The Dying Breath

by Ferguson, Alane

  “. . . what I figured, he got an IP that’s nontraceable,” Justin said through clenched teeth. “This punk knows what he’s doing.” His fists tightened and released with every word, as though he were siphoning anger through his fingers. The gun he never wore off duty had been tucked into the back waistband of his jeans. She could see it bulge beneath his green Hudson Valley Community College tee shirt.

  Her grandmother drifted by. “Would you like something, girl?” She patted Cameryn vaguely.

  “No, thanks,” Cameryn replied as her grandmother, sensing an empty coffee cup nearby, floated away.

  They’re not going to catch him.

  She seemed to understand this truth before anyone else in the room. It was as though she were watching a paramedic desperately trying to shock life back into a corpse when it was clear the person was gone. Dead, Cameryn knew, was dead. She could tell by the way Sheriff Jacobs stood that he understood this, too. He leaned against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest, his hard eyes watching the action from behind polished lenses. No, it was Justin and her father who were trying to control the universe, as if by sheer mental force they could bend time and space and catch Kyle O’Neil. Their two heads bent toward the computer, so close to each other they almost touched, the white hair brushing against the dark.

  A thin man from the FBI and a heavyset woman from the Colorado Bureau of Investigation spoke to each other in a code of letters followed by a perplexing string of numbers. “Negative,” the woman said and sighed.

  “What’s negative? Why can’t you find him?” her father demanded, standing up to his full height. Like Cameryn and her mammaw, he’d changed from his pajamas, but unlike Mammaw, who’d traded her nightgown for her Sunday best, her father had thrown on old Dockers and a sweatshirt. His hair was uncombed and his feet were bare. “It’s been over an hour—that animal threatened my daughter!”

  The FBI agent was named Andrew Thliveris. A man in his forties with silvered hair and dark eyes, he’d arrived in the middle of the night wearing a suit, something no native of Silverton would ever do. But his voice was casual. “Call me Andrew,” he’d told them. “Thliveris is a mouthful.” Now when he spoke his tone was measured, patient. “I understand how upsetting this is, but it’s not that easy.”

  “You say that but you’ve got his e-mail address right there!” Patrick exclaimed, jabbing his finger at the screen.

  “I’m afraid Kyle O’Neil’s been warchalking.”

  “What the heck does that mean?”

  With his left hand Andrew loosened the knot of his tie, a solid red with a single blue stripe. “It means he piggybacked his machine onto a random unprotected connection. It means he’s using someone else’s Internet linkage to communicate with your daughter. We narrowed it down to a class C network originating from Fort Lewis College.”

  “You got it narrowed down to the Fort?” Justin asked. For a second his face came alive around the eyes, but the excitement vanished when Andrew said, “No—wait!” He pressed his palms toward the floor. “I’m sorry, but O’Neil’s gone.” It took a moment for the words to sink in. “We traced the origin point to the college library but we got there too late.”

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Mammaw murmured. Her hand rose to her throat as she sagged into an empty folding chair, one of three that had been placed around the perimeter of the room. Justin dropped his head back and stared at the ceiling.

  So it is a fact now—he got away. The words swirled around Cameryn and above her like flakes of snow that chilled her to the bone. For a moment no one spoke, but she could hear her grandmother murmuring prayers, a steady current against the silence.

  “Look, I know this is hard,” Andrew said to everyone in the room, “but don’t get discouraged. O’Neil’s showing himself—that’s the important thing. The more he contacts Cameryn the better our chances of finding him. Don’t you agree?” he asked, directing this comment to the CBI agent.

  “Absolutely,” the woman answered. “A tracer route, which is what we had to do to get the Fort Lewis hit, takes time. If we can keep this guy talking we can tighten the net. We’ll get him.”

  “How?” Patrick asked. A single word, it seemed as loud as a gunshot. Her grandmother stopped praying in order to eye Andrew.

  “Well, a lot of that depends on your girl here.” Andrew smiled, showing teeth.

  “What is it, exactly, you’re wanting?” Mammaw demanded.

