Dying Breath

by Heather Graham

  “You are awesome, Miss Preston,” Cheryl assured her, leaning back while they were on the river and smiling. “This is too cool. Never thought I’d get to do things like this!”

  “Ditto,” Hardy said. He looked at Cheryl longingly.

  “Never thought I’d be encouraged to make so much noise—when learning history, of course, Miss Preston,” Art said.

  Cindy was quiet and Vickie worried about her. But as they were coming in, she turned to Vickie. “This is what I want to do! I want to be a tour guide. I want to use all this stuff and learn more and more—and be a tour guide!”

  “Sounds great,” Vickie told her.

  Vickie wasn’t sitting with Griffin; he had taken to the back with a group of students and a young couple; she was in the row ahead with Cheryl, Hardy, Art and Cindy.

  “You know, Miss P,” Hardy said, lowering his voice. “I think this situation is a little cold on your part.”

  “What’s that, Hardy?”

  “Making the Fed sit back there. He’s your guardian, huh?”

  “I think he’s more than that,” Cheryl teased.

  Vickie hoped that she wasn’t flushing, or giving herself away in any measure.

  “We’re both out with the group of you. Doesn’t matter where we sit,” Vickie said.

  “She’s good,” Hardy told Art at his side, nudging him.

  Art grinned at her.

  “Oh, in many ways, I’ll bet!” Cindy said, laughing. She quickly sobered and apologized. “Sorry, didn’t mean anything. I’m grateful for you, Miss Preston. Really grateful.”

  “We’d never get opportunities like this if it weren’t for you,” Art said.

  “And Grown Ups,” Vickie reminded them.

  Tad flicked his fingers in the air. “Money is easy to give—well, I imagine. If you have a bunch of it, I’ll bet it’s easy to part with some. Time. That’s what people never have for kids, so it seems. Anyway, if we’re obnoxious, just smack us down. Because we do appreciate your time.”

  Tad used his “quacker” and made a lot of noise—others joined in.

  Eventually, the tour was over, and they returned to the Prudential Center.

  The next trip with her group was the aquarium, the following week.

  “I’m so excited,” Cheryl told her. “My friend is with your friend, Roxanne Greeley—they just went to the aquarium. I do love fish! And they have beluga whales. And penguins and...well, I love aquariums.”

  “I love them, too,” Art said. He looked at Cheryl adoringly.

  Cheryl, it had seemed, however, was usually closer to Hardy.

  Vickie always felt a bit odd when her group broke off and left. They were all just about to reach their eighteenth birthdays; they were fully formed. Young adults. They were just a few months younger than she had been when she’d moved down to NYC. She still worried about them. She always hoped they got home safely.

  “Young doe-eyed love, eh?” Griffin asked, standing closer to her as they waved to the last of the kids.

  “Which one?”

  “Art. Seems to have it bad for Cheryl. And that little Cheryl. She is a minx. But an interesting one. Wise—and cunning!—beyond her years. Taunting Art in turn, though she seems to gravitate to Hardy.”

  “Ah, the all-seeing mind of the mature male!” she teased.

  “We need to head to the Ballantine house,” he told her, turning serious.

  Vickie felt her nerves tense. “Has something happened?” she asked quickly.

  He shook his head. “Not that I know about—but Jackson received a call from Chrissy Ballantine. She asked if we’d come by. She specifically mentioned you, but she talked with Jackson first and suggested Detective Barnes might like to come, too.”

  “You think she might have remembered something else?” Vickie asked.

  “Maybe. I don’t know. I keep hoping. We’ve looked in so many directions. I do believe Aldridge is involved, but since torture isn’t ethical, we have to try to finesse him. Threaten—and hope to trip him up. Naturally, we looked into Reginald Mason—the guy who broke out with Aldridge years ago. The two had something. They escaped that day through a shaft they’d built in the walls in the laundry room—each covering the other constantly. So, they definitely had a bond. But Reginald Mason was actually released six months ago—humanitarian reasons. He was dying of cancer, and he wasn’t faking that. He did, indeed, die. Thing is, Aldridge always liked knives. Reginald Mason was in prison for two strangulation murders—asphyxiation, though not quite the same. I’m tempted to dig up the man and find out if he’s really the one who died.”

