Final Breath

by Kevin O'Brien

  "A neighbor found both bodies in the bathroom," her friend in the newsroom had said.

  Sydney closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead. What had happened to poor Leah and Jared was just too bizarre, sad, and senseless. It still hadn't quite sunk in that they were dead--and how they'd died. It baffled her.

  She flushed the toilet, washed her hands, and retreated to her bedroom. Crawling back into bed, she switched off the light.

  Sydney lay there in the dark for a few moments. Then instinctively she knew she wasn't alone. Even with the windows open and a breeze wafting in from the lake, the bedroom suddenly felt warm. She could hear breathing. The room seemed to get darker. This was how it always happened. Yet Sydney didn't think she'd ever get used to it.

  She clutched the bedsheets up to her neck. A shadow passed over her. Something brushed against the side of her face--by her ear. It felt like a kiss. For a brief moment, she thought of Joe and wished he were there. Then maybe she wouldn't be so scared.

  But it wasn't Joe.

  It was only a ghost.

  The picture quality was poor, and the sound fuzzy. On the TV screen, Amanda Beck, the perky brunette actress best known for her popular late-eighties sitcom Get Out of Here!, was taking a dramatic turn in this old Lifetime Movie. She didn't look very perky--or pretty--as she lay unconscious in a hospital bed, hooked up to a respirator. A tube tugged down one corner of her mouth, a nasty bruise marred her forehead, and her hair looked greasy. The respirator made a constant whoosh-whoosh-whoosh sound. The eleven-year-old boy she'd saved from the fire before the last commercial now maneuvered himself in his wheelchair to her bedside. It was night, and no one else occupied the hospital room with them. With dogged determination and all the strength he could muster, the poor, pathetic, bandaged boy pulled himself out of the wheelchair just long enough to kiss her cheek and whisper in her ear. "Thank you for saving my life. Sydney Jordan, you're my hero."

  "That scene with the boy late at night in the hospital never happened," Sydney told TV Guide when the TV movie first aired in 1994. The maudlin segment wasn't in her autobiography either. They'd invented it for the film.

  Another commercial came on. The clock on his DVD/VCR player read: 3:45 A.M. He could hear a series of pops outside. People were still lighting off firecrackers. He poured a shot of Courvoisier, sat back in his chair, and watched the rest of Making Miracles: The Sydney Jordan Story.

  It was on a medium-quality videotape he'd bought on eBay. Intermittent static nearly ruined the final scene with Sydney's color commentary of the Olympic Games in Lillehammer. The music swelled while they showed all the people whose lives Sydney had touched in the hospital now watching her on TV, including young Aidan Cosgrove. It was a real tearjerker.

  But he was dry-eyed.

  He had to finish packing for his trip tomorrow afternoon. But instead he watched once again some Movers & Shakers segments he'd recorded over the past several months. For closure, he viewed the Jared and Leah piece one more time. A set of silver candlesticks from their dining room now sat on the same shelf as his TV. And a fancy sterling-silver plate on display in their living room was serving as a coaster for his glass of Courvoisier. He'd also taken forty-seven dollars out of Jared's wallet and another sixty-two dollars from Leah's purse--along with their credit cards. He'd already cut up the credit cards. He didn't really need the money. He just needed the scene at Leah and Jared's place to look like a robbery gone bad. Still, the silver items and the cash were a sweet little bonus.

  Glancing over at his open suitcase on the living room floor, he decided to get back to his packing. He ignored the TV for a few minutes. The segment now showing he'd watched so many times recently, he knew it word for word and shot for shot. Sydney was interviewing Ned Haggerty, a rail-riding transient, who had seen a Burlington Northern yardman trip and fall on the tracks. Ned had emerged from his makeshift temporary home in a boxcar to save the unconscious yardman from being sliced in two by an oncoming freight train. Ned was quite a colorful character, but after the umpteenth viewing, his pontificating on what was wrong with people and the current administration no longer amused.

  Throwing an extra T-shirt and pair of socks into the suitcase, he shoved a pair of work shoes into a plastic bag, and placed it on top of the clothes. He already had the new work uniform in there. He wouldn't need his skeleton keys or his burglar tools this time. There would be no break-ins.

