Final Breath (43 page)

Sydney squirted more of the flammable liquid on the rolled-up photos. The smell of it was starting to make her ill. All the while, she heard a sound from down the corridor: the elevator humming. Maybe Joe was on his way.

Aidan watched her every move. "Okay, now, put down the charcoal starter and hand me the baton you just made."

Trembling, Sydney complied. In the distance, she could hear the elevator doors whoosh open, and then a faint
ping
.

Aidan grinned. "Well, I think that might be your Joe to the rescue..."

"Joe, watch out!" she screamed. "It's a trap! He's got a gun--"

Before she could get another word out, Aidan slammed the butt of his revolver against the side of her head.

Stunned, Sydney fell to the floor. It took a moment for her to focus again. She blinked and saw Aidan hovering by the half-open door, the homemade baton in one hand and his gun poised in the other.

"Joe, look out!" she yelled.

Just then, he came to the doorway.

Aidan fired the gun twice. The loud shots reverberated in the near-empty living room. Joe darted back toward the corridor--out of sight. There was a heavy thumping from footsteps.

Sydney couldn't tell whether or not he'd been hit. Struggling to her feet, she reached for the pepper spray in her pocket. She still wasn't sure what had happened to Joe. But Aidan had tucked the gun under his arm and now set a lighter to the makeshift torch.

Lunging toward him, Sydney doused him with the pepper spray.

The torch-baton exploded and flames crawled up Aidan's arm. Shrieking in terror, he dropped the gun and the makeshift torch. The photos used to assemble it separated and fluttered around the room. Sections of carpet soaked with the charcoal starter now ignited, and the flames licked up at the walls. Screaming, Aidan hit his arm again and again to extinguish the fire eating away at his flesh. He weaved over toward the window and tried to smother the flames with the curtains.

Sydney spotted the revolver on the floor, and she dove for it.

The room filled with smoke, and a fire detector let out a shrill monotonous beep. The Monopoly money drifted around her--some of the bills were on fire.

Pulling herself up, Sydney glanced over toward the door. She still didn't know whether Joe was alive, dead, or wounded. She heard someone coughing, but it sounded like the woman in the bathroom. The smoke and flames in the next room had become so thick Sydney could barely see anything past the bedroom doorway. In all the confusion, she'd lost sight of Aidan.

Then she spotted him again--by the open window. His arm was charred and bloody. But he was staring at her, half-smiling.

Sydney aimed the gun at him, but she knew as well as he must have, she couldn't pull the trigger.

He just nodded at her, and then started out to the window ledge.

"No!" she screamed.

"You can't save me this time, Sydney," he said. "You can't even save yourself."

Aidan climbed out the eighth-story window, then pushed himself off the ledge.

For a few moments after that, everything was a blur. Someone set off the building's fire alarm. The shrill beeps and the constant ringing assaulted her ears. Black smoke swelled from the blaze in the bedroom, and yet Sydney blindly made her way in there--and then to the bathroom. Somehow, the flames hadn't moved across the tiled bathroom floor, but the room was swelteringly hot and red ashes darted around her like incendiary moths.

The young woman in the tub had managed to untie the black cord around her ankles, and now she struggled to her feet. But she was disoriented, and coughing from all the smoke.

Grabbing a robe off the hook on the bathroom door, Sydney plunged it in the toilet and then quickly wrapped it around the young woman.

Sydney felt a blast of heat as she led the girl out of the bathroom. Her hair was singed. Flames began to lash at her legs and arms. She could barely see anything in all the thick black smoke. She tried not to breathe it into her lungs. It felt as if she were being strangled.

Suddenly, someone covered her and the young woman with a blanket and guided them out of the bedroom's inferno. She knew it was Joe. Past the murky blackness and the shrill, deafening alarms, she sensed it was him. Joe led them toward the door. As they fled the smoke-filled apartment, the blanket slipped and she finally glimpsed him. His face was scorched red in spots, and burn marks covered his arms.

