Heather Graham - Dying Breath

“No,” her mother said. “No, no, Vickie.”

“Mom, it will be okay,” she said firmly. “Noah is nine and he doesn’t have any family here and he might wind up hanging with child services.”

“Which isn’t terrible!” her dad said.

“Which isn’t happening,” she said firmly. “I came right here so we could tell you what happened and so you could see I was okay. Hey, you know how to work the Skype on your phones. I’ll keep in touch—visually!—okay? I know you’re scared, too. But we’re talking about a little boy who has to be in some real trauma right now.”

She kissed her dad’s cheek and then her mom’s.

Her dad stared at Jackson Crow. “Don’t you let anything happen to her!”

“Sir, we will not,” Crow promised.

“This is all too much. Vickie isn’t a cop or an agent or—”

“Dad, I’m just going to hang with Noah. It will be fine,” Vickie said, determined. “Love you both. We have a cop double-parked downstairs. We have to go.”

Her parents kissed her again. She glanced at Jackson Crow, flushing slightly. She was surprised at how overprotective her folks were behaving.

“I’ll be in touch,” she promised.

They managed to escape to the hallway. In the elevator, she looked over at Jackson. “I’m sorry. I mean, I’ve been away from home a long time. I’ve just moved back and...”

“Never be sorry that you have people who love you so much,” he told her, indicating that the elevator door had opened.

She smiled uneasily and headed out.

They didn’t speak in the cop car; Jackson Crow received a call. When they reached the hospital, Jackson knew just which way to go after receiving clearance from the hospital’s security. Chrissy was already out of the emergency room and on a floor above.

There was a waiting room; Griffin Pryce was there with Noah Ballantine. He rose when they arrived, nodding at them all. “Jackson, I’ll head back in. Chrissy has been in and out of consciousness. Detective Barnes is there. We haven’t pressed her yet.”

“Great. Noah, how are you doing?” Jackson asked.

“I’m fine, sir. Griffin talked to the doctors—my mom is really going to be okay. Whoever did this to her gave her a really good conk on the head. They want her to stay here tonight and probably tomorrow night. But she’s going to be okay.”

Griffin looked at Vickie. She had no idea what he was thinking; he seemed to have acquired the ability to look as stoic as Jackson Crow. Maybe it was FBI training, not to give anything away.

“So, Noah, here we are,” Vickie said. “I’m so glad—so grateful about your mom.”

“Bick-bick,” he said, smiling. “I’m so glad you’re with me.”

“Okay, we have some time to kill,” she said. “Tell me what’s up with you.”

They sat in the waiting room. Jackson Crow took up a position by the door. Griffin went out.

Noah told her about school and Little League and everything that he was doing. She, in turn, told him about school in New York and coming back and working with some of the older kids in the system. They managed to pass time—until Noah fell asleep with his head on her lap.

A police officer in uniform came in and Jackson Crow went out. When she looked down at her lap, Vickie saw that Noah had woken up and was staring at her.

“You see Dylan,” he said softly.

She didn’t mean to jerk with her surprise at his words, but she did.

He smiled. “We haven’t seen a lot of each other since you went to New York, but I know that you see Dylan! I mean, he told me that he hangs with you a lot. He comes home now and then, too. Did he help you find Mom? He wasn’t at the house.”

“No, he wasn’t at the house when it happened. But...” She hesitated. She had certainly agreed that she saw him. “I’m sure he’s in with her now,” she said simply.

Noah nodded and began to whisper quickly. “I don’t tell anybody—they’d think that I was crazy. And we never got a chance to talk about it. Or, I guess we just didn’t talk about it.”

“You were so young. And I thought that I was crazy,” Vickie said.

“I tried to tell my dad once and then I heard him talking to my mom and they were both worried that I was still troubled subconsciously by all the stuff that happened when I was a toddler. They wanted to have me like picked apart at some institute—and I was never a dumb kid, Vickie. They meant a loony bin. I never told anybody after that. Not my friends, not my teachers...not the priest. I didn’t tell anybody. I didn’t want to get locked up. And I knew that nobody else saw what I saw. But I did know that you saw him, too, because Dylan told me that he had a good time ‘haunting’ you, though he hitched a ride back up here on the train a lot.”

Vickie looked at him and nodded and actually managed a slight smile. She’d gotten Dylan to knock—mind over matter, he’d told her. He hadn’t been so good at first, but he’d learned to make noise rapping at the door. She’d always had a bad time when he thought that she was dating the wrong guy. He had no problem telling her, and—she was quick to discover—Dylan tended to be right in his character assessments.

“I see Dylan, yes, and he’s still my friend, and way back when, you really can’t possibly remember, but... Dylan kept us both from being killed.”

“I do remember,” he said. “Odd, huh? They say you can’t possibly remember when you were so little. But I guess, maybe... I always saw Dylan.”

“I didn’t, until that day. And then...after a while of seeing him, I realized that sometimes, I saw other ghosts as well. I think I realized it first when I was walking by a cemetery. Not that I’ve found that the dead really want to hang out in graveyards all the time.”

Noah looked at her somberly.

“Right—like, I mean, really, who would? I’m sure there are more fun places to be. But, you know, Agent Pryce sees him, too,” he said. “I know Griffin sees Dylan. He just can’t say anything. Maybe Agent Crow sees him, too. But I know for sure that Griffin does. And you know what?”

“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.