The Dying Breath

by Ferguson, Alane

  Trapped, she looked up at him. His hair was tousled as though he’d been sleeping, too. She was aware of the illumination from the television, of the way their breathing cadenced together, of how close his face was next to hers so that she could feel his heat. All traces of playfulness vanished as he released her right hand and touched the bottom of her lip. She felt herself shiver. Her hand rose up to touch his cheek, stroking it with her fingertips.

  When his lips brushed hers it was sweet, tender. “Is this okay?” he whispered.

  She nodded.

  “Because I can wait, Cammie.”

  “I know you can. But I can’t.” This time it was Cameryn who kissed him, and she realized this was what she’d wanted. Death and fear faded away as she drank him in. Justin. Her Justin. It was the letting go that felt so good as she allowed herself this single light in the darkness. No more running, she promised herself. No more thinking, no more evasion. Just . . . being. As he pulled back, light caught the scar on the edge of his chin, as thin as a thread.

  “I’ve always wondered. How did you get that?” she asked, touching it gently.

  “Now that’s a story. But not one for tonight. It’s late, Cammie. You should go to bed and get some rest.”

  “You’re leaving?”

  He sighed deeply. “If your father finds me on the couch with you he might shoot first and ask questions later.”

  “I don’t want you to leave.”

  He grinned and pulled her close. “You have no idea how good that sounds. I can be here tomorrow when my shift’s over.”

  “I’d like that,” she answered softly.

  “Then I’m going to say good night.” He kissed her again, harder this time, and Cameryn felt her heart kick in her chest. “No, stay here,” he said when she attempted to rise from the couch with him. “I’ll lock the door on my way out. Sweet dreams, Cammie. Promise me you’ll think only good thoughts tonight.”

  “Promise you’ll come back as soon as you can.”

  He shot her a crooked grin. “Deal.”

  Muffled footsteps echoed in her kitchen, followed by the quiet click of the lock. Happy, she hugged herself as the slash of headlights slid across the window, bright as stars. With a conscious choice she had chosen to leap into life. Death, in all its forms, had been left behind.

  Chapter Seven

  THIS TIME HER dream was a good one. She was with Justin. The two of them were tucked into a small canoe on a deep mountain lake surrounded by sunflowers that grew right to the water’s edge, like a ring of fire. Justin pushed the oars while Cameryn watched the muscles strain beneath his skin. Wind whipped at his hair. “Do you want to keep going?” he called against the wind. Now he was rowing toward a ribbon of water, only ten feet in length, an umbilical cord of blue connecting the lake with the ocean. With another deep stroke he warned, “The ocean is more dangerous. Are you sure you want to go on?” Waves crashed into the side of their rowboat but she was not afraid. In the distance she saw the tip of a whale’s undulating tail, and she smiled happily and said yes. . . .

  Something from beyond was reaching into her dream. Reluctant, she resisted the pull to the surface of consciousness, fighting hard to stay under with Justin and the whitecapped waves. It was no use. The noise came again, a note from an instrument, a small ring, the flute from a wind chime. Was she in class? No, she could feel the pillow beneath her head and the comforter clutched to her chin. She felt the plastic nose of Rags, her stuffed dog, pressed into her side. Her eyelids fluttered open and Justin disappeared into the ocean as though he were a mist. Groaning, she realized she was in her own bedroom, alone, with only Rags for company.

  Light from the full moon flooded her bedroom so that she could see the outline of her lamp, and beyond that her computer with her screen saver morphing into geometric shapes. She’d left her computer on again—her dad would chew her out if he saw that, convinced as he was that every bad thing happened when Microsoft Outlook was left open. No matter, she would reboot in the morning. Yawning long and deep, she stretched her arms over her head until she gave a tiny, inadvertent squeak. Rolling onto her side, she looked at her clock. Red numbers glowed in the darkness in electronic blocks: 3:03 A.M. Groaning again, she wondered if she could ever get back to sleep. With her arm flung across her eyes, she tried to follow the wisps of her dream but moments later she knew it was no good. Emotions, once suppressed by sleep, rose up inside to crash together.

