Dying Breath
Page 1
Buried alive...
As a teenager, Vickie Preston survived an attack by a serial killer. That was the first time she saw a ghost. Now the city of Boston is being terrorized—someone is kidnapping women and burying them alive, but cruelly leaving a glimmer of hope for the authorities by sending a clue about their location. Vickie is pulled into the investigation when her name is mentioned in one of the notes. And as a historian, she has the knowledge to help uncover the graves the killer known as the Undertaker is choosing. But she also has another, unique lead: the spirit of one of the victims is appearing to her in dreams.
Special Agent Griffin Price is on the case for the Krewe of Hunters, the FBI’s special unit for paranormal investigators. He feels particularly protective of Vickie, since their shared past is connected to the threat that currently surrounds them. With the killer accelerating his plans, time is running out for more victims hidden around the city. Vickie is becoming closer with Griffin, but she’s getting too close to the danger, and every breath could be her last.
Praise for the novels of
New York Times bestselling author
Heather Graham
“Each new book involving the Krewe of Hunters takes the reader on a dark adventure where speaking to the dead is an everyday occurrence, the past and present collide and compelling characters find a sense of belonging. Graham’s skill for rendering her world in such vivid detail makes readers want to know more about the real-life locations she draws from.”
—RT Book Reviews
“Intricate, fast-paced, and intense, this riveting thriller blends romance and suspense in perfect combination and keeps readers guessing and the tension taut until the very end.”
—Library Journal on Flawless
“Riveting mystery...interesting history, sweet romance with a second chance at love.”
—Fresh Fiction on Darkest Journey
“Graham is a master at world building and her latest is a thrilling, dark, and deadly tale of romantic suspense.”
—Booklist, starred review, on Haunted Destiny
“The Krewe is back! Graham excels at weaving history, finding the proper balance between past and present and keeping a story fresh and authentic, with Haunted Destiny being no exception. The chaos and camaraderie of the characters are captured with vivid detail, and the identity of the killer will keep you guessing until the very end.”
—RT Book Reviews
“Graham is the queen of romantic suspense.”
—RT Book Reviews
Also by HEATHER GRAHAM
A PERFECT OBSESSION
DARKEST JOURNEY
DEADLY FATE
HAUNTED DESTINY
FLAWLESS
THE HIDDEN
THE FORGOTTEN
THE SILENCED
THE DEAD PLAY ON
THE BETRAYED
THE HEXED
THE CURSED
WAKING THE DEAD
THE NIGHT IS FOREVER
THE NIGHT IS ALIVE
THE NIGHT IS WATCHING
LET THE DEAD SLEEP
THE UNINVITED
THE UNSPOKEN
THE UNHOLY
THE UNSEEN
AN ANGEL FOR CHRISTMAS
THE EVIL INSIDE
SACRED EVIL
HEART OF EVIL
PHANTOM EVIL
NIGHT OF THE VAMPIRES
THE KEEPERS
GHOST MOON
GHOST NIGHT
GHOST SHADOW
THE KILLING EDGE
NIGHT OF THE WOLVES
HOME IN TIME FOR CHRISTMAS
UNHALLOWED GROUND
DUST TO DUST
NIGHTWALKER
DEADLY GIFT
DEADLY HARVEST
DEADLY NIGHT
THE DEATH DEALER
THE LAST NOEL
THE SÉANCE
BLOOD RED
THE DEAD ROOM
KISS OF DARKNESS
THE VISION
THE ISLAND
GHOST WALK
KILLING KELLY
THE PRESENCE
DEAD ON THE DANCE FLOOR
PICTURE ME DEAD
HAUNTED
HURRICANE BAY
A SEASON OF MIRACLES
NIGHT OF THE BLACKBIRD
NEVER SLEEP WITH STRANGERS
EYES OF FIRE
SLOW BURN
NIGHT HEAT
* * * * *
Look for Heather Graham’s next novel
DARK RITES
available soon from MIRA Books.
HEATHER
GRAHAM
Dying Breath
To the great and amazing state of Massachusetts
and my family there.
Some people marry for money...
When I was eighteen and madly in love, I could have married
to acquire my in-law family, the most wonderful group of
people one could imagine, stemming from the Miro and
Pozzessere tribes. All in all now, that is well over a hundred
people—and every one of them is wonderful!
This book, though, is especially in memory of Uncle George,
my whist partner, cribbage instructor and so much more.
He taught about decency, kindness, generosity and
compassion in the best possible way—
simply by very quietly maintaining all those qualities himself.
For Auntie Dee, the best aunt anyone could imagine,
who has always called me her niece, and never her in-law.
For Kenny, Doreen, John, Bill, Ashley, Eric, Anna and Alex—
I am privileged to have you all in my life.
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Victoria (Vickie) Preston—historian, author
and youth-group leader
Griffin Pryce—special agent with the FBI’s Krewe of Hunters
Jackson Crow—field director, Krewe of Hunters
Bertram Aldridge—serial killer, in prison
Chrissy and George Ballantine—family friends of Vickie’s
Dylan Ballantine—Chrissy and George’s teenaged son,
now a ghost
Noah Ballantine—Chrissy and George’s young son,
nine years old
Friends and family
Lucy and Dr. Philip Preston—Vickie’s parents
Roxanne Greeley—Vickie’s best friend
Hank Fremont—Vickie’s high school boyfriend
Mario Caro—runs local family restaurant Pasta Fagioli
Local law enforcement
Detective David Barnes—Boston PD
Lenora Connor—hypnotist
Carl Lumley—private security
Donald Baugh—private security
Students in Vickie’s youth group
Art Groton, Hardy Richardson, Cheryl Taylor,
Cathy MacDonald, Jan, Frank, Ivan, Gio, Cindy and Sasha
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 15
Epilogue
Prologue
The side door was open just a hair, but that little bit brought a hint of wintry air that sent a chill racing down Vickie Preston’s spine. She shivered. She moved closer to the door and found herself looking out at the day through the double-paned window.
It was gray. Turning darker quickly as the day waned into the late afternoon.
Nothing unexpected, since it was winter, and still...
She felt unnerved. The wind seemed to have a keening sound about it—a sound that made her think of her granny O’Malley talking about banshees wailing.
Or maybe it was the fact that the door was open—even though she didn’t know why it would be. But she knew it was all right. Mr. and Mrs. Ballantine hadn’t even left for their night out yet. She would just ask him about the door—maybe he’d been taking something out to the car.
Still, oddly trembling, she closed the door and locked it. As she did so, Chrissy Ballantine came sailing into the kitchen, adjusting her gloves.
“Choose any of those little packets of food you’d like,” Mrs. Ballantine said. “You know where they all are. Noah will probably need to eat about 8:30 tonight and there’s a six-ounce bottle he can have after he eats his food. He’ll most likely fall asleep after that. The baby monitor is next to the crib, of course. The diapers are next to the crib...and well, you know the drill. You have my number, and you have George’s number, and...”
“Chrissy, can we go, please!” George Ballantine said, coming up behind his wife, slipping an arm around her waist. “My dear, as we know, Vickie is the most amazing babysitter in the world and if you torture her to death with commonsense details, she’ll leave us!”
Vickie Preston smiled at them both.
God bless the Ballantines!
They were both in their midforties; Noah was, truly, a miracle child for them.
It had never been easy for her, Chrissy had once told Vickie. It seemed like a gift from above that she had finally gotten pregnant again. Fertility drugs before—and now? Just a miracle.
Yes, Noah was a miracle.
And before...
Even though they had little Noah, tears often sprang to Chrissy’s eyes when she referred to an earlier time—and the son they had lost. After all their first efforts twenty years ago, they had finally had a child: Dylan. Dylan had been great, a son any parent could adore. Good in school, good in sports, but more—a great sport himself, happy when he won, able to shrug it off and smile when he or his team lost.
A year shy of his eighteenth birthday, Dylan had been killed by a drunk driver. His death had nearly killed his parents as well; it had devastated a community. George Ballantine had left his high-tech job in New York City—too many memories—and relocated in Boston. And while his wife had still been in mourning, she’d suddenly found out that she would have the second child she had always wanted.
Vickie knew all about the Ballantines because the families knew each other through church. Chrissy Ballantine had called Vickie’s mom, and Vickie had been interviewed. She had been in awe when she’d heard how much she could make, just babysitting a sweet child. And while she was very happy about Noah, she also felt terrible for the couple, and she thought about the young man she saw in pictures about the house—Dylan Ballantine—often enough. She was now just about the age he had been when he died, almost eighteen. She found herself wondering what his life had been like—he’d been popular, certainly. Had he dreamed about college, being on his own, the places he might go, the things he might do in life?
Dylan was gone, but it was just sixteen months and three days ago that Noah Ballantine had made his stunning and miraculous arrival into the world.
For the first six months of his life, Chrissy had refused to leave his side. Her psychiatrist had finally convinced her she would smother her poor child, herself and her marriage if she didn’t learn to trust someone. Vickie was always grateful they had chosen her.
“Yes, yes, of course, we can go,” Chrissy said. “I’ll just look in on the baby one more time, though, I know, of course Vickie will be fine.”
“Vickie will be fine—whether you go stare at Noah again or not!” George said firmly.
Vickie could easily understand how precious the child was to both Chrissy and George. She loved the baby herself, as well as both of the Ballantines—and loved babysitting for them. They had a great old historic house that was one of the few listed on the National Historic Register and still a private residence in the midst of the explosion of Boston as a city. When she babysat in the afternoon, she would walk part of the Freedom Trail and, despite the fact she was a city native, still marvel at the Old South Meeting House, the Granary Burial Ground and other local wonders.
Her own house was old, but not nearly so old—or distinguished—as the Ballantine house. It had been built in 1790, combining the Georgian and Federal styles, and the architecture itself was amazing. The house was on most walking tours of the city. It had hosted Samuel Adams at one time, along with John Hancock and a number of other Revolutionary notables. Her home was nice—mid-1800s—but it had been built as apartments and was an apartment building to this day. Nothing like this.
“Oh, but his clothes!” Chrissy said. “I need to show Vickie where everything he might need can be found.”
“Vickie knows where everything Noah has can be found. Details—you’re going to drive the poor girl crazy!” George said.
“Darling, I don’t get crazy on details,” Chrissy protested. “Okay, I do,” she admitted, looking at Vickie. “But—”
“I’m fine. I don’t mind details,” Vickie assured her.
From his play area in the living room, Noah suddenly let out a demanding cry. Chrissy Ballantine immediately jumped and turned to go to him.
Her husband caught her arm. “Vickie is here now. She’ll get Noah. And we’ll head out to our dinner with my boss, huh?”
“Yes, of course, of course.” Chrissy smiled at Vickie, hugged her impetuously and allowed her husband to steer her to the kitchen door.
A blast of cold air swept in; the house didn’t have a garage, but rather a porte cochere, or covered drive, once a carriage entry. It was small and tight to the house, allowing for one car. But then they didn’t need more than one car where they were in Boston. Public transportation on the T was great.
George Ballantine looked back at Vickie and winked. She smiled and waved and headed to the door to close and lock it behind them.
But Chrissy was suddenly back, rapping on the window. “The alarm!” she said.
“I’ve got it!” Vickie assured her. And she keyed in the alarm.
As she did so, she remembered that she had forgotten to ask George Ballantine why the side door had been open. She rekeyed the alarm to Off and threw open the door.
But their silver Mercedes had already driven into the night.
She heard Noah let out another wail and she quickly locked the door and keyed in the alarm again before hurrying back to the grand parlor.
She wasn’t really sure why any kid would be crying or wanting to leave this play space. His “playpen” was constructed to cover an area that was a good fifteen-by-fifteen feet long and wide. He could crawl onto his scooter, play with his toddler walker—or any number of the amazing toys in the carefully constructed play box in the play area.
Despite being spoiled rotten, Noah Ballantine was a sweet and affectionate baby. He had taken to Vickie right away, which had helped her earn the position. She adored him in turn.
He wasn’t screaming or crying out with his few words when she reached the parlor; he was staring into what appeared to be blank space. And then he began to laugh—the way he did when they watched Little Baby Bum videos and clapped and played.
His i
nteraction with blank space made Vickie curious—and uncomfortable. She told herself that she was just spooked. She silently cursed herself for not asking George Ballantine about the open door—he would have said something to reassure her.
“What ya doing, my little love?” Vickie said, stepping over the playpen gate and hunkering down by the baby. He truly was a sweetheart. He looked at her and gave her a brilliant smile and clapped his hands.
He was blessed with huge hazel eyes and a thatch of rich sandy hair and couldn’t possibly have been a cuter boy.
He clapped his hands again.
“Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, baker man! Bake me a cake as fast as you can!” she said. “Roll it, and poke it, and mark it with a B, and then put it in the oven for my baby and me!”
He responded with more laughter and smiles, and then looked aside again—as if someone else was there.
“Okay, okay, creeping me out there, kid!” Vickie said. “And, by the way—P.U.! You stink-um, dink-um!” she told him. “You need a diaper change.”
She swept him up, climbed over the playpen gate and headed for the stairs.
She stopped halfway there, hearing a tapping at the window. It seemed that her heart caught in her throat.
Just branches in the wind, branches in the wind...
But if she didn’t check it out, she’d scare herself all night. Cuddling Noah to her, she headed to the window and held her breath as she drew back the drapery.
“As I expected!” she said, keeping her voice filled with fun—she wasn’t about to scare the baby. “Branches! Rude! How rude of them to tap at the window like that.”
Noah thought it was all great.
“Up the stairs we go!”
Noah’s room was a fantasy playland. His crib and dressing table, changing table, floor mat and toy chest were all done up in a jungle motif in pastel blues with an elephant theme. She grabbed a diaper and the wipes and made quick work of the change.
She felt her cell phone buzzing and answered it quickly, balancing Noah in the crook of her left arm. Her mom always called to make sure she was okay. Vickie was always afraid if she didn’t answer quickly, her mom would have cops at the door. But it wasn’t her mom, it was Roxanne Greeley, one of her best friends.