  He had two jobs on this trip. If he carried them out as planned, he wouldn't need his rain slicker and shower cap. It was ironic, too, because he anticipated both kills would be extremely messy.

  There would be a great deal of blood, but not a drop of it would touch him.

  It would be on Sydney Jordan's head.

  If anyone had noticed a stranger coming or going last night, it would have been Sally Considine, the fifty-something divorcee in Apartment 8. Despite the fact that the chateau-style town houses looked alike and often had the same kind of flowers in the window boxes, Tudor Court's occupants usually kept to themselves. Sydney knew Sally Considine well enough to chat politely in passing, and Sally had twice praised her Movers & Shakers reruns when they'd aired recently. She'd also asked Sydney if she knew how to get tickets for Oprah.

  This was the first time Sydney had rung Sally's doorbell. She knew Sally was home. Her windows were open, and she could hear the radio going.

  It was a hot morning, the mid-eighties. Sydney wore khaki shorts and a pink blouse. She'd tried to look halfway presentable for her neighbor. She'd been on TV long enough to know that one bad hair day out among the public could start a chain reaction of gossip about what an utter slob she was. It had been particularly hard trying to look pretty this morning. She hadn't gotten much sleep at all last night.

  The phone had started ringing at 6:35 this morning. The network--along with a few news services--had wanted a quote from her about the deaths of Leah and Jared.

  She'd had three cups of coffee while checking the Internet this morning. There had been several articles on Leah and Jared, but no new developments except for the rather lame quote she'd given them two hours before:

  "It's all so senseless and tragic," said On the Edge correspondent Sydney Jordan, whose Movers & Shakers profile on McGinty and Dvorak brought them national attention. "They were a very sweet, selfless couple, genuine heroes. Jared and Leah should have had many happy years together ahead of them. It's very sad indeed."

  The Portland police still didn't have any leads.

  Sydney kept thinking about that strange e-mail she'd received a few days before. "You can't save them," it had said. She wondered if the person was talking about Leah and Jared, or had it been just some crank, screwing around with her head?

  She clicked RECENTLY DELETED EMAIL in her mail file. It took her a few moments to find it among the seven days' worth of deleted messages. There was no subject header, but Sydney recognized the sender's address. She remembered duet had been in the e-mail moniker: secondduet4U@dwosinco.com.

  She clicked RESTORE, and stared at that cryptic message again. Sydney hesitated before clicking the REPLY icon. Did she really want to respond to the nutcase who had written this message and addressed her as Bitch-Sydney? She took a deep breath, then her fingers worked over the keyboard: "Who are you?" was all she wrote. Sydney didn't even include her name. As she clicked SEND, Sydney felt as if she were opening up a can of worms.

  Just a moment later, she heard a click, signifying incoming mail. She opened up the mailbox:

  MAILER-DAEMON...Returned Mail

  User Unknown: secondduet4U@dwosinco.com

  "Just as well," Sydney muttered to herself, sipping from that third cup of coffee. She hadn't received any follow-up e-mail from that duet person and figured maybe it was best to just leave it that way.

  All that coffee had done a number on Sydney's stomach. Plus her arms and back ached horribly from hauling Eli from that storm drain last night. She was limping pretty badly this morning, too. She hoped Sally Considi
ne wasn't averse to the smell of Bengay--if she ever answered her door.

  Sydney pressed the doorbell again.

  "Coming, coming!" she heard Sally call.

  A moment later, the door flung open. Sally was a large, buxom woman with a pretty, oval-shaped face and close-cropped auburn hair. She wore a white sleeveless blouse, plaid shorts, and sandals. A smile lit up her face. "Well, hi, Sydney!" Then she immediately seemed to regret it, and covered her mouth. "Oh, I just read online about that nice couple from Portland you interviewed. I'm so sorry. How awful! Would you like to come in for some coffee?" She opened the door wider.

  "No thanks," Sydney replied, a hand on her queasy stomach. "That's sweet of you, Sally. I don't want to take too much of your time. I was just wondering. Were you home last night?"

