The Dying Breath

by Ferguson, Alane

  “Thank God she’s back,” her father cried. His strong arms propped her up, but she could feel Justin, too, his hand over hers, rough and warm. Patrick and Justin seemed to be jostling for position, but for now her father had won. His worried eyes searched hers while his hair, usually so controlled, stood straight up from his forehead like feathers. “Baby, are you all right?” he asked. Then the forced smile that she knew meant whatever was happening wasn’t good. “It’s all okay. You’re going to be okay. Just relax now, you’re fine.”

  “What happened?” she croaked. Her throat felt dry. Justin thrust a plastic cup of water toward her. His hands were steady as he pressed it to her lips. Grateful, she drank, as the sheriff said, “You fainted. You would have landed smack on the floor if my deputy hadn’t caught you. He grabbed you right before you hit.”

  “I fainted?” Cameryn felt a hot wave of embarrassment. She’d never, not in her entire life, ever done something so melodramatic. Fainting was something women in old-fashioned movies did. It didn’t happen to someone like her, not to a scientist who lived in a world of fact. She began to register the various segments of her body, the way her feet, still encased the paper booties, lay on the arm of the couch. For the briefest of seconds her mind couldn’t process why it had happened. And then the memory came flooding back and she took in a sharp gasp of air. Kyle. He had called her. Kyle O’Neil knew exactly where she was, which meant he was out there, somewhere, watching her, hunting. She began to shake. “Oh my God,” she whispered, her eyes so wide she could feel the strain of her skin. “I remember. Oh my God! Kyle—it was Kyle. He knows I’m here!” The shuddering overtook her, rocking her body like waves.

  “Get a blanket,” her father commanded, and Ben obeyed. “Cameryn, are you sure? Could it have been someone trying to play a joke?”

  “No, Dad, I know his voice—it was him!”

  “I knew it!” Justin hissed. His hand, balled into a fist, hit the edge of the couch. “I’ll kill him. I swear I’ll kill him myself.”

  “I think that’ll be my job,” her father shot back. “Sheriff? Can you trace the call and get a location on that bastard?”

  “I’ll get right on it,” Jacobs said. He held up Cameryn’s BlackBerry, which he must have already taken from her when they carried her to the couch. “But I’ll lay money that he called her on a disposable phone.”

  “A what?” Patrick asked.

  “A cheap phone you buy and throw out when the minutes are up—you can’t track them. My next step is to notify the FBI and the Durango police, but before I do”—he bent close to her, narrowing his eyes—“it’s very important that you tell me exactly what he said. Can you do that, Cammie?” Without breaking eye contact he pulled out his pad and pen.

  “Now?” Justin snapped. “Why don’t you give her a minute?”

  “No, Deputy, we do it immediately, while it’s still fresh in her mind. Procedure, remember?”

  Slowly, painfully, Cameryn repeated the nightmare conversation. Sheriff Jacobs nodded once, twice, three times, then abruptly turned to Dr. Moore. “Would it be okay if I used your office to make the call? It’ll be more private from there, Doc. If we’ve got any chance of tracing this wacko I need to move now.”

  “Be my guest,” Dr. Moore replied. Suddenly, Cameryn registered the doctor’s hand on the top of her head, patting her as though she were a child. It was the first time he’d ever touched her. When she looked up into his gruff face she saw his eyes glisten with emotion. “I have every confidence that your father, the deputy, and the sheriff will keep you safe,” he told her. He swallowed and his Adam’s apple bobbed somewhere beneath the folds of his neck. “Add my name to the list. I’d never let anyone hurt my star protégée.”

  “Thanks, Dr. Moore.”

  “Now go home and get some rest.”

  “But Joseph Stein . . . the autopsy . . .” she protested.

  “We’ll manage.” He turned his gaze to her father, then to Justin. “Keep her safe. I’ve already seen what Kyle O’Neil is capable of. I never want to see his handiwork again.”

  “Mammaw, I’m fine,” Cameryn moaned. “Stop hovering!”