  “I’m sure they checked on that,” Vickie said.

  “Ah, well. Key word there—they. He had a parole officer, but the guy checked on him twice in the two months he lived outside of prison. He visited a man in bed.”

  “But—surely, the doctors in the prison system would have known if the man really had cancer or not.”

  “Yes. But as we all know, sometimes cancer is brutal and swift. Sometimes, there are cases of regression. At any rate, I’m going to say Aldridge did know about the bodies in the wall. But how he’s conveyed so many things to his fan club, I don’t know.”

  “Cell phone. He’s allowed a couple of calls a week.”

  “I still think there’s someone out there, some way, somehow, doing...something,” he finished lamely. “Detective Barnes said it was a tough place growing up. He remembers hearing about old murders and about Quaker ghosts and that there were three shootings on his block when he was a kid. Anyway, we’ll see what else he might have.” He was quiet for a minute. “Him—and Ballantine.”

  They drove, though it was a matter of blocks. They were the first to arrive; Vickie almost went to the kitchen door, she’d been so accustomed to doing so years earlier. But Griffin headed up the front walk to the porch and the mammoth old colonial doors.

  He lifted his hand to hit the buzzer, but the door opened for them.

  Chrissy Ballantine was in slacks and a sweater, looking a bit thin and bit pinched—and very worried. But she smiled as she greeted them. Vickie felt a bit awkward; Chrissy reached for her though and pulled her into a hug.

  “Whatever you might have heard, I’m an idiot,” Chrissy said. “Vickie, I’m so grateful to you. You saved Noah—you saved me. I don’t know... I might have babbled. I might have been looking for someone to blame. I’m so sorry. Forgive me?”

  “Of course.”

  “Come in, come in.”

  Noah came running down the stairs as Vickie and Griffin entered. He threw himself into Vickie’s arms. “You came! I’m so glad. Thank you for coming over!”

  The ghost of Dylan followed Noah down. He grinned at Vickie and Griffin happily.

  “It’s super to see you, Noah,” Vickie said.

  “Likewise, young man,” Griffin told him.

  “Well, come in, come in. I’ve made some iced tea and have some snacks. Where are my manners? There should be more. It’s almost dinner time,” Chrissy said, looking confused again. The woman was really off—as if something was really wrong.

  “Chrissy, we’re supposed to be at my parents’ place for dinner, so please, don’t worry. We don’t need anything at all,” Vickie said.

  “Oh! Yes, well, I’m sorry. To be honest, I needed to apologize,” she said. “And, I was wondering...well, I know certain things were supposed to be kept quiet. But people do leak...they say things. And then it becomes tell a friend, tell a friend...anyway, a lot of people know one of the victims remembered bits and pieces of what had happened when she was hypnotized.”

  “Mom, maybe we should move into the parlor and let them have some tea,” Noah said, sounding very mature.

  “Yes, please!” Chrissy said.

  A minute later they were seated
in the parlor. Dylan had followed; he stood by the mantel, leaning against the wall. He was somber, not doing anything to try to throw any of them into acknowledging his presence. He looked worried.

  They all had glasses of iced tea. Vickie wasn’t really hungry, but Chrissy was so anxious that she accepted a little quiche. Then, finally, Chrissy took a seat herself.

  “I just keep hearing more and more. I’m so worried. Not so much for me—there’s a man watching the house, of course. I mean, we’re lucky, we can afford our own help...” She broke off and smiled at Noah. “I wish George was here—you talked to your dad, Noah, right? He said that he wouldn’t be home for a while?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Noah said. “I don’t think he knew you were going to ask the agents and Vickie over. I didn’t know.” He paused and smiled at them. “I’m really glad you’re here, though. I’m happy to see you.”

  “You, too,” Griffin assured him.

  Vickie realized then that Chrissy Ballantine had purposely not told her husband about inviting them over; she also thought Chrissy might have been planning on Noah being somewhere else, too.

  She’d wanted to talk to them alone.

