Final Breath

"Who's Eli? Is he your son?"

Kyle turned and gaped at a handsome man in his late thirties. He was lean and tan, with short black hair that was graying at the temples. He wore blue Hawaiian-print trunks.

"Um, he's my nephew," Kyle said. He looked out at the raft again.

The stranger followed his gaze. "I'll go swim out there and check around. What does Eli look like?"

"He--ah, he's twelve, and thin," Kyle answered. He kept glancing around. "He's got short, light brown hair..."

"What color are his swim trunks?" the man asked.

Kyle shrugged. "I'm not sure. He had his shorts on over them when we came here. He went to meet a friend named Earl. He was supposed to check in with me a half hour ago."

"Does he have any tattoos or piercings?"

Kyle squinted at him. "He's twelve."

"I'm kidding," the man said. "Be right back."

Kyle watched him run into the water and start swimming out to the raft. The clouds on the horizon grew darker. He heard the distant rumble of thunder. The lifeguard up on his perch put on an orange windbreaker. The beach was emptying out. A few people on the raft were diving off and swimming toward shore. "Eli! Eli McCloud!" Kyle tried again.

He saw the man in the blue Hawaiian trunks pull himself up onto the raft. Then he put his hands around his mouth. Kyle could almost hear him calling Eli's name. The handsome stranger wandered around the raft. He stopped to talk to one kid, then another and another. Each time, the kid shook his head at him. Finally, he walked back toward the edge of the raft, waved at Kyle, then shrugged and shook his head.

"Damn," Kyle muttered. He felt some raindrops.

The man in the blue trunks dove back in the water. Some more kids vacated the raft after him. There weren't many people still in the lake. Kyle didn't see Eli among them. He noticed that his Good Samaritan had stopped swimming and now stood in the shallower water. He put his hands around his mouth again and called out for Eli.

Kyle reminded himself that Eli was the son of a cop. He knew better than to get into a car with some stranger. And he was with a friend. Wasn't there safety in numbers? Still, Kyle couldn't help imagining the worst. He could almost hear the TV newscaster tonight: "The search continues for two missing teenage boys..."

Dripping wet and shivering a bit, the man trotted up to him. "I'm sorry I wasn't any help."

Kyle nodded distractedly. "That's okay. Thank you, thank you very much."

"I'm sure he'll show up," the man said, touching Kyle's arm with his cold, wet hand. "He and his buddy probably just wandered off. There's the playground right up the street, and all the restaurants, and the bakery. I'm sure he's not far."

"What am I going to tell his mom?" Kyle murmured--almost to himself.

"Listen, my name's Dan," the man said. "What's yours?"

Dazed, Kyle blinked at him. "Um, Kyle."

"As soon as I dry off, Kyle, I'm heading down the block. If I see anyone looking like your nephew, I'll call you. What's your phone number?"

Kyle gave him his cell number.

The man squeezed his shoulder. "I'm sure Eli's all right. I'll call and check in with you, okay?"

"Okay, thanks," Kyle said.

The man hurried over to his blanket on the beach's nearly empty north section. He started to dry himself off, then grabbed his backpack.

Kyle turned toward the other side of the beach. Except for a few stragglers--and some scraps of litter rolling in the wind--the south section was barren. The rain started coming down a little harder.

"What am I going to tell his mother?" Kyle whispered again.

For a moment, Eli couldn't move. He locked eyes with the man on the other side of the periodical stacks. Between the slats in the shelves, he could see the man's dark complexion, and those dark eyes--one clear and the other red from a broken blood vessel or some kind of infection. He was only a few feet away.

There was a flash of lightning, followed by a muted rumble of thunder in the distance. Rain started slashing against the library's windows. But the man kept staring at him--the same way he'd stared on Saturday at the fun fair and yesterday on the bus.

The printer let out a beep to signify that his copy of the newspaper article was ready. Eli grabbed the paper from the printer. His hands shook as he quickly pulled the microfilm spool from the scanner, then he switched off the computer.

Another lightning flash illuminated the whole reference room for a moment, then another crack of thunder--closer this time.

Eli glanced over toward the periodical shelf again. The man wasn't there anymore.

With the microfilm spool and the printed article in his hands, Eli hurried around to the other side of the newspaper and magazine rack. He checked the next row of shelves and the next. All the while, rain beat against the library's windows, and shadows cascaded on the interior walls and floor; it almost seemed to be raining inside as well. Eli kept glancing around for that man with the strange eye and the dark complexion, but he didn't see him anywhere.

Yet he couldn't shake the sensation that the man was still watching him.

Eli hurried to the reference desk and returned the microfilm spool. He missed the pretty librarian from yesterday. This woman was nice enough, but no looker. She was middle-aged, with a long face and mousey brown hair. The lights flickered for a second. The woman glanced up from her work. "My goodness, I hope we don't lose power," she said, taking the microfilm spool from him. "The storm sure came on suddenly. To think, it started out to be a perfect beach day."

Eli suddenly realized his uncle was probably wandering around the beach looking for him in this pouring rain. "Is there a pay phone around here?" he asked, digging into his pocket and feeling for change.

Nodding, the librarian pointed to her right. "There's one by the restrooms. Go down that way and take another right."

"Thank you." As Eli hurried in that direction, he glanced over his shoulder. He didn't see that strange man anywhere. Up ahead was the sign for the washrooms. He turned down the corridor and spotted the pay phone. Grabbing the receiver, he slipped two quarters into the coin slot.

Having stayed with his uncle for nearly three weeks, Eli knew his cell phone number by heart. Uncle Kyle answered after one ring: "Yes, hello?" He sounded panicked.

"Uncle Kyle?"

"Oh, thank God," he said. "Are you all right? Where the hell did you go?"

"Um, Earl wanted to go check out some CDs at Everyday Music, so we grabbed a bus to Capitol Hill," he lied. "We went looking for you to tell you, and even waited around for a while. I thought we'd be back in time--"

"Good God, Eli, I'm about to have an aneurysm here," Kyle said. "I almost got struck by lightning wandering around the beach in this storm looking for your sorry ass."

Eli swallowed hard. "I'm really sorry, Uncle Kyle. I didn't think--um, Earl would take this long." That much was true. He'd counted on finding the article about Earl Sayers in just a few minutes. "Anyway, I'll grab the first bus back to Madison Park."

"No, you'll drown in this rain," his uncle said. "I'll come pick you up. And then I'm going to kill you."

"Is Mom freaking out?" Eli asked, grimacing.

"She doesn't know