Dying Breath--A Heart-Stopping Novel of Paranormal Romantic Suspense Read online

  “So, the cats are gone, eh? Party, party?” Roxanne asked her.

  “No parties. I’m earning my money for college.”

  Roxanne giggled. “I know you—just teasing. If I were to head over for a wild and wicked party, that would be the two of us doing our toenails once the little guy fell asleep. But...”

  “But what?” Vickie asked.

  “Hank Fremont does think you should spend more time with him. I overheard him talking about his brother getting him some beer and then him heading over to surprise you,” Roxanne said. “Some of the guys he hangs with were egging him on. Telling him he’s the coolest dude in the school and if he’s dating you, well, you should be cool, too.”

  “Not to worry. I informed Hank this is serious work for me. College is serious for me.”

  “Ah, well, one day maybe you’ll be president of the country! And then I’ll have wild, wicked parties doing my toenails with the president! Anyway, I warned you.”

  “I told him not to come. He won’t. So I’ll see you tomorrow? Shopping, right? We’re going to the mall. Sushi at the ridiculously good place in the food court?”

  “We’re on.”

  Her phone was ringing again as she finished with Roxanne; it was Hank. She shook her head, smiled at the baby, and answered.

  “I’m on my way, my love,” Hank said, trying to make his voice husky—deeply, manly rich. Vickie shook her head at the baby with exasperation. He loved it.

  “Don’t be. I told you—I won’t let you in,” Vickie said. “Hank, this is serious for me. You need to be more serious. If you don’t hit a few books instead of beer bottles, not even your athletics will get you into college.”

  “Hey, we’re only young once! I already have beer and a pizza. Come on, that’s a super-cool house. I’ll be there—”

  “Come, and I’ll call the cops,” she threatened.

  “Bitch!”

  “I mean it, Hank.”

  “Well, you know, we could be over.”

  “We will be eventually. Maybe now is a good enough time.”

  Vickie hung up, aggravated, and set her phone on the baby’s dresser.

  They’d been through this before. He’d apologize tomorrow. He’d beg her to stay with him. But everything she had said was true.

  “Maybe this is the right time to end it, huh, Noah?”

  Noah laughed and clapped.

  And then they both heard a thump. Noah’s eyes widened; Vickie jumped.

  It had come from the attic—she was certain.

  Now she did freeze. For a moment, she couldn’t even remember to shake it off quickly for the baby.

  She waited. Nothing more.

  Had a branch fallen on the house?

  Or had Hank Fremont not taken her refusal seriously? Could he possibly be there already, up in the attic, or outside? Maybe, like in the movies, he’d actually called her from inside the house or right outside the house!

  No, he’d been a jerk tonight, but usually he kind of listened to her. But he was a high school senior surrounded by a few guys who were taking a long time to reach anything that resembled maturity.

  No. Hank would not be that big a jerk. But the house was closely surrounded by big trees.

  “That’s it—a branch,” she managed to say at last, realizing that her hold on Noah was tight—and right when he looked at her, his little face puckered into what might have turned into a cry.

  He smiled instead. “Bick-bick!” he said. It was his name for her. He was beginning to talk—sometimes his words made sense. He was good with mama, dada, bye-bye, and kit-kat. The Ballantines didn’t have pets, but Noah had a great stuffed kitten that sang songs and told nursery rhymes and he knew to ask for his kit-kat when he wanted the toy.

  “Let’s go back downstairs,” she murmured. “Maybe we’ll look at your food packs and you can point at one and we’ll choose your late-night snack that way!”

  Noah clapped his hands. He was, however, looking past Vickie—toward the door. There was something about the way that he was looking that caused her to spin around and stare.

  But no one stood in the doorway.

  “You know, Noah, Bick-bick is going to have to stop this. There are a lot of horror stories about babysitters. The phone rings, and there’s no one there. Just breathing, or something like that. We, however, have a great alarm on this house!”

  Except the door had been ajar. Before the alarm had been set.

  She was really doing it: scaring herself. If she went off the deep end, the Ballantines would never ask her back.

  “Television! We will turn the television on. It will talk and be...well, it will be fine,” she said.

  Once downstairs, she couldn’t find the remote control for the mammoth television screen that was just the right distance from the play area to make certain Noah wasn’t too close.

  She looked all over the room—in Noah’s toy box, everywhere.

  Shaking her head, she took the baby with her and headed for the kitchen.

  The door remained locked. She couldn’t help but check.

  The phone rang and she nearly jumped a mile high. It was the house phone.

  This was it—where the babysitter answered the home phone and someone just breathed into her ear.

  She let it ring. And ring.

  She heard the message machine kick in out in the parlor. And then her mother’s voice.

  “Victoria? Victoria, are you there, sweetheart?”

  She picked the phone up. “Mom?”

  “Yes, it’s your mom—remember me?” Her mother asked dryly.

  Her muscles were so tense she had to pray the baby didn’t feel her fear.

  She forced herself to breathe. “Mom, why didn’t you call my cell?”

