You need to ask him about it. Because it’s important. I know I’m a kid, and people don’t listen to kids, but... I think it’s going to matter. I think Dylan is going to help again. And I think you’re going to have to tell Griffin that you see Dylan. Because I know...”

  “You know what?”

  “I know this isn’t over.”

  “Noah, your mom is fine, she’s going to be fine, and—”

  “My mom will be fine. That’s not it, Vickie.”

  “What is it, then?”

  “Vickie, I’m afraid that it’s not over for you.”

  * * *

  Taker watched the news. He really hadn’t given a damn that a few of the women had been found alive. Why bother taunting the police and sending the clues if they didn’t want them to have some hope?

  But this...

  They’d found Chrissy Ballantine so damned quickly. How the hell...?

  For a moment, he felt a rush of unease—almost bordering on fear.

  Had he really learned his lessons well? Yes, always be on the lookout. Take care of cameras, know the lay of the land, know the victim, know timing, always wear gloves, never let the thrill—the rush of pleasure over a kill—get in the way of a controlled crime scene.

  His unease suddenly turned to anger; his anger to raw fury.

  He stared at the television screen.

  Control. Care. Organization.

  He waited until the rush of fury was gone, and then he dialed Under.

  “The party is alive and swinging,” Under said.

  “Yep, so... I think we need to find another cool party, huh? Have you checked out any?” he asked.

  “I know just the place. You ready?”

  “Hell, yeah. Time to dance!” Taker said.

  Was he ready?

  Absolutely. Oh, yes, absolutely. And this time...

  This time, well, he’d just have to tighten up his “party” package.

  3

  Chrissy Ballantine appeared dazed—and brilliantly awake.

  Griffin wasn’t sure he’d ever seen anyone so grateful to be alive.

  George Ballantine had spent the night in a hospital chair at her side. His tender care for his wife was touching; Griffin had seen couples ripped apart by far less. He wasn’t sure exactly what the statistics were, but he knew couples who lost children often found themselves split apart by their grief, rather than brought closer together.

  Not so with George and Chrissy. Maybe Noah had saved them.

  “Griffin, Officer Pryce!” Chrissy said, reaching out her hands to him.

  “He’s not Officer Pryce now,” George reminded her. “He’s Special Agent Pryce.”

  “Whatever his title, a godsend!” Chrissy said.

  He stepped close to the bed, taking her hands. “You look well,” he told her quietly.

  “Thanks to you,” she said. “And to you, Special Agent Crow,” she added, looking past Griffin to where Jackson waited just inside the hospital room door.

  “And, really Victoria Preston,” Griffin told her.

  “I know!” she said softly, looking over at her husband. She added in a rush, “I understand that Vickie went above and beyond. George said he gave her permission to take Noah to her apartment for the night and they’ll be back here soon. And that an officer watched over them through the night. I’m very grateful. I’ll never be able to tell you how grateful I am.”

  “We need anything that you can remember about yesterday morning, Mrs. Ballantine,” Griffin said. “Anything.”

  “I know!” she told him, her smile fading, her voice dismayed. “I don’t know... I mean, I was in the kitchen, taking salad fixings out of the refrigerator. And then... I don’t know! I remember waking up and realizing that I was penned in and it was dark and I could smell wood and oldness and dampness—and I knew I was in the old log pit in the basement. I screamed at first, and I tried to claw my way out and then... No one heard my screams and I couldn’t breathe and I couldn’t move and...and then I was here, waking up in this bed, disoriented...”

  Neither Griffin nor Jackson had expected much; she’d woken during the night a few times, but been so disoriented they’d left her to the doctors and her husband.

  Luckily, Barbara Marshall, rescued from the cemetery yesterday, was in the same hospital.

  Barbara had become coherent at about three this morning; they’d spent time with her—and heard the same story. Nothing. Barbara had been slipping a pod into her coffeemaker—that was the last thing she’d remembered.