  Sally stepped outside. "Well, yes, as a matter of fact. I was a regular couch potato. I stayed in and watched the fireworks on TV."

  "You didn't happen to see anyone--any strangers--out here in the courtyard, did you?"

  "Last night? No, I didn't notice anybody. Why?"

  "Well, it might be nothing. But when my son and I got back from my brother's last night, we found the front door open--"

  "Oh, my goodness," Sally murmured. "Was anything missing?"

  Sydney shook her head. "Not a thing. There was a small mess in the kitchen, a broken teapot, and some food from the cupboard was spilled onto the counter--nothing else."

  Sally blinked at her. "Maybe you accidentally left the door open and a squirrel got in or something."

  "That's what I thought. But my son swears he closed and locked the door when we left." Sydney felt like an idiot for double-checking with her neighbor, but she wanted to give Eli the benefit of the doubt. She sighed. "Sorry to take up your time, Sally. Maybe it was a ghost or something." She started to walk away.

  "Funny you should mention that," Sally said. "How are you folks getting along in the apartment?"

  Sydney turned and half-smiled at her. "Are you asking if we've had some things go bump in the night?"

  Her neighbor hesitated. "Um, maybe..."

  "Then you know about it," Sydney said.

  "I wanted to say something sooner. But the property manager would have killed me if I'd blabbed. They've had a hard time trying to rent out that place..."

  In a hushed tone, his mother started to describe some of their night visits. From his open bedroom window, Eli could only hear snippets of what she was saying. He peeked past the edge of his curtain down to the cobblestone courtyard, where his mother and Sally stood by Sally's front door. He couldn't see their faces, just the tops of their heads.

  "My brother's in real estate and he told me about some of the previous tenants and the high turnover rate," his mother said. "I gather they had experiences similar to ours."

  "Well, I've lived here three years," Sally said. "And the people in number nine have usually moved in and out so fast I've never gotten to know many of them. But I became chums with this gal, Nancy Abbe, who lived here a while back. She was very cute, very fun. Anyway, Nancy told me that in the upstairs hallway, she once spotted a woman in a long robe. Only she could see through the woman. She said the woman was there for only a few seconds. At the time, I thought Nancy might have been pulling my leg. But since then, I've heard other stories about things going on in that apartment, and now I don't think she was kidding. You know, Sydney, if what happened to you last night is because of this ghost or whatever you want to call it, then it's a real first."

  "What do you mean?" Eli heard his mother ask.

  "Well, from what I've heard, all the disturbances have occurred on the second floor," Sally explained. "But you said the mess was in your kitchen."

  Eli bit his lip. Their neighbor was right. Until last night, there hadn't been any night visits on the first floor.

  Sally scratched her head and shrugged. "I always figured the disturbances happened upstairs, because that's where they found the bodies."

  "Bodies?" his mother repeated.

  Eli leaned closer to the window opening. He saw Sally take a step back. She put a hand over her heart. "Oh, dear, the woman who showed you the apartment told you, didn't she? She's required by law to tell you--"

  "Yes, she said a woman committed suicide in there. It was supposed to have happened back around the mid-seventies."

  "That's right, but--"

  "Listen, Sally," his mother said, lowering her voice again. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't mention anything about this suicide to Eli. He doesn't know. He's already well aware that the place is haunted. I don't want to pour gasoline on that fire."

  Frowning, Eli watched Sally just nod. She didn't say anything.

  "You know, for a minute there," his mother continued. "I thought you said bodies."

  "I did say bodies, Sydney," their neighbor whispered.

  Eli felt a chill race through him.

  "The woman who committed suicide in your apartment had a son," Sally explained. "Before killing herself, she murdered him--in his sleep."