  “I did. You didn’t answer,” her mother said.

  Vickie felt in her pockets. Nope, her phone wasn’t on her. Where the heck had she left it? Oh, yeah, she’d set it down upstairs after talking to Roxanne.

  “Sorry. It’s here somewhere. Anyway, what’s up?”

  “You were supposed to call and tell me that you got there okay.”

  “Mom, I thought you were planning on calling me. Also, I graduate in June. And I’m going to college. You just won’t be able to check on me every minute.”

  “I know, I know. But that’s June. I’ll get a grip by then. It’s just...well, when you go to the Ballantine house, I can’t help but think about their son...their older son.”

  “Well, I’m here, I’m fine, baby is as well. I haven’t bounced him off the roof yet or anything.”

  Her mother laughed softly. “You’re a great babysitter, Vickie. And dog-walker and student and daughter. You’ve worked very hard. You’re going to love going to NYU. Mrs. Ballantine will be almost as heartbroken as me when you head off.”

  “Mom, I’ll be in New York. It’s only a four or five hour drive. Look, I promise I’ll bring home lots of laundry and come home for food and the whole bit, okay?”

  Noah let out a squeal of delight. He was looking over Vickie’s shoulder again.

  “I hear the little darling. Okay, sweetie. Go and take care of him!” her mother said.

  “Love you, Mom.”

  “Okay, take care of the little one!”

  Noah let out a delighted laugh once again.

  Vickie barely managed to hang up the phone. She spun around. There was nothing there.

  Nothing.

  No one.

  She almost picked up the phone to call her mom and ask her to come over. Or maybe she could call Roxanne back. Nope. She had assured Mr. and Mrs. Ballantine she did nothing but babysit. She didn’t have friends over.

  Including male friends?

  Not to worry—she especially
didn’t have male friends over!

  She took a deep breath and headed back into the parlor.

  There, on the footstool in front of one of the antique rockers, sat the remote control.

  And her cell phone.

  She hadn’t put them there!

  This time, fear shot through her with electric sparks. She set Noah down quickly in his play area, afraid she would startle, scare or hurt him.

  She made herself breathe—and breathe again.

  “Okay, I just didn’t see it before,” she murmured to herself. “Right there—right on the footstool, but somehow, I’ve gone blind. What do you think, Noah? I didn’t set the phone down upstairs, I did that down here. And I just didn’t really look for the remote control. I’m too into you!”

  He was such a delightful baby. He looked at her and clapped his hands together. She forced a smile and looked at her watch.

  Six o’clock. Full dark on a wintry Boston night. Mr. and Mrs. Ballantine wouldn’t come home for hours.

  And now, because she’d seen too many horror movies, she was allowing herself to let her imagination run wild.

  George and Chrissy Ballantine had been there when she arrived. There was no one else in the house.

  “Breathe, kid, breathe,” she told herself. “Ah! Well, it’s here.” She grabbed the remote control as if it were a lifeline. “Why didn’t your parents get one of those remotes that just lets you talk to the TV and turn it on, huh? You know, like, ‘TV! Go on. Bring me to a really cute little kids’ show!’”

  Noah clapped and made a few oohing noises.

  Vickie turned on the television. From the corner of her eye, she felt as if someone passed by her. She spun around, looking everywhere; there was no one there.

  “Crazy. Your Bick-bick is going crazy, Noah!” she said.

  She didn’t know why, but she found herself looking at the family portraits that flanked the massive granite mantle.

  Mr. and Mrs. Ballantine to the right.

  Dylan and Noah to the left.

  She swallowed hard and turned her attention to the flat-screen television.

  It was tuned to a news channel. A reporter stood before a huge building in Suffolk County, warning listeners that two prisoners had escaped that morning from the South Bay House of Correction.

  They had feigned illness in a planned escape; they had taken the guns used in their escape from guards they had left critically wounded.

  One, Reginald Mason, had already been captured after a shootout with police at a convenience store. Two civilians had been wounded in the gunfire.

  Residents of the Greater Boston area were warned to be extremely careful. Mug shots of the men were shown, with the footage then zooming in on the face of one Bertram Aldridge. Six years ago, he’d terrorized the area, becoming known as the Southside Slasher for the horrible way he’d murdered his seven known victims. He’d liked to tease law enforcement with letters to the newspapers, telling them FBI stood for Fat-Butt Intelligence and BPD stood for Billie-Prick-Dicks.

  Police were out in force, and they expected to find the second man quickly, since he was local and had ties to the area. Past associates of the man were under investigation.

  She realized she and the baby were staring at the screen as the reporter continued to numerate the violent crimes committed by the men. Bertram Aldridge, still on the loose, was known for butchering his victims with a knife, but he was familiar with firearms and had shot several officers during his original arrest.

  “No, no!” she said aloud, and she began to flick the button to change the channel.

  There were tons of news channels. Every one of them seemed to be covering the escape.

  At last, she found a Disney cartoon, one that she loved herself—The Little Mermaid.