  Both houses had been equipped with alarms.

  The alarms had been set; the codes had been keyed in. The kidnapper—or kidnappers—had managed to find the alarm codes and slip into the houses without missing a beat on the codes—or being seen whatsoever.

  Griffin pulled up a chair next to Chrissy. He was fully aware that the ghost of Dylan Ballantine was near his mother as well, standing by the bedside table, next to his father.

  He was certain that the ghost had stood guard through the night. At the moment, however, he completely ignored the spirit. His attention was for Chrissy.

  “You didn’t see anything, and you can’t let that distress you. This person—or these persons—are very good at what they do. And it may take you some time. But what I’d like you to do is think. Try to remember anything at all—especially involving your other senses. Did you hear anything that might have been a little odd? Did you smell anything? A cologne, a soap, anything...?”

  He was afraid Chrissy was going to cry. He squeezed her hand. “Please, please, I know it’s upsetting. Just try to think about these things. Something may come back to you.”

  She nodded. “Thank you!” she whispered again. “Thank you so much. I can’t believe that you’re here again. I mean, George said he didn’t even recognize you at first. But you were really the one who saved Noah. If anything had happened to Noah, I wouldn’t have wanted to live. A wood pit grave would have been a blessing!” she said softly.

  “Chrissy,” George said, sounding anguished.

  “Mrs. Ballantine, I was the beat cop who happened to be on the street at the time,” he told her. “But I’m grateful to have been there.”

  “Of course, of course, and now you’re back,” she said.

  “Yes, he’s back,” George said.

  “The FBI was called in to help. I know Boston, so I was a natural to take the case,” Griffin said.

  “Boston has its own FBI office,” George said gruffly.

  “We’re part of a special unit,” Jackson said. He was leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his chest, but he had obviously listened to every word that had been said. “We deal with riddles and puzzles and cases that have strange elements regarding them.”

  “So far, this has all been in Massachusetts,” George muttered. “But I suppose we’re lucky we have the FBI in on it, right?”

  “You have good cops, too, sir,” Griffin said. “But we’ve been assigned—and the more officers working a case like this, well, the better.” He smiled at Chrissy. “We won’t stop until we know the truth.”

  “The truth is that we were targeted. And, we were probably targeted because of Vickie!” George announced, emotion in his voice.

  “George!” Chrissy remonstrated. “You let Noah go with her last night,” she reminded him.

  “Her—and a cop!” George said firmly.

  “Victoria Preston was very nearly the victim of a horrendous crime. She got out of your house with your child. I was there, remember?” Griffin said, trying to control the growing anger he felt. “Vickie was just the babysitter. Your house might have been targeted. Noah might have been the targeted one—just as Chrissy was targeted now.”

&nbs
p; “I don’t mean to be ungrateful!” George said. He suddenly rose, agitated, running his fingers through his hair. “I’m upset. Does anyone but me not think it’s crazy that Vickie was named in the clue when my wife disappeared? It has to be that Bertram Aldridge. He’s involved, somehow.”

  “Naturally, sir, the Bureau and the police have been exploring that angle,” Jackson said flatly. “But Aldridge remains in maximum security.”

  “He should have died!” Chrissy said suddenly. “He should have been hanged or burned or electrocuted or given a needle or gas or whatever they do now in death penalty states. If he had died, those other poor women might still be alive.”

  Everyone was silent for a minute.

  Griffin realized everyone there was struggling with morality—and truth. Men did get out of prison—even maximum security prisons. Too often, they killed again. In the situation years ago, Aldridge had aimed to kill.

  If he had died that day, would any of this be happening? But Aldridge was still safely locked away in prison and could not be guilty of kidnapping and murder.

  “They used the name Preston in the clue,” George said. “And Victoria Preston was at our home when that maniac Aldridge broke in.”