Sydney clung to him as they hurried toward the stairwell with the young woman. The stairs were crammed with people making their escape. Coughing and gagging, Sydney couldn't quite get a breath. "Just another couple of flights, honey!" she heard Joe scream. But she could barely hear him over the alarm--and now, sirens. They finally made their way outside, where fire engines sped up the street.

Sydney coughed and coughed until she spit up a black bilelike substance. Everything hurt. Her eyes had dried up, and she kept blinking so she could focus on what was happening around her. She saw the dazed young woman plop down on the little stretch of lawn in front of Rikki's building.

A bit farther down, she noticed Aidan's broken body sprawled on the sidewalk. Sydney winced. The poor, abused, little boy who had wanted to die fourteen years ago had finally realized his ambition.

"You okay, honey?" she heard Joe ask.

Nodding, Sydney at last caught her breath. She wiped some soot away from her face and worked up a smile for him.

It looked as if Joe was trying to smile back at her. But he started to cough. Blood spilled over his lips.

Panic-stricken, Sydney stared at him, and for the first time she noticed the bloodstain on his shirt--along with a small hole, where the bullet had ripped through to his stomach. He staggered forward, and she caught him in her arms.

"I--I'm sorry," he gasped.

Under his weight, Sydney collapsed to the ground, but she managed to sit up and cradle him in her arms. "Oh, no, no, no," she cried, rocking him.

"Tell Eli I'm sorry, too," he whispered.

Sydney kissed his forehead and touched his cheek. She helplessly watched him slip away. She couldn't save him.

All she could do was hold on to Joe's hand as he took his last breath.

E
PILOGUE

His room in the Spaulding Avenue house just didn't seem the same. Dressed in his khakis, white short-sleeve shirt, and a tie, Eli sat at the end of his old bed. His navy blue blazer was draped over the back of his desk chair. Though he'd only taken a few items to Seattle, the room seemed so empty now--and so quiet.

Yet he could still hear the bagpipes playing "Amazing Grace." They'd given his dad a policeman's funeral. At least a hundred patrolmen on motorcycles and another fifty patrol cars had escorted them from the church to All Saints' Cemetery. Their lights flashed and sirens wailed. Eli guessed there were a hundred more cops--all in blue shirts and ties--saluting his dad's casket at the gravesite. There were dozens of reporters and TV vans, too.

He and his mom managed to keep up a stoic front, but when those bagpipes began playing "Amazing Grace," Eli could see her starting to tear up and tremble. He took hold of her hand.

His other hand was out of commission, still in an arm sling from the bullet wound in his shoulder.

His dad's friend, Luis, had gotten out of the hospital and flown back to Chicago in time for the service. Uncle Kyle was there, of course, and so were Aunt Helen and Eli's twin cousins. His buddies, Brad and Tim, were there, too. They'd even hung out with him for a little while yesterday, but it had been kind of a strained reunion. They'd seemed a bit nervous around him--like they'd expected him to burst out crying at any minute. He couldn't really blame them, because he'd been worried about that himself. For now, Eli had managed to have his sudden crying jags when no one else was around. His buddies had wanted to hear all about Earl and Loretta Sayers and what it had been like getting shot. But Eli didn't want to talk about it.

The only one he really wanted to talk to about it was his dad. And he was gone.

A weird thing had happened at the funeral. He and his mom must have shaken about four hundred people's hands. But when his dad's friend and superior officer, Uncle Len, came up to shake his mother's hand, she glanced down at the ground and stepped back. Uncle Len looked a bit peeved for a moment, but then he'd moved on.

Eli had asked his mother about it in the limousine on their way home. "I'll tell you after the brunch," she'd said, patting his hand, "if I don't lapse into a coma before then. I'm exhausted. Still, I'm glad they did this for your dad."

About eighty people came over for the brunch. Uncle Len wasn't one of them.