  Singing crustaceans—yep. They were good for now.

  Then the air in the room seemed changed, and again she felt as though someone else was there. Right there with her in the room.

  The baby was clapping and laughing.

  That was good, of course. Because, inwardly, she was freaking out.

  The door was locked; she’d checked.

  But it hadn’t been before. She’d heard a bump. And her phone...

  She could remember—at least she thought she could remember—putting it down upstairs.

  “It’s because I’m scared silly, little one—freaking here. I’m about to call my mommy!” she said to Noah, trying to smile all the time.

  He laughed at her.

  And then turned and laughed and clapped again, seemingly seeing someone else there.

  “Okay, I’ve had it!” she said. “Kid, we’re going to head into the kitchen. Nice and cozy there, and we have a door—”

  Her words broke off. She heard something. For sure this time. From upstairs.

  Then suddenly she screamed. There was something right in front of her. What—she didn’t know. At first, it just seemed like clouds forming in air. Then there seemed to be a face, and then a form, and a full figure. Her mouth opened; she felt like fire and ice in one. Terror ripped through her with a painful vengeance.

  And she heard the sound again. Something up the stairs. As if someone was moving, as if they were close to the stairs, perhaps to come down them...

  And in front of her...

  The figure and face had formed. Her gaze jerked up to the pictures above the mantle. She looked at the portrait of Dylan Ballantine.

  And she looked at the strange thing that had formed out of the air before her.

  “Go!” she heard. It was a rustle; it might have been leaves.

  It might have been the terror that ruled her brain.

  And it might have been the ghostly image of Dylan Ballantine standing before her now.

  And still, she heard that sound...someone moving furtively, taking a step on the staircase, moving in a way she could sense...

  And then...

  She felt as if she was suddenly slapped hard by an icy hand.

  “Get Noah and get out!”

  Like a whisper, like a whisper, like a sound that played only in her mind...

  “Move! Move—now!”

  At that point, she acted. She grabbed the baby. She forgot about his ultrawarm knit hat and his mittens and his outside shoes.

  She held him to her chest, raced to the front door, threw it open and raced out into the street.

  It was dark and it was cold and no tourists were traveling the Freedom Trail. She heard a pounding behind her.

  She was terrified to look back.

  She did.

  A man was there, behind her, coming after her. A man with a gun.

  She turned and ran again—toward the Paul Revere House.

  There were still people there! A group milling, talking about where to go to dinner.

  “Help, help!” she cried.

  Someone heard her! A tall Boston policeman had suddenly appeared on the sidewalk.

  “Down, miss, down!” he shouted.

  She gripped Noah even more tightly to her and ducked low.

  She heard an explosion and a scream at the same time. Turning back, she saw the man with the gun on the ground.

  He had fired, but he had apparently tripped over his own two feet. His gun had gone off... But his bullet had aimed into the sky. He was struggling up, taking aim again...

  But he’d been shot.

  The young policeman had fired at almost the same time.

  Standing next to the collapsed man was the image of the boy she had seen in the house. Dylan Ballantine, dead nearly three years, dead before his baby brother had been born.

  The policeman rushed by Vickie and the baby, his own weapon aimed at the man—the convict!—who had evidently tripped...
<
br />   The man on the ground screamed as the cop’s bullet exploded again; his gun went flying from his hand. He was disarmed, bleeding.

  But only because he had tripped over the leg of a dead boy! Over Dylan Ballantine.

  And as she continued to stare back in terror, the image of Dylan Ballantine began to fade.

  And then he was gone.

  The icy darkness of the wintry night began to settle in, and Noah began to cry at last.

  1

  Boston, Massachusetts

  The North End

  Summer

  Griffin Pryce ran hard and as fast as he could, ahead of Jackson Crow by maybe ten feet. Not that it mattered. The clue had led them to the historic old cemetery, but once there, they’d have to look.

  Thankfully it was summer. There was no abundance of multicolored autumn leaves to cover the ground; they would hopefully find an area that had been disturbed easily enough.

  This was the first time the kidnapper/killer known as the Undertaker had actually left his victim in a cemetery. At least, so Griffin believed.

  He was known to box his victims, nail them into wooden coffin-like crates.

  Now, the box might well be a coffin.

  There—behind dozens of slate stone markers, few really over the bodies they memorialized anymore and even fewer that had been rechiseled so that the words honoring the dead were legible—he saw where the ground had been ripped up.

  He raced to the area—then swore when he hit a soft spot in the ground and went down—straight down—a good four feet.

  “Here!” he shouted, though, of course, shouting was rather inane since Jackson surely recognized that Griffin had fallen into some kind of a pit.

  Not so strange, he knew. In 2009, a woman had fallen into the stairway of a long forgotten tomb at the Granary cemetery. Time had a way with slate seals and old granite and the earth. Thousands had been buried here throughout time; all kinds of vaults lay beneath the surface.

  He just prayed that they had found the right place, right now; that they were in time.