  Cameryn had the sense that Andrew had been waiting for this opening all along. He came and stood by the foot of her bed and rested his hand on her bedpost, his thick wedding band flashing in the light. His tone was low, his words reassuring as he leaned in toward her. “We can have an agent pose as Cameryn, but I don’t think they’ll be able to fool this guy for long. Kyle knows you. He understands your style. So, if you agree to continue talking to him, I can assure you that we’ll monitor your every communication. You will be completely safe.”

  “No!” Justin roared.

  Ignoring him, Andrew said, “If you help us, we have a much better chance of getting O’Neil. You can draw this guy out. Will you do it?”

  She wanted to curl away from the terrifying question, but it wasn’t just her life at stake now. There was Justin’s. When she nodded it seemed as though the room erupted. She refused to look at Justin, her father, her grandmother. Instead she kept her eyes locked on Andrew’s, blocking the cacophony of voices that demanded her to stop, that refused to allow her to do what she knew was necessary. The conversation had narrowed. It was between Andrew and Cameryn.

  “How far are you willing to go to catch him? It’s really up to you.” He moved so close they almost touched. “How far, Cammie?”

  And then, in a voice so low only Andrew could hear it, Cameryn replied, “I’ll go as far as it takes.”

  “No way. Tell me you’re not serious,” Lyric demanded as she stretched across Cameryn’s bed on her stomach. She wore a loose caftan covered with huge, multicolored polka dots and a pair of jeans that flared at the knees. Her nails had been painted neon yellow. “Your dad is letting you be the bait in this little government trap? Get out!”

  “I’m not bait,” Cameryn argued. “Not exactly.”

  “It sounds to me like you’re the carrot on the end of a stick, the fly in the web, the honey for the bear, the chum in the water . . . I think I’m running out of colorful metaphors.”

  “Look, every electronic device is being monitored and the agents are hiding practically in plain sight. I’m perfectly safe. They even gave me my BlackBerry back.” She held it up and wagged it in front of her friend’s face. “See?

  “Fabulous.” Lyric sighed, long and loud. “The security fairies promise you’ll be safe, so no worries, right? Nothing could possibly go wrong if the government’s involved!” She rolled over like a sea lion and placed a plump arm across her eyes, as if to block out the afternoon light.

  Lyric had arrived at the Mahoney home the minute school was out, clumping up the stairs twice as fast as usual, the echo of her boots deafening against the wooden treads. At first, Lyric had babbled a list of half-truths that had already blazed through the hallways of Silverton High, her kohl-rimmed eyes wide with excitement. Her mood had darkened, momentarily, when Cameryn calmly explained what had actually happened during the night, but, true to form, she was determined to bring things back to normal. Stories of Adam were wedged between tirades against Tiffany, who “wished she were being stalked so she could be the center of the world again,” and who had been acting “like she knew everything about Kyle.” Lyric’s conversation became a runaway car, filled with bumps, swerves, and screeching brakes, until she veered back to the FBI and asked about security and if that meant everything Cameryn did was being watched.

  “So are they, like, making notes about me right now?” Lyric asked. She picked at a loose thread on the bedspread, winding it around her fingertip, then pulled it away so that it left a tiny coil.

  “Yep,” Cameryn answe
red. “Every person, every call, every time.”

  “And if I text you they’re going to have a record of everything I write?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “How long is that going to go on? Because I don’t exactly want my words put in some file where the government can see. It would actually bother me more except for the fact that my ramblings aren’t actually interesting enough for anyone to read them more than once.”

  “I know, I know,” Cameryn said, trying to give the impression she was listening. The computer monitor pulled her with its own gravity. From her desk she had a view of her screen, the BlackBerry propped against its side, and the cordless phone she’d set next to them. Her window offered a vantage point from which she could survey the street. It was quiet out there as well, as if the street, too, were holding its breath. The trees, stripped of leaves, were still, and the branches cut sharp shadows against the snow. Few cars drove by. Once she saw her neighbor’s face framed in an upstairs window before she vanished, snapping the curtains shut.

  All day long Cameryn had been on full alert, edgy, and yet . . . nothing had happened. The chat room remained silent, even when she’d tried to contact Kyle exactly the way Andrew told her to. She placed her foot on the rung of her chair and watched her BlackBerry for any sign of life. It seemed to stare back with a blank face. Cameryn chewed on the edge of her finger as she checked into the chat room once again, nodding for Lyric in what she hoped were the right places.