  Justin and Kyle. Light and dark, good and evil—two divergent streams flowed into her conscience. It wasn’t hard for her to select which emotional channel she wanted to follow. The trick was to silence the other by submerging it back to the depths. But aman cara washed to the forefront, and she felt herself begin to shake. Stop! she told herself fiercely. Think about Justin. She could do this—it was just a matter of choice. Pulling her comforter to the bridge of her nose, she commanded herself to focus on the good. She would not allow herself to hear the whisper of Kyle’s voice, to picture him out there, watching, waiting. No, she would relive the kiss. The kiss and nothing more.

  She squeezed her eyelids together as hard as she could. If she concentrated she could almost feel the sensation of Justin’s mouth against hers. Yes, that was the thought she wanted. She savored the feel of his cheek pressed into her forehead, the prickles from his five-o’clock shadow against her skin, and the way he’d wound his hand through her hair before he’d said his last good-bye—yes, these were the images she could replay forever.

  Smiling, she remembered Lyric’s squeal when Cameryn delivered the news. With the phone cupped in her hand, Cameryn had whispered the story from the kitchen’s land line, aware that her father would be home at any moment but intent on sharing with her closest friend. When she’d finished Lyric had cried, “I knew it! I knew it! This is karma—I told you from the very first day you’d end up together. I told you I had a feeling! All those times you were in denial of my powers. Take that, doubter!”

  Now, Cameryn found herself chuckling quietly at the thought of her friend’s over-the-top reaction. Lyric, with her crystals, had been on to something after all.

  As her lids slid open she studied the pattern the moonlight made on her ceiling, trying to remember when things between herself and Justin had changed, realizing there hadn’t been an exact moment—it was more of an awareness of what had always been. In the same way the lake of her dream had turned into the ocean, her feelings had grown bigger, more precarious. Dangerous, the dream-Justin had said. The perfect word.

  But could it last? In the autumn she would move to Durango to go to school while he remained in Silverton. Then again, they each had a car and weekends could be worked out easily, perhaps meeting at Purgatory since it was almost in the middle. Stop! she commanded. You haven’t even graduated from high school. One kiss doesn’t mean you’re a forever couple! Get a grip, Cammie! He might change his mind tomorrow and decide she was too young after all.

  Even as she said it to herself she knew it was a lie. Whatever this was, it was real. Justin. Justin and Cameryn. As though she were moving through her rosary beads she touched that idea over and over again, allowing herself to become accustomed to its feel. Cameryn and Justin. Another smile tugged at the corners of her mouth and she sighed, ready to return to her dreams. Her eyes were just beginning to close when she heard it again—the soft two-note chime that had awakened her in the first place. It came from the computer, signaling that another e-mail had arrived. Spam, she thought, and hopped out of bed to turn it off. Sleeping would be hard enough without interruptions, no matter how small. Dancing through the cold, she dropped into her chair and moved the mouse, which caused the screen saver to vanish, revealing the biology paper she’d been working on. She maximized her in-box. Two new e-mails had arrived since she’d gone to bed. Who would send her e-mails at three A.M.?

  It took a moment for her mind to comprehend. The mouse froze in her hand.

  Each message bore the name Kyle O’Neil. Her brain, her heart, ev
erything seemed to stop as she stared at the single word on the subject line and its reflection in the message below. She couldn’t catch her breath as she read:

  Angel

  The letter-shaped icons shimmered in pale yellow.

  The beginning of the message screamed at her in cobalt blue:

  This is my last hope for reaching you. I’m begging . . .

  Her eyes snapped to the second e-mail:

  Angel,

  I know they took your BlackBerry and you keep your computer on. Please, open this letter . . .

  She stared for a minute, or five, or ten—she had no idea, because it seemed as if time itself dissolved and there was nothing but the screen and her body.

  He had found her. Again.