  “Poor Noah!” Chrissy murmured. “He was supposed to have baseball practice this afternoon. His coach called in sick! My darling, you must be so bored with your poor old mum being such a scaredy-cat!” Chrissy said.

  “Never bored by you, Mom,” Noah assured her. He smiled. “I love you.”

  “And I love you!” Chrissy whispered.

  There was no way Chrissy could possibly get Noah to just leave.

  And, therefore, she wouldn’t say what she had intended to say.

  “So,” Griffin said, apparently as aware of the situation as Vickie, “you were curious about us using hypnotism. You think you might know something that you don’t know you know, Chrissy?”

  “I just think...well, I mean, I guess the other woman didn’t know she knew anything, right? It was Barbara Marshall? One day, we should have a survivor’s group, maybe. I’m so sorry. And the latest victim... I don’t know...how do you judge pain and fear and trauma? But for Fiona West...did she know she was walled-up with old corpses?” Chrissy shivered.

  “Fiona hasn’t been able to give us anything, I’m afraid. And she’s still in the hospital,” Griffin told Chrissy.

  “Okay, so, would you like me to come to the station—and see the hypnotist?” Chrissy asked.

  “We could have her come here for you,” Jackson offered.

  Chrissy flushed. “Oh, no. I can come to the station.”

  “Well, I’ll let you figure all that out,” Vickie said, rising. “Noah, I was hoping I could have a word with you, upstairs.”

  As she’d hoped, Noah glanced at her and nodded, assuming she wanted to talk to him about Dylan, and would not try to do so in front of his mother.

  “If that’s all right with you, Chrissy?” Vickie asked.

  “Sure.”

  “Come on, cool, I’ll show you my latest superhero action figures!” he told Vickie.

  He headed out of the parlor and up the stairs. Vickie followed, desperately curious about what was going on downstairs, but glad to give Chrissy the opportunity to talk.

  Apparently, Noah wanted to talk to her, too.

  Dylan hadn’t followed them; he was remaining downstairs.

  At the door to his room, Noah looked back. He urged Vickie in, checked to see they weren’t followed and shut the door.

  “Vickie, I’m so scared.”

  “What is it, Noah, what’s wrong?” she asked him.

  “My mom, my dad... I don’t know what it is. He never comes home anymore, Vickie. And my mom cries all the time. She hates it when Dad is out—and she seems scared when he’s home. Vickie, they’re not even sleeping in the same bedroom. They had one big blowout fight. Neither of them wants me to know, but... I may be a kid, Vickie, I’m not stupid.”

  “Oh,” Vickie said. She lifted her hands, trying to make him feel better. “Parents fight sometimes. Mine fight, and they’re like the two sweetest and most easygoing people ever. We might all think differently about a situation. And, Noah, this whole thing has the entire city on edge. Your mom...she was buried alive, Noah. She had to have been so scared. But I think her having us here...it will be good. She can come to the station and see the hypnotist, and when she’s done, I’ll ask Griffin and he’ll see to it she gets some help, some counseling. I’ll do anything I can for you, you know that.”

  Noah nodded, seeming a little relieved.

  “Dylan is here. He’s been with you,” Vickie noted. “What does he say?”

  “He’s mad—he’s mad at our dad.”

  “Oh?”

  “For being gone,” he says. “For not being around when we need him most. I think he wanted to follow dad.” He giggled suddenly. “Actually, he tried to hit Dad the other day. It was funny. You could see Dad felt something, but...”

  His voice trailed.

  “We’ll do everything we can,” she promised him. “And,” she added, a finger to her lips, “let Dylan know I’d like to speak with him. When you can, huh?”

  “Sure.”

  “Noah?”

  Chrissy was calling. Noah opened the door and yelled out.

  “Yeah, Mom?”

  “Vickie needs to go. We don’t want to get her mom and dad worried, too—or ruin their dinner!”

  “On my way down,” Vickie said.

  She hugged Noah fiercely. “You’re a great kid,” she told him.

  He smiled. “You were always the best, Bick-bick. I love you, too, you know.”

  “Love you, kid!” she said, adjusting the baseball cap on his head. “And you call me anytime—about anything, all right?”