  “You call it hoverin’, do ya?” her grandmother snapped as she paced around the kitchen table where Cameryn sat. “Hoverin’, when there’s a madman out there looking to snatch you away! Hoverin’, when the next time Kyle O’Neil shows up it might be in person, and then what will you do?” Her tone shifted ever so slightly as she added, “Now I’d like you to eat. Today’s been a shock.”

  Sighing, Cameryn propped her head on her hand. Steam from the bowl wafted to her face. Although it smelled delicious, her stomach closed against it. “I’m not hungry.”

  “Of course you are. Take a bite.”

  “Mammaw, not every problem is solved by food.”

  The normally soft Irish lilt her grandmother spoke with, a legacy from her childhood in Ireland, turned crisp as she said, “This trouble circles back to you being around all that death. I’ve said all along forensics is wrong and now my words have come home to roost.” In a red Valentine sweater, her earlobes elongated by heavy plastic heart-shaped earrings, Mammaw looked like the majority of Silverton grandmothers, with her square face crowned by a wreath of short, white hair. But Mammaw was different from the other women. She was an Irish force of nature.

  “Please,” Cameryn begged. “Don’t start.”

  “I’m only saying you should forget this autopsy nonsense and dedicate your life to becoming a real doctor.” As always, her grandmother reminded Cameryn of a chicken hunting grain. Peck, peck, peck—her words nibbled away at Cameryn, a sharp tapping against her skull. Groaning softly, Cameryn dropped her head into her hands.

  “Are you listening, girl? Your career choice is nothing short of crazy.”

  “I’m not crazy. The voices told me I’m supposed to go into forensics.”

  “So it’s sarcasm now, is it? You think my concerns are a joke.”

  Cameryn and her mammaw glared at one another for a moment until her grandmother did an unexpected thing. Dropping back her head, she let out a great guffaw, a deep laugh that shook Cameryn up as much as anything. “I never have to worry how Irish you are, Cameryn Mahoney. You’re as pigheaded as they come. Now do your grandmother a favor and eat. For me.”

  “All right, all right, I give up. No dessert, though.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  Sighing, Cameryn picked up a spoon and took a sip of stew. It burned her mouth but after the third bite she had to admit she felt better, and by the time she took the last swallow the knot inside had loosened. Dr. Moore had been right—home was the place she needed to be, wrapped up in its tacky, snug security, with pink and red carnations on a round kitchen table in a vase shaped like a heart. Today the walls were laced with cutouts featuring cherubs floating on ridiculously small wings. Handmade Valentines from Cameryn’s preschool days had been stuck to the refrigerator with magnets shaped like lips. Her grandmother bustled about, trying to look busy, but Cameryn could sense there was more she wanted to say. After wiping a spot on the counter for a third time, Mammaw drew in a sharp breath and said, “Lyric came by earlier—she wanted to know about the case. While she was here she told me some interesting news about you and Justin. That Lyric is a talkative girl.”

  “News?” Cameryn felt her internal alarm register at full alert.

  “News.” Her grandmother tossed the dishcloth onto the counter and crossed her arms over her chest, obscuring a large embroidered heart. “And don’t be going after your friend just because she was kind enough to bring me up to speed on the goings-on in your life. She claims to have known all along you and the deputy were going to be together through some kind of spirit mumbo jumbo, but even I can see you and Justin have been eyeing each other for months. Is he thinking of you as his girlfriend?”

  “Not exactly,” she replied, making a mental note to throttle Lyric the next time she saw her.

  “What does ‘not exactly’
mean? Exactly.”

  Shrugging, Cameryn chewed on the edge of her lip. “He said he liked me. It’s no big deal.”

  She knew how her grandmother felt about Justin, that she was fond of him but he was almost twenty-two and twenty-two-year-old men were not to be trusted.

  “And your father? What does he have to say?”

  “Dad’s been cool with Justin for a while. Um, you know, maybe I will have some dessert after all,” Cameryn said in a desperate attempt to deflect her grandmother’s steely gaze. “Even though I’m a disaster in the kitchen I think I might give cooking another shot. Since Irish is my heritage and all.” Her voice trailed off. She could see by her grandmother’s expression it was useless.