  Angel

  She should go and wake her father. Even though it was the middle of the night she knew she should call the sheriff. Justin would want to be the first person she turned to—yes, he should be the one. But she found she couldn’t move. Cold air wrapped up her legs and slithered up her arm like a snake as she stared, trying to push down the terror that welled inside. The words branded her soul. Closing her eyes, she hoped for a moment that this was part of the dream, but when she looked at the screen they were still there. The words had not moved.

  Angel

  And then something inside burst through the frozen dam. Her blood rocketed as she read the word again and again. Angel. How dare he call her that! This inhuman machine who would kill without mercy, who was now tracking her down like prey. Why was he doing this? Protocol vanished. As if her hand had a mind of its own she snatched the mouse and double-clicked the first message. It read:

  This is my last hope for reaching you. I’m begging you to hear me. Please, write back and let me explain. I am not the monster you think. I’m at my computer, waiting. I know you won’t believe me, but what I am writing is true. I love you.

  Kyle

  And then the next:

  Angel

  I know you keep your computer on. Please, open this letter—it’s the only way we can speak. If I wanted to hurt you, I could have. Easily. But that is not my plan. There are things to say. I can help you if you let me. Write back.

  Love,

  Kyle

  Her blood pounded so hard she could hear her own pulse threading through her neck. She would not allow herself to think. Her fingers spilled rage as they flew across her keyboard.

  What is wrong with you? Why can’t you leave me alone!?! I want you to leave me alone! I’m asking you to go away. Forever. Turn yourself in!

  Not allowing herself to think she hit send. Her father would be furious, but it wasn’t Patrick who was in Kyle’s sights. She was the target; everyone else only orbited on the periphery. Images of her life tumbled, then focused, and she saw herself clearly as the victim she had become. The picture of herself made her sick to her stomach. When had she become so weak? Kyle had overtaken her. He had infected her life and she was going to exorcise him herself. This was a battle between the two of them. Kyle and Cameryn, alone in the dark, while Silverton slept.

  Chewing her fingernail, she stared at the screen until she heard the familiar chime.

  If I could leave you alone I would have long ago. Do you remember the night when I took you to the cemetery? How can I make you understand—I changed that night. I am so sorry about the shed. You saw me out of control. You witnessed a side of me I fight to keep in check. For a long time I believed that there was no way for me to restrain that part of myself. But I now realize that you have changed me. Will you listen?

  She was no longer cold. Two red splotches burned on her cheeks.

  Listen? she wrote, her fingers flying. You killed Brad Oakes. You killed Leather Ed. I’m guessing you killed Brent Safer and Joseph Stein. Turn yourself in and you can get help. You are sick.

  A moment later the computer chimed again, two frail notes:

  Leather Ed died before I got there. I did not kill the movie star or the producer. But if you will talk to me, I will tell you who killed them. Cammie, you can see my mind in what I left behind.

  Her fingers flew as if they were possessed:

  You are a murderer! You are a liar!

  This time the message took longer to receive.

  I came back for you, Cammie. You have to believe me when I say that they will never find me—you have to understand that. It would be easier for everyone if you would do what I am asking you to do. No one else will get hurt. I give you my word. Talking through e-mail is painfully slow, so I’ve set up a chat room for us—the password is An6el1. Meet me there.

  The cold fear was back, spreading through her with a frozen kind of terror. Hurt. She focused on the word. Who would he hurt if she refused him? Faster this time, she wrote:

  What do you mean when you say hurt? Who are you talking about?

  A moment later she heard the malevolent ring. This time the message contained only a single name.

  Justin.

  She stared at the screen. It wasn’t possible. Kyle was still a teenager and Justin was a man armed with a gun, trained by the police in New York. Justin was smarter than anyone she knew. There should be no way Kyle could ever get to him. Her head thrummed all the right words, but something wasn’t connecting inside. It was her heart. The link between her head and her heart had severed like a thread snapped in two.

  What if she was wrong? What if something happened to Justin because of her? With fingers shaking so hard they could barely touch the keys, she curled her palm against her desktop, ready to type. Her mind, though, had gone blank. She looked at the last message and felt the world drop out beneath her. Justin. Because of her Justin might be harmed or worse. The bravado she’d been riding slipped away as she tried to comprehend this unexpected change in the game. The computer chimed again. This time he’d sent a message out of turn.