  Griffin swung on him, got his temper in check, and said politely. “Yes, sir. When that maniac Aldridge broke into your home. And, now, sir, your wife was taken. Perhaps you need to think about what you might have done in your past, Mr. Ballantine. What it is you might have done that has attracted psychotic killers?”

  * * *

  Vickie’s mom had implored her to stay at their apartment with Noah.

  But she didn’t want her own parents involved any more than they already were.

  She also wanted time alone with Noah.

  He was extraordinary for a nine-year-old boy. And yet, as she packed him up for the overnight stay, she discovered that he was still, despite everything, at heart, a child.

  They didn’t want to bring too many things, but they looked for his Thor pajamas and collected a number of his superhero action figures along with a box of Lego bricks and, for good measure, his tablet.

  He’d read every one of the Harry Potter books, and enthusiastically assured her that he was a massive fan of Rick Riordan.

  She wondered if he was enchanted by superheroes, magic and mythology because he knew he was unusual. While he didn’t have extraordinary powers, he did speak with his dead brother. In fact, once they were alone in his room, stuffing a change of clothes into his backpack, he told her he considered Dylan to be his best friend. He told Dylan everything. “But,” he told her, “Dylan tells me that you’re really cool, and it’s a sad thing that you moved away because going back and forth wasn’t all that easy.”

  “I think he takes the train—for real,” Vickie told him.

  “Oh, yeah, he told me that he’d kind of liked hitchhiking at first—just jumping into cars on the road,” Noah said. “But every once in a while, someone would kind of know that he was there. He was afraid that he’d freak somebody out or something and cause an accident. Dylan wouldn’t want that to happen to anyone.”

  Dylan had died because of an accident. Vickie smiled and moved on, telling him, “You know what Dylan can do?”

  “What?”

  “He can push a soda can across the table to me when I ask him.”

  “Wow! I’ve never seen him do that!”

  “Ask him sometime,” Vickie said, smiling.

  She realized that the toddler she had once adored had grown into a great kid. She was glad to be with him.

  And glad to share the fact that she saw the ghost of Dylan Ballantine.

  The next morning when they reached the hospital, Vickie held back in the waiting room, letting the officers bring Noah to see his mother.

  A couple of televisions were on, and Vickie went to stand before one of them. The news was on. The reporter was announcing that FBI and BPD forces had found both of the most recent victims of the Undertaker, an assailant who was kidnapping his victims and leaving them with just enough air to live—or not. They had shots of the old cemetery being dug up and shots of an ambulance. There were interviews with witnesses from the streets, but as yet, no interviews with either Barbara Marshall or her family, or Chrissy Ballantine or her family.

  Vickie was staring at the screen as the woman recapped the previous victims of the Undertaker; Angelina Gianna was doing well. Sadly, the first two victims were lost, mourned by their families. And any leads in the Undertaker crimes were being kept close. As far as news sources went, law enforcement was no closer to catching the Undertaker than they had been when the first victim went missing. Everyone was, of course, grateful that Chrissy Ballantine, latest victim, was doing well at an undisclosed hospital; she and her family had been targeted previously by the killer Bertram Aldridge. Thankfully, their young son had survived, especially since the family had already tragically lost one son.

  Vickie was staring at the screen, trying to determine if the anchorwoman had been helpfully informative for the public—or if she hadn’t somewhat sensationalized the Ballantine name—when she felt someone behind her.

  She turned quickly. One of the policemen who had stood guard over her and Noah was still by the door. She was alone in the waiting room.

  Except, she saw, for Dylan.

  He threw his hands up in the air. “My parents! Such good people to be so ignorant at times! Oh, don’t get me wrong, Vickie. I love my mom. I’m so grateful she’s alive.”

  “Everyone is grateful, Dylan,” she whispered.

  “Of course. They’re scared, that’s it. First I die, then you and Noah are nearly killed—and now this. But scared or not. They should think before they talk.”

  “So, what is it?” Vickie pressed.

