Noah clapped his hands. He was, however, looking past Vickie—toward the door. There was something about the way that he was looking that caused her to spin around and stare.
But no one stood in the doorway.
“You know, Noah, Bick-bick is going to have to stop this. There are a lot of horror stories about baby-sitters. The phone rings, and there’s no one there. Just breathing, or something like that. We, however, have a great alarm on this house!”
Except the door had been ajar. Before the alarm had been set.
She was really doing it: scaring herself. If she went off the deep end, the Ballantines would never ask her back.
“Television! We will turn the television on. It will talk and be…well, it will be fine,” she said.
Once downstairs, she couldn’t find the remote control for the mammoth television screen that was just the right distance from the play area to make certain Noah wasn’t too close.
She looked all over the room—in Noah’s toy box, everywhere.
Shaking her head, she took the baby with her and headed for the kitchen.
The door remained locked. She couldn’t help but check.
The phone rang and she nearly jumped a mile high. It was the house phone.
This was it—where the babysitter answered the home phone and someone just breathed into her ear.
She let it ring. And ring.
She heard the message machine kick in out in the parlor. And then her mother’s voice.
“Victoria? Victoria, are you there, sweetheart?”
She picked the phone up. “Mom?”
“Yes, it’s your mom—remember me?” Her mother asked dryly.
Her muscles were so tense she had to pray the baby didn’t feel her fear.
She forced herself to breathe. “Mom, why didn’t you call my cell?”
“I did. You didn’t answer,” her mother said.
Vickie felt in her pockets. Nope, her phone wasn’t on her. Where the heck had she left it? Oh, yeah, she’d set it down upstairs after talking to Roxanne.
“Sorry. It’s here somewhere. Anyway, what’s up?”
“You were supposed to call and tell me that you got there okay.”
“Mom, I thought you were planning on calling me. Also, I graduate in June. And I’m going to college. You just won’t be able to check on me every minute.”
“I know, I know. But that’s June. I’ll get a grip by then. It’s just…well, when you go to the Ballantine house, I can’t help but think about their son… their older son.”
“Well, I’m here, I’m fine, baby is as well. I haven’t bounced him off the roof yet or anything.”
Her mother laughed softly. “You’re a great baby-sitter, Vickie. And dog-walker and student and daughter. You’ve worked very hard. You’re going to love going to NYU. Mrs. Ballantine will be almost as heartbroken as me when you head off.”
“Mom, I’ll be in New York. It’s only a four or five hour drive. Look, I promise I’ll bring home lots of laundry and come home for food and the whole bit, okay?”
Noah let out a squeal of delight. He was looking over Vickie’s shoulder again.
“I hear the little darling. Okay, sweetie. Go and take care of him!” her mother said.
“Love you, Mom.”
“Okay, take care of the little one!”
Noah let out a delighted laugh once again.
Vickie barely managed to hang up the phone. She spun around. There was nothing there.
Nothing.
No one.
She almost picked up the phone to call her mom and ask her to come over. Or maybe she could call Roxanne back. Nope. She had assured Mr. and Mrs. Ballantine she did nothing but babysit. She didn’t have friends over.
Including male friends?
Not to worry—she especially didn’t have male friends over!
She took a deep breath and headed back into the parlor.
There, on the footstool in front of one of the antique rockers, sat the remote control.
And her cell phone.
She hadn’t put them there!
This time, fear shot through her with electric sparks. She set Noah down quickly in his play area, afraid she would startle, scare or hurt him.
She made herself breathe—and breathe again.
“Okay, I just didn’t see it before,” she murmured to herself. “Right there—right on the footstool, but somehow, I’ve gone blind. What do you think, Noah? I didn’t set the phone down upstairs, I did that down here. And I just didn’t really look for the remote control. I’m too into you!”
He was such a delightful baby. He looked at her and clapped his hands together. She forced a smile and looked at her watch.
Six o’clock. Full dark on a wintry Boston night. Mr. and Mrs. Ballantine wouldn’t come home for hours.
And now, because she’d seen too many horror movies, she was allowing herself to let her imagination run wild.
George and Chrissy Ballantine had been there when she arrived. There was no one else in the house.
“Breathe, kid, breathe,” she told herself. “Ah! Well, it’s here.” She grabbed the remote control as if it were a lifeline. “Why didn’t your parents get one of those remotes that just lets you talk to the TV and turn it on, huh? You know, like, ‘TV! Go on. Bring me to a really cute little kids’ show!’”
Noah clapped and made a few oohing noises.
Vickie turned on the television. From the corner of her eye, she felt as if someone passed by her. She spun around, looking everywhere; there was no one there.
“Crazy. Your Bick-bick is going crazy, Noah!” she said.
She didn’t know why, but she found herself looking at the family portraits that flanked the massive granite mantle.
Mr. and Mrs. Ballantine to the right.
Dylan and Noah to the left.
She swallowed hard and turned her attention to the flat-screen television.
It was tuned to a news channel. A reporter stood before a huge building in Suffolk County, warning listeners that two prisoners had escaped that morning from the South Bay House of Correction.
They had feigned illness in a planned escape; they had taken the guns used in their escape from guards they had left critically wounded.
One, Reginald Mason, had already been captured after a shootout with police at a convenience store. Two civilians had been wounded in the gunfire.