  Justin. Justin. Justin. Justin. Justin. Justin. Justin. Justin. Justin. Justin.

  She tried to cry out her father’s name, but her voice seemed to gurgle in her throat. “Dad.” It was barely a whisper.

  Once, and then again, she tried with all the force she could muster to push air between her lips but the word came out in a faint croak. She had to concentrate until her mouth would work again. “Dad. Dad!” she cried, thankful her body was finally responding, grateful that help was going to come.

  “Cammie!” her father cried. “Cammie—what is it?”

  “I need you!”

  Under the computer’s glare she listened to the footsteps running toward her. “Hurry,” she cried with a final strangled sob. “Please hurry!”

  The door to her room flew open and her father ran to her, his face twisted in panic. “What is it, Cammie? What’s wrong? Good Lord, what are you doing up in the middle of the night? You had me scared to death!”

  With a shaking finger, she pointed to her screen.

  He walked close enough to read and then he stopped. Understanding dawned as he looked at the screen. In the computer’s half-light his skin appeared gray, his hair a tousled mat of white, his pajamas, striped cotton, rumpled from sleep. She could see her father blanch as his eyes traced the words written on the screen, his mouth open, his muscles tense as horror registered on his face. “Where is your phone?” he asked her through stiff lips.

  “I don’t have it. The sheriff took it today when—”

  “Ma!” he bellowed. “Bring me a phone. I’m in Cammie’s room and I need it. Now!”

  She could hear her grandmother’s feet thumping loudly as they ran for the cordless phone kept on a table at the end of the hall. “I’m coming, Patrick. What’s happened?”

  Part of Mammaw’s red and white flannel nightgown was balled up in one hand so that she could run without tripping. Patrick took the phone Mammaw thrust at him and hit the numbers as though he would punch them right through the handset.

  “John?” her father cried. “Sorry to wake you but he’s after my daughter again. Yes, Kyle O’Neil. I need you here now—bring the F
BI and the CBI and the CIA and any other gun you’ve got. I want an army!”

  A pause, and then the ice blue eyes settled on Cameryn’s. As he spoke, Patrick’s face contorted: panic, fear, pain, anger—one emotion replacing the other, each more intense than the last. “Yes.” His nod was sharp. “Yes—on her computer. He’s crazy, John. He’s crazy and he’s watching.” His voice broke as he pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and his forefinger. “And wake up the deputy, too. It’s not just Cammie anymore that he wants. Now he’s got Justin in his sights.”

  Chapter Eight

  HER GRANDMOTHER MUST be in her heaven, Cameryn thought. Bustling about the Mahoney home with coffee, Mammaw hovered and fussed over the three men and the lone woman crowded inside Cameryn’s small bedroom along with Cameryn and her father. Cameryn, who had changed into sweats, clutched Rags to her chest as she leaned cross-legged against her headboard. Now that she had finished answering their questions she could watch the people huddle around her computer, their brows furrowed as they read and reread Kyle’s e-mails. For now they were letting her be.

  “. . . check out the IRC and follow the IP address . . .”

  “. . . hunt down that password . . . maybe contact DHS . . .”

  The window had been cracked so that a stream of cool air filtered into her increasingly stuffy room. Through a gap in the curtains, she watched the full moon. Sallow as wax, it balanced on the mountain’s tip like a ball on the nose of a seal. Although she had barely slept she was too full of adrenaline to feel tired, and so, alert, her thoughts bounced from one conversation to another. It was strange, this odd sense of apartness. People talked about her, not to her—even Justin stood at a distance, consumed with questions about cyber tracking. She didn’t mind. The one person whom she’d been most anxious to see was here, and as she watched him stare at the screen with his fierce, unyielding concentration, she felt—not calm, but a kind of acceptance. What mattered most had already happened. Justin was safe. That fact allowed her to breathe again.