  “It is wonderful,” Dylan said, ignoring her. “I mean, you should be with them in there with Noah now. Precious. My baby bro is really great, isn’t he? Smart as a whip. You’d think he was a teenager.”

  “He’s very smart—and perceptive,” Vickie said. “So, what—”

  “They think you have something to do with the family being attacked again,” Dylan told her.

  “What?” Vickie burst out with the word, drawing the attention of the cop at the door. She pursed her lips and lowered her head; she’d learned how not to look crazy by never visibly reacting to Dylan in any way—now she was doing so.

  “Everything all right, miss?” the officer called to her.

  “Yes, fine, thank you!” she called back, and turned her gaze again before repeating softy but fervently to Dylan, “What?”

  “They’re just scared,” Dylan said quickly. “It’s just that you were there when Noah was nearly kidnapped or killed, and then your name...your name was on the clue.”

  Vickie could feel the hot red flush that covered her cheeks. “Are they forgetting that I might have been killed that day as well? And that the Undertaker was after your mom—not me?” she asked.

  “Vickie, Vickie, please, not you, too. Don’t fly off the handle. I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I’ve never seen you so angry. Not even when I made the pile of books fall over on that one guy you were dating. By the way—he was a jerk. Vickie...”

  “I’m sorry, Dylan. Yeah, they’re scared. That’s okay. They’re all together now. I think I’m going to go ahead and go home. Gee. Go figure, I do have to work for a living. I have a pile of books and old transcripts and other things to go through. Noah is fine; your folks are fine. I’m going home,” she told him.

  “Vickie, it’s my fault, please, don’t be mad—they’re good people. Honest. My parents are good people,” Dylan said.

  “And they’re fine now, and I do have things to do. I’ll see them again soon, I’m sure. I’m not mad.”

  “You are mad. You’r
e wicked mad.”

  “Just a little. I will get over it.”

  “Vickie...!” Dylan had such a look of distress on his face that she paused.

  He’d died as a teenager. He’d never be any older. He’d been a great young man. He always would be. She was sure he’d had no idea of just how deeply he had offended her.

  “I’m really fine—I honestly understand,” she said.

  As she headed toward the door, the cop stepped into it. “Miss Preston, may I escort you somewhere? Did you want to go down to the cafeteria, or would you like some coffee?”

  “Officer, Noah is safe with his parents. Chrissy Ballantine needs her rest. I think I’d like to go home. I have to work,” she said.

  She saw him frown. She supposed nothing about her going home had been in his orders that day.

  “Please,” she said.

  He didn’t have to deal with the dilemma. FBI Special Agent Griffin Pryce came walking into the waiting room.

  “Hey,” he said, smiling at the officer and then her.

  “I’d like to go home,” Vickie said. She was braced; she expected trouble.

  “I hurt her feelings. I didn’t mean to,” Dylan said.

  Special Agent Griffin Pryce gave no sign that he heard Dylan speak. “I’m sure that’s fine. It was good of you to take such special care of Noah last night.”

  “Taking care of Noah is a pleasure and no hardship,” Vickie said. “But he’s fine now. In with his parents.”

  “Of course. I’ll see you there myself, Vickie,” he said.

  “Thank you, Special Agent Pryce,” she said.

  “It’s all right, Officer Murphy. Thank you,” Griffin told the cop. He indicated the open waiting room door to Vickie; she headed on out.

  He joined her in the hallway. “Special Agent Pryce?” he repeated, glancing at her as they headed to the elevators. “We used to be friends.”

  “Were we? Not that I mean to be rude or offensive in any way,” Vickie said. “But I’m not sure we were friends. You saved my life—and Noah’s. And then you came to my house and checked up on me a few times. And then I graduated and went to college and never saw you again. Until now. I mean, we’re not not friends, but...you have a very formal job now. I think I’m being rude. Or babbling. I may just be tired...forgive me.”