Aunt Helen had helped his mom with the dishes, and had just left. He and his Uncle Kyle had helped clean up, too, dismantling and stacking a bunch of folding tables and chairs they'd rented. Now he could hear Uncle Kyle in the guest room down the hall, talking to his new boyfriend, Dan, on his cell phone.

Eli was tired--but too wound up to take a nap. He sat there in a daze.

There was a knock on his door.

"Come in," he called.

In her stocking feet, his mother stepped into the room. She carried her black high heels. With a sigh, she sat down on his bed. "You were terrific today, honey," she said, putting her arm around his good shoulder. "Your dad would have been really proud."

"Thanks," he said. "You did pretty well, too, Mom."

"Listen, Eli, I think it's time you finally knew why your dad and I split up for a while," she said.

"You don't have to tell me if you don't want," he muttered.

"Well, I do want," she replied. "And it's still not quite resolved yet."

He squinted at her. "What do you mean?"

She let out another long sigh. "It all started back in March, when your Uncle Len sent your father on a special assignment with some officers your father didn't know very well...."

Eli listened to his mother, and kept shaking his head over and over. Suddenly it made sense why she'd packed up their stuff and moved to Seattle. He couldn't believe his dad had taken that drug money--and let those corrupt cops get away with murder for over three months. Eli wasn't sure what he'd expected his father to have done, but he felt so disappointed in him, especially now, after his policeman-hero's funeral.

"Somehow he should have stood up to those guys," Eli murmured to his mother.

"Your dad thought it might endanger us if he did," his mother explained. "So now it's up to us to stand up to them, Eli. If we don't, we'll be looking over our shoulders for the rest of our lives, and the people who made your father's life so miserable will get away with it." She stroked his head. "But this means going public about your dad's involvement in this sordid business. Even though he was an unwilling participant, he still took money from them. And a lot of people will think that's no way for a hero to act. I know, I thought so myself."

"What do you think
now
?" Eli asked.

She patted his back. "I think your dad was a good man and a good cop. He earned the funeral he got today. And we owe it to him to make sure these creeps pay for what they did."

Eli nodded, and then he hugged her. When his mother hugged him back, he could tell she was careful not to press against his wound.

She said she had to make some calls, and left him alone.

Eli curled up on the bed. He found himself missing Seattle, and wondered if they'd be better off living there. It would give them a chance to start over again--without this drug heist business hanging over their heads. Besides, Chicago just didn't seem like home anymore without his dad.

Eli closed his eyes to sleep, and a tear slid down the side of his face.

In his head, he could still hear the bagpipes playing for his father.

From their garage, Sydney retrieved a toolbox containing exactly thirty-two thousand dollars. She called her news contacts at the network and the chief of police, who had been at Joe's funeral that morning.

Within forty-eight hours, the Chicago police arrested four officers for their involvement in the Fort Jackson Point Pier drug heist. Len Sparks, Jim Mankoff, Kurt Rifkin, and Gerry Crowley were charged with--among other things--murder, conspiracy to commit murder, drug trafficking, extortion, and fraud. In an effort to make deals with the prosecution, they all turned on each other. They were all so dirty and corrupt; Joe was the only one to emerge from the group semivindicated.

The media attention showered on Sydney didn't tarnish her career any. The network wanted to take full advantage of her current high profile, and for them she shot a tribute segment to Jared and Leah, Angela Gannon, and Ned Haggerty. It was featured on the national
Nightly News.

She didn't include Erin Travino or Molly Gerrard in the tribute. Now that the girls' murders had been solved, their parents were no longer interested in having their tragedy rehashed on network TV. Sydney respected that--much to the network's story editor's chagrin.

They kept shoving these tawdry and sensational assignments at her, but Sydney refused. She wanted to cover stories about people who did good and made a difference. She still believed in heroes even when they were slightly flawed.