  “. . . your grandmother said to cheer you up and I told her I was the master of ‘fun shui.’ I know I’m great for giggles and grins but it’s a little crazy being locked up in a room like this. Maybe we should get out of here.”

  “I’m not supposed to. Oh, but I get to go see Dr. Moore tomorrow,” Cameryn said, suddenly excited. “My dad’s taking me—well, my dad plus a police escort. Moore wants me to go over the jelly-in-the-lungs report, so I’ll be free, at least for a little while. I’m glad the media’s all over Brent Safer and Joseph Stein. I’d hate it if they caught wind of my little drama. That’s the last thing I’d want.” She shuddered as she looked at her screen. Still nothing.

  “This waiting thing is kind of nuts.” Lyric’s feet now hung off the edge of the bed like two anchors. They started to jiggle so that the heels of her boots clacked together, a sure sign, Cameryn knew, that she was nervous. “What are you going to do about classes? I mean, are you coming back?”

  “My dad’s talking to the principal right now. If they catch Kyle today . . .” She didn’t finish the thought. Outside, she watched Justin’s squad car drift by. It slowed, then moved on, like a shark circling its prey.

  “And there he goes again,” Cameryn said. “I don’t believe this.”

  “Who?”

  “Justin. He just made, like, his fiftieth pass by my house. He’s going to burn up the entire Silverton police gas budget if he keeps it up and—wait a second.” She squinted, then stood, pulling back the gauzy inner curtain. “Oh, no. He’s backing up. A-a-a-n-d he’s parking, which means he’s coming in. This just gets better and better.”

  Lyric struggled halfway up, leaning on her elbows. The red swaths in her hair looked not so much like rubies as bloodstains, and from this angle Cameryn could see the blonde margin of her roots. “I thought Justin coming here would be a good thing.”

  “Normally, yes. It’s just he—well, Justin isn’t happy about the plan. About me helping with the sting. Upset might be the best word. Or maybe freaked out.”

  “Big surprise. I’m not happy about the plan, either, but you’re not exactly listening to me. So, should I come back another time?”

  Through the window, Cameryn tried to read the expression on Justin’s face. His jaw was set in a way that made her nervous, as did the erect way he held himself, as though he’d been filled with some kind of energy. His head swiveled to look up one side of the street, then down the other. Hooking his thumbs in the loopholes of his jeans, he began to walk toward her house with a furious step. His green aviator-style jacket, the one with the gold star embroidered over his heart, was hitched up beneath the palms of his hands. His head, as always, was bare, and his dark hair swirled in the wind.

  “Um . . . maybe you should,” Cameryn murmured. “He looks pissed.”

  “Wow. Your very first fight. I want details!” She gave a bounce on the bed. “This is better than trash TV!”

  “We are not going to fight.”

  “Wanna bet?”

  “Why should we? I’ve got more security than the president, and it’s no big deal. Besides, helping the police is my decision.” Cameryn turned to her, defensive, raising her chin and crossing her arms in a way she hoped conveyed confidence. “Andrew said I was being brave.”

  “That’s one word for it.” Lyric held up her hands in mock surrender. “Okay, I’ll get out of here, since I know when I’m not wanted. Text me later so I can find out what happened. It’s so comforting to know I’ll be a part of your permanent government file. If I can text you back something creepy, I might do it, just to keep them on their toes.”

  “Yeah, and you and I can have a nice little visit after they throw your butt in prison.”

  “Still, it might be kinda fun, messing with the government—”

  “Don’t even joke around about this stuff. These people are deadly serious. It’s the FBI.”

  “Well, no matter what, I think Justin’s going to protect you even better. With him it’s personal.”

  Down below, Cameryn heard the chime of her door-bell followed by the notes of her grandmother’s soft Irish lilt. Lyric, in the meantime, wasted no time pulling on her coat. She grabbed her backpack and slung it over her shoulder. Leaning close, she whispered, “Before you guys start yelling I want you both to remember that Valentine’s Day is tomorrow—”

  “Go!” Cameryn hissed, shoving her friend between her shoulder blades just as she heard her grandmother say, “Yes, Justin, she’s in her room.”