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Chicago--Three nights later

  She'd managed to slip out of Houlihan's without him noticing. Angela Gannon hurried across East Michigan toward the eighteen-story office building where she worked as a paralegal. It was 9:45 on a sultry Tuesday night. Angela still had on her work clothes: a black skirt and a mint-green blouse that complemented her tan and her shoulder-length ash-blond hair. She was thirty-one, and what she lacked in natural beauty--Angela always thought her nose was too long and her chin too weak--she compensated for with a toned, trim body and lots of panache. Still, Angela was always surprised when a guy told her she was beautiful. And sometimes, she fell for that guy, even though he was a mega-jerk.

  Kent, the man she'd stealthily abandoned at a table for two in Houlihan's, was the most recent example of that "whatever did I see in this asshole?" phenomenon. He worked in the same building, but on sixteen, two floors above her. They had started out flirting in the elevator, then had a few brushes in the lobby, and finally a date for lunch. Her friends at the law firm warned her that he was a shallow pig--and married to boot. And if she took a good look at his gorgeous wavy brown hair, she'd notice early signs of male pattern baldness. Angela convinced herself she just wanted to be friends with this cute, married guy who thought she was beautiful. He was a total sweetheart and very much a gentleman all through their lunch date.

  Too bad he wasn't the same way at Houlihan's. She'd been wary about having drinks with him after work anyway. A harmless lunch was one thing, but this was different. After two Tanqueray and tonics, he turned into an utter creep. He was rude to their waiter. He made two calls on his cell phone while she just sat there, bored to smithereens: one to a buddy to schedule a racquetball game and the other to someone about scoring tickets to a White Sox game. The White Sox? It would have been bad enough if her Cubs-crazy family ever found out she was seeing a married guy--but a White Sox fan? They'd have disowned her.

  The last straw had been when Kent--with a smarmy grin--had made an innuendo about checking out the view from one of the upper-floor suites in the Hyatt down the street. After that, Angela had tried to leave, but he'd insisted she stay for just one more drink. She'd waited ten more minutes before saying she had to hit the ladies' room, excusing herself, and then slipping out of the restaurant.

  Hurrying into the lobby of her office building, Angela figured she had about five more minutes before Kent caught on that she'd ditched him. She didn't see the night guard on duty as she hurried through the lobby to the garage elevator. She jabbed the button, and the door opened immediately. The building was older--with only three underground parking levels. Angela pressed C, leaned against the elevator wall, and caught her breath. The elevator let out a groan as it made its descent.

  She'd get the "I told you so" look from her friends when she let them know about tonight with Kent. Well, she had it coming. After all, the guy was married. What was she thinking? His poor wife...

&n
bsp; The overhead light in the elevator flickered for a second, and a little panic swept through her. She could feel the elevator still moving. It was just the light, and it was okay now. Still, that flickering unnerved her for a moment. She was grateful when the elevator stopped and the door whooshed open on Parking Level C. She stepped out of the elevator and started to hunt through her purse for her keys.

  Whenever Angela went for drinks with friends after work, she always volunteered to drive people home--partly out of kindness, but also because she hated venturing down to this creepy garage alone late at night. It wasn't so bad in the morning and at quitting time, because there were other people around. But at this hour, she was the only one down here--at least she hoped she was the only one down here. There was no garage attendant on duty, just an emergency phone and a keypad device near the exit for a code that opened the garage door.

  Angela found the car keys, and had them out and ready--even though she was still quite a ways from her car.

  She'd never been in a submarine, but Angela was pretty certain it would be a lot like this gloomy, old parking garage--the low ceilings with so many exposed pipes, the gray walls and floor, little wire cages around the lights overhead--and yet it was still dark with shadowy nooks everywhere. A click, click, click from her high heels on the concrete floor echoed as she made her way to her Toyota Camry. She saw only two other cars on this level, and they looked as if they'd been there for weeks.

  Angela quickened her pace as she approached her car. While unlocking the door, she glanced through the window into the backseat. No one. It was okay.

  Climbing inside the car, she shut the door, locked it, and started up the ignition. She sighed. She wasn't usually this nervous, but that flickering light in the elevator had disturbed her--and then she couldn't shake the feeling something was wrong. That jerk, Kent, certainly wasn't worth all this angst. It was what she got for succumbing to his "you're so beautiful" line.

  Angela shifted to Drive and pressed on the accelerator.