Sydney heard from one of her hero-subjects the first week in August, when she and Eli returned to Seattle. She got an e-mail from [email protected], with the subject heading:
Top Dog
. The e-mail came with the standard caution not to open it unless she knew the sender. When Sydney clicked on it, a photo began to emerge in sections. It was of Chloe Finch beside a pleasant-looking man with glasses and receding brown hair in front of the Buckingham Fountain. Chloe had a small mark on her forehead from when Aidan had bashed her head against the bathtub faucet. Otherwise, she looked rather pretty--and very happy.
"Dear Sydney,"
she'd written.
"My 2nd week in therapy & my 3rd week with Chuck. I think I'm in love. Thinking of you & wishing you the best. Take care, Chloe."

Chloe wasn't the only one in love. Kyle was still seeing Dan. "Except for his road rage issues and the pinky ring, he's really pretty wonderful," Kyle told her. "And I think he's going to give up the pinky ring."

They fixed her up with Dan's widower-brother, Brian, while he was in town, visiting from New York. He was very tall and handsome--with salt-and-pepper hair. He took her out to dinner at the Dahlia Lounge, and Sydney had felt a little spark of interest. But it was too soon for her to think about dating again. Besides, he was in New York. Nevertheless, they were e-mailing back and forth, and it felt nice to know someone was interested.

She and Eli had consulted his Ouija board, and when he asked, "Will Mom have a boyfriend next year?" it answered,
"Yes."

For now, she was alone--and she didn't mind it.

She didn't even mind that Eli refused to sit with her on that sunny Friday afternoon. What twelve-year-old boy in his right mind would want to be seen with his mother at the beach? So she had her blanket in the middle section--and he had his way over on the south lawn, where all the families were. Sydney looked a bit pale in her red one-piece swimsuit. She was all slick with sunscreen and wore a straw hat.

The beach wasn't too crowded, and she could easily pick out Eli in his green Hawaiian-print trunks as he jumped off the raft's high dive, swam back to the raft, and did it again--and again--and again. Eventually, this other boy--tan, but painfully skinny in baggy blue trunks--started talking with him in line for the diving board. The other boy was putting his hands above his head and miming a dive. Eli was nodding.

Within a half-hour, he and his new friend were taking turns diving off the low board.

Once Eli and the other boy swam to shore, he came to her blanket. "Mom, this is Chad," Eli said, dripping wet and out of breath.

She shook Chad's cold, damp hand.

"Chad wants to know if I can come over to his house for dinner tonight."

Once she got confirmation with Chad's mother, Sydney settled in for a night alone. She ate a grilled-cheese sandwich and tomato soup while watching an old Doris Day movie on cable--on the big-screen HD TV Joe had bought months ago. Then she e-mailed Brian in New York.

When Eli came home at 10:30, she asked him how his dinner at Chad's house had gone. He made a face. "They have one of those pug dogs who wouldn't stop panting and drooling. I kept thinking he was going to keel over or something. I don't think this dog liked me. And Chad's mother made me eat brussels sprouts--and then I started to gag, so she backed off. You're a better cook, Mom. Can we get a dog?"

"We'll see." She smiled. "So--do you think you made a new friend?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. He's okay. We'll see. I'm still hungry." He ducked into the kitchen and made himself a sandwich.

They'd stayed on at Number 9 Tudor Court. Since Burton Christopher Demick's arrest for the 1974 murders of Loretta and Earl Sayers, Eli had stopped hearing voices in his bedroom. Sydney had hung the Georgia O'Keefe print on the bathroom wall again. That had been two weeks ago, and it hadn't fallen yet. She took that as a good sign. They no longer witnessed any creepy, unexplainable occurrences in the apartment. It was as if the dead were finally at peace there--and so were the living.

But when she went to bed that night, Sydney was reminded once again that she and Eli weren't completely alone. Laying there in the darkness, she sensed someone else was in the bedroom with her. She heard a sigh, and a shadow passed over her. Something brushed against the side of her face--by her ear. It felt like a kiss.

She knew it wasn't just a ghost. It was Joe.

She would let go of him soon enough, Sydney realized that. Until then, she knew he'd watch over them.