  And then, as she heard her friend and Justin greet each other on the steps, Cameryn smoothed her hair and prepared herself for whatever was about to come.

  Chapter Nine

  “BEFORE YOU GET your back up, I’m asking that you listen to what I have to say,” was the first thing Justin said. “I’m asking that you hear me out until I’m finished before you say no,” was the second.

  He stopped in the doorway of her room, his lanky body propped against the frame with one leg straight and the other bent. She couldn’t tell from the expression on his face whether he was upset, relieved to see her, or some sort of mix in between. One thing was clear—it looked as though Justin meant business.

  “Well, hi, Justin,” she answered pointedly. “How are you? Me? Oh, I’m fine. I’m a little tired since I was up all night, but thanks for asking.”

  “Sorry I didn’t begin with the usual pleasantries. So how are you?”

  “Edgy.”

  “Don’t look so scared, Cammie.” He pushed the hair back from his wide-set eyes.

  “I’m not,” she said. “Just tense. You look tense, too.”

  “There’s a lot to be tense about.”

  “Yeah.” She shrugged. “Lyric’s convinced you’re going to try to pressure me to get off the case but I told her you wouldn’t do that. She thinks we’re going to have a fight.”

  “Shhh.” With one hand he held up his finger to his lips and pointed downstairs to where Cameryn’s grandmother bustled about. Now that her door was open Cameryn could hear the sound of glasses clinking in the sink and the soft notes of humming.

  “Your mammaw can hear every word. I want to talk to you privately. Can we shut your door?”

  She shook her head. “Sorry. House rules—no guys allowed in my room with the door closed. My dad’s kind of a stickler that way. He’s going to be home any minute now. . . .” Again she realized how young her words sounded. Well, she’d be eighteen in a week. Maybe then she could renegotiate.

  If Justin minded what she said he didn�
�t let it show. Instead he just smiled his slow smile that made Cameryn guess he actually approved of her father’s strictness. “Okay, then can we go anywhere that’s a bit more, let’s say, confidential?”

  Cameryn bit the edge of her lip. “Andrew told me I’m not supposed to leave the premises.”

  “Then how about that glider?” Justin asked. “I saw your pop left it up. I can brush off the snow and we can talk there. It’s still”—he made air quotes—“ ‘on the premises.’ And just in case you’re still worried about leaving the safety of these four walls . . .” Justin pulled back his jacket to reveal the metal handle of a Glock pistol. “Actually, I hope Kyle comes around. It will make everything a lot easier.”

  Cameryn looked over at her desk and her computer, deciding. “Okay,” she said. “Let me grab my BlackBerry.”

  Shoving the BlackBerry into the back pocket of her jeans, she followed him, her hand reaching for his as they descended the steps. Justin’s palm, always calloused, felt warm in hers, and for a moment she was tempted to let down her guard. But his smile belied a sort of uneasiness—she could sense it in him. Well, he could do his worst and she wouldn’t change her mind. Long ago she’d learned to stand up for herself and she wasn’t about to change now.

  “I’ve got to get my coat,” she said. “It’s in the closet. You get to tell Mammaw we’re going outside.”

  “Oh, so you want me to break the news so that I can take the bullet.”

  “Yep.” Cameryn grinned. “Don’t worry, you’ve already charmed her. She’s baking again—Valentine sugar cookies. Try to snag us a couple if you can.”

  The closet was bursting with coats of all shapes and sizes. Cameryn was glad Justin couldn’t see how unorganized the Mahoneys really were, at least when it came to their undersized closets. Her grandmother’s coat made from lamb’s wool jammed up against her father’s heavy parkas and down vests, which were in turn compressed against Cameryn’s snowboarding pants and summer jackets. Snow boots had been placed in a line, one next to the other, in a formation so tight they looked like bowling pins. She found her tan and brown pair from L.L. Bean and tugged them on, then slipped into her coat, pausing just long enough to catch a glimpse of herself in the entryway mirror.