  “Although I still feel he’s too old, the fact that you’re in danger means it might be a good time to have a more mature person offering you protection. But if you do enter these waters you must be cautious, Cameryn. Things can happen.”

  “Mammaw!”

  “There are certain pitfalls that can come with dating someone older. What I’m trying to say . . .” Mammaw hesitated and then, clearly uncomfortable, said, “You do understand the position of the church in these matters.” Red flamed at the tips of her ears. She was actually blushing.

  “All he said was that he liked me,” Cameryn cried. “I’m not getting married or anything!”

  “These days marriage and—the rest—don’t necessarily go together.”

  “Mammaw!”

  “The older one in the relationship always has the power.”

  “Will you stop! We—he’s not like that. I cannot believe we’re having this conversation. I’d rather talk about Kyle killing me.”

  “What you have with Justin poses a different kind of danger, girl.”

  Now it was Cameryn whose skin flushed. She could feel the warmth spread from her cheeks down her neck until it touched the skin on her chest. “Look, I’m not planning to do anything Father Pat wouldn’t approve of, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Good,” Mammaw said, her voice once again crisp. “Now, here’s your Irish raisin cake, which I made without the whiskey. I’m glad of it since I hear a truck in the driveway. The deputy’s truck, if I’m not mistaken.”

  Cameryn jumped out of her seat as she registered the familiar sound of Justin’s engine. “He’s here?”

  “It appears so.”

  “What if he heard us? I will die if he heard what you were saying.”

  “Don’t be silly, girl, no one has ears that good. Besides, he should know that I’ll be watching.”

  “Mammaw, you need to go.” With a hand on each of her grandmother’s shoulders Cameryn pushed her mammaw toward the living room. “Turn on the TV or sew something.”

  “Offer him some food, Cammie. Men are always hungry,” her grandmother called over her shoulder.

  “Yeah. ’Bye.” Cameryn’s grandmother had just disappeared when she heard his footsteps. It annoyed her to realize how her body turned against her. Her heart skipped beats as he trod up their back steps, stomping twice to shake off the snow. This reaction to Justin’s presence was absurd. How many times had they shared the same space, working forensic cases side by side? Hadn’t they just gone to the autopsy together? But tonight seemed different somehow, probably because of her grandmother’s pointed conversation and the images that conversation had stirred up. Get a grip, she commanded as Justin’s tall, lanky form loomed dark behind the gauzy kitchen curtain. Three sharp raps announced his arrival.

  “Hey,” Cameryn said, opening the door.

  “Hi, Cammie. I thought I’d stop by and see how you were doing.”

  “I’m fine. Come on in. Sit.”

  Justin peeled off his coat and hung it on the back of a chair, then straddled it as if it were a bar stool, while she sat in a chair next to him. He’d changed into different jeans and a navy cotton turtleneck that brought out the blue in his eyes. Thick lashes heightened the color—doll’s eyes, her mammaw called them. He placed his hand on hers and squeezed. “Besides checking up on you, I’m here on business. Kyle used a disposable phone, just like Jacobs thought, so there’s no way to trace it. The scary part is that he got close. Kyle”—he spat the name—“knew you were in the morgue. Which means he must have followed you.”

  The warmth inside her vanished. “I don’t want to talk about it,” she said, pulling her hand free.

  “Typical, evasive Cammie,” he said, his eyes locking on to hers. “Don’t talk about it and it doesn’t exist, right?” His tone carried the slightest hint of chastisement.

  “Can’t we just pretend that there isn’t a killer after me? Just for a couple of hours,” she begged. “Please, Justin, I really need the mental break. I want to . . . forget.”

  He sighed. “Okay. No more hard truths tonight. You do look really tired.”

  “Great. That means I look awful. Tired is a euphemism for gross.” She tried to smooth her hair with her fingers but knew it was useless. Stupidly, she hadn’t bothered to change since she’d gotten home, or done anything to clean herself up. Perfect, she thought. The only comfort she had was that Justin had seen her look worse.

  “I didn’t say that,” he answered, seemingly amused. “You know you’re gorgeous. I just think maybe I’m being selfish, dropping by when it’s already”—he glanced at his watch—“eight o’clock on a school night, which sounds incredibly weird when I say it out loud.”

  “Mammaw told me I don’t have to go to class tomorrow if I don’t want to and I’ve decided I’m sleeping in. I already texted Lyric so she won’t pull me out of bed at the crack of dawn. Stay. Distract me from my misery.”

  When he looked doubtful, she said, “A true friend would think of something to cheer me up. So . . . what do you want to do?” She looked around her kitchen, suddenly realizing their house wasn’t exactly equipped to entertain anyone under the age of fifty. Here, encased in a kitchen full of cherubs, she saw with fresh eyes how old-fashioned their lives appeared. “I’ve got cards. Or do you like games?” she asked, feeling lamer by the minute.

  He raked his fingers through his too-long hair. “How about a movie?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. We’ve only got one television and it’s in the living room and my grandmother’s in there,” she said, keeping her voice low.

  “Ahh.” His eyes twinkled. “And she doesn’t like me.”

  “No, she likes you,” Cameryn clarified. “She doesn’t trust you.”

  He gave a wicked grin. “Wise woman.”

  What was that supposed to mean? Cameryn flushed as Justin closed the distance between them. “Kidding,” he told her. “Actually, I planned ahead. On the off chance you invited me to hang out I brought two choices of movies, although from the shadows under your eyes I doubt you’ll stay awake for either one.” Reaching around, he pulled two DVD cases from an inside fold of his jacket. “Comedy or”—he held up a second plastic square—“action movie with exploding guts. What’s your pleasure?”

  “Comedy,” she said. “I’m definitely in the mood to laugh.”

  “Excellent. Let’s ask your mammaw to join us.”

  Cameryn waited a beat before saying, “You’re not serious. You want my grandmother to watch a movie with us? Why?”

  “Because even though you’ve decided that all you can handle is friendship, I’m looking ahead. If we’re going to be together then winning over your mammaw and your pop is on my agenda.” He wagged his eyebrows. “Okay?”

  As they settled into the couch, a foot of upholstery respectfully between them, her grandmother watched, eagle-eyed. She’d been pleased by the invitation, Cameryn could tell, and Cameryn marveled at how effortless Justin made it all seem. He’d chatted up her grandmother as if they were the best of friends, and as the opening credits rolled she felt Justin move closer. In some ways his presence soothed her. Light flickered across his face as the scenes changed, and from beneath her lashes Cameryn watched Justin instead of the movie. Th
ere was no denying how handsome he was—the sharp juts of his cheekbones changing as the reflection slid across the planes of his face, hair curling softly against his neck, his shoulders broad. In the background she heard the creak from her grandmother’s chair interrupted by quiet bursts of laughter.

  The edges of the screen blurred as she tried to pay attention, but the dialogue wove through her mind, musical notes tied to language instead of words. She floated in this world like a bubble, drifting from one scene to another until suddenly she was back in the autopsy room. But this time it was Kyle on the table and Justin who held the knife. The blade gleamed at Kyle’s shoulder but Cameryn yelled for Justin to stop. At that moment Kyle’s eyes snapped open. His icy hand grabbed her arm—

  “Wake up, Cammie. It’s just a dream. You’re only dreaming.”

  It wasn’t Kyle’s hand, but Justin’s, that held hers. Blinking, she looked over to the empty rocking chair. “Your mammaw gave up,” Justin answered before she could think to ask the question. “She went to bed, but not before she reminded me that your pop was on the way.”

  “What—what time is it?” she asked thickly.

  “Ten thirty.”

  “Wow. I can’t believe I fell asleep. And you let me?” She rose up from his shoulder. “Why didn’t you wake me up?”

  “I let you sleep because you needed it. You’re heavier than you look, though. My arm is completely numb.”

  Cameryn punched his shoulder. “Stop!”

  “I’m serious,” he laughed, but this time he caught her wrist as she tried to hit him again. “Listen, I should go. It’s late and your pop won’t like it if he finds out his daughter slept with me. Ouch!”

  Switching to her left hand she caught him in his upper arm.

  “Man, you hit like a guy. No, I cannot let you do that again,” he said. He grabbed both wrists.