The Dying Breath (10 page)
Authors: Alane Ferguson
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, everything 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:
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!
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.
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:
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.
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
!”
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 FBI 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.
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.
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.
“. . . 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!”
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.
right there
!” Patrick exclaimed, jabbing his finger at the screen.
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