Residents of the Greater Boston area were warned to be extremely careful. Mug shots of the men were shown, with the footage then zooming in on the face of one Bertram Aldridge. Six years ago, he’d terrorized the area, becoming known as the Southside Slasher for the horrible way he’d murdered his seven known victims. He’d liked to tease law enforcement with letters to the newspapers, telling them FBI stood for Fat-Butt Intelligence and BPD stood for Billie-Prick-Dicks.
Police were out in force, and they expected to find the second man quickly, since he was local and had ties to the area. Past associates of the man were under investigation.
She realized she and the baby were staring at the screen as the reporter continued to numerate the violent crimes committed by the men. Bertram Aldridge, still on the loose, was known for butchering his victims with a knife, but he was familiar with firearms and had shot several officers during his original arrest.
“No, no!” she said aloud, and she began to flick the button to change the channel.
There were tons of news channels. Every one of them seemed to be covering the escape.
At last, she found a Disney cartoon, one that she loved herself—The Little Mermaid.
Singing crustaceans—yep. They were good for now.
Then the air in the room seemed changed, and again she felt as though someone else was there. Right there with her in the room.
The baby was clapping and laughing.
That was good, of course. Because, inwardly, she was freaking out.
The door was locked; she’d checked.
But it h
adn’t been before. She’d heard a bump. And her phone…
She could remember—at least she thought she could remember—putting it down upstairs.
“It’s because I’m scared silly, little one—freaking here. I’m about to call my mommy!” she said to Noah, trying to smile all the time.
He laughed at her.
And then turned and laughed and clapped again, seemingly seeing someone else there.
“Okay, I’ve had it!” she said. “Kid, we’re going to head into the kitchen. Nice and cozy there, and we have a door—”
Her words broke off. She heard something. For sure this time. From upstairs.
Then suddenly she screamed. There was something right in front of her. What—she didn’t know. At first, it just seemed like clouds forming in air. Then there seemed to be a face, and then a form, and a full figure. Her mouth opened; she felt like fire and ice in one. Terror ripped through her with a painful vengeance.
And she heard the sound again. Something up the stairs. As if someone was moving, as if they were close to the stairs, perhaps to come down them…
And in front of her…
The figure and face had formed. Her gaze jerked up to the pictures above the mantle. She looked at the portrait of Dylan Ballantine.
And she looked at the strange thing that had formed out of the air before her.
“Go!” she heard. It was a rustle; it might have been leaves.
It might have been the terror that ruled her brain.
And it might have been the ghostly image of Dylan Ballantine standing before her now.
And still, she heard that sound…someone moving furtively, taking a step on the staircase, moving in a way she could sense…
And then…
She felt as if she was suddenly slapped hard by an icy hand.
“Get Noah and get out!”
Like a whisper, like a whisper, like a sound that played only in her mind…
“Move! Move—now!”
At that point, she acted. She grabbed the baby. She forgot about his ultrawarm knit hat and his mittens and his outside shoes.
She held him to her chest, raced to the front door, threw it open and raced out into the street.
It was dark and it was cold and no tourists were traveling the Freedom Trail. She heard a pounding behind her.
She was terrified to look back.
She did.
A man was there, behind her, coming after her. A man with a gun.
She turned and ran again—toward the Paul Revere House.
There were still people there! A group milling, talking about where to go to dinner.
“Help, help!” she cried.
Someone heard her! A tall Boston policeman had suddenly appeared on the sidewalk.
“Down, miss, down!” he shouted.
She gripped Noah even more tightly to her and ducked low.
She heard an explosion and a scream at the same time. Turning back, she saw the man with the gun on the ground.
He had fired, but he had apparently tripped over his own two feet. His gun had gone off… But his bullet had aimed into the sky. He was struggling up, taking aim again…
But he’d been shot.
The young policeman had fired at almost the same time.
Standing next to the collapsed man was the image of the boy she had seen in the house. Dylan Ballantine, dead nearly three years, dead before his baby brother had been born.
The policeman rushed by Vickie and the baby, his own weapon aimed at the man—the convict!—who had evidently tripped…
The man on the ground screamed as the cop’s bullet exploded again; his gun went flying from his hand. He was disarmed, bleeding.
But only because he had tripped over the leg of a dead boy! Over Dylan Ballantine.
And as she continued to stare back in terror, the image of Dylan Ballantine began to fade.
And then he was gone.
The icy darkness of the wintry night began to settle in, and Noah began to cry at last.
DYING BREATH
by Heather Graham.
Available May 30, 2017, from
MIRA Books.
Copyright (c) 2017 by Heather Graham Pozzessere
New York Times bestselling author Heather Graham delves deep into the city that never sleeps in her heart-thumping New York Confidential series:
Flawless
A Perfect Obsession
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Phantom Evil
Heart of Evil
Sacred Evil
The Evil Inside
The Unseen
The Unholy
The Unspoken
The Uninvited
The Night is Watching
The Night Is Alive
The Night Is Forever
The Cursed
The Hexed
The Betrayed
The Silenced
The Forgotten
The Hidden
Haunted Destiny
Deadly Fate
Darkest Journey
Dying Breath
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Let the Dead Sleep
Waking the Dead
The Dead Play On
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ISBN-13: 9781488026287
This Rough Magic
Copyright © 1988 by Heather Graham Pozzessere
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All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.
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