  “Yep, I will,” Noah promised.

  Vickie hurried down the stairs. Chrissy, Griffin and Jackson were standing in the foyer.

  Dylan was protectively close to his mother.

  “We’ll see you at the station, then, Mrs. Ballantine,” Griffin said. “And thank you so much. Noah, cool to see you.”

  “You guys, too,” Noah said.

  Then they were out the door.

  “So—so what happened downstairs?” Vickie demanded, the minute they were in the car.

  “We’re about two seconds from your mom’s place,” Griffin said.

  “So, we’ll talk there?” Vickie asked.

  “Oh, no. No, no. We’re going to have dinner. I’m not having the wrath of the Preston duo down on me,” Griffin said.

  “So, tell her. Just tell her,” Jackson said. “And we’ll talk after.”

  “Tell me!” Vickie pleaded.

  Griffin sighed. “Chrissy Ballantine is suspicious of George.”

  “What?” Vickie said incredulously. “Of him...cheating on her. Of...”

  “She suspects him of murder—of having an affair, and, with his girlfriend, committing the murders,” Griffin said.

  “No! How, why? I mean...”

  “Told you—two seconds to your mom’s place,” Griffin said, as Jackson parked the car. “We will talk later. For now, Vickie—so that your parents don’t violently throw us onto the street—smile!”

  12

  Griffin tried to keep the conversation off the deadly situation at hand.

  And for a few minutes, it worked. Lucy and Philip Preston greeted them at the door and offered drinks and their second round of snack food, cheese and meats and crackers and other little finger foods. They accepted pops, but declined alcohol—Griffin didn’t want to be off in any way, even a hair. Jackson seemed to share his state of mind.

  Lucy asked about Vickie’s Grown Ups group and she told them cheerfully about the excursion that day.

  “Not on your own, rig
ht?” Lucy asked sharply.

  “I enjoyed every minute of it,” Griffin assured her.

  Lucy nodded. “And you, sir, Special Agent Crow?”

  “Jackson will do just fine—I am, after all, a dinner guest in your home, Mrs. Preston.”

  “Lucy should do then, too, just fine,” Lucy Preston said.

  “Well, I understand you actually live in the DC area now,” Philip said.

  “Northern Virginia,” Griffin said.

  “Nice area. But anyway, we wanted to treat you with a taste of home so Lucy has made her ever-famous New England clam chowder and we are having baked scrod and lobster tails!” Philip said, proud of the cuisine, as if he was announcing a win at an awards ceremony.

  “Excellent,” Griffin said, “thank you so much.”

  “Can I help, Mom?” Vickie asked.

  “I think we’re all set, table is done...just got to get our food out of the oven. Now, agents, I have to admit, I’m not sure this would be the most healthful meal! The scrod is lovely of course, but we do bake it with a butter and graham cracker crust.”

  “I’m sure it’s going to be delicious,” Griffin said.

  “So much in life is absolutely delicious!” Vickie said, giving him a slightly mischievous look.

  He kept his cool. He knew he cared about Vickie; really cared. And he knew she loved her parents—he was not getting himself into their bad graces.

  “Scrod, always,” he said pleasantly.

  As it happened, he helped take the large tray of individual scrod dishes out of the oven; Jackson and Philip carried out sides and Vickie poured the drinks. And while there was talk of food and plates as they set up, they’d barely been seated and taken their first bites—applauding the meal, which was delicious—before Philip brought them all point-blank back to the kidnappings and the murders.

  “We have followed every inch of the news,” he said. “So, a couple. Amazing. Boston is full of couples. Sadly, we’ve also had our share of very bad people. The Boston Strangler. There was Alfred Gaynor, though that was out in Springfield. In recent history? Bombers. But even then, how do you see such a killer? With a couple... I see how people might not notice a nice young couple following them, but...how in God’s name to you find out who they are? Do you start stopping every duo on the street?” He swung around to stare at Vickie, caught with a dish of slivered-almond green beans in her hand. “And you! What is it—how are you figuring out where these bodies are, and, Vickie, if you can do that, why can’t you figure out who is doing all this and have these men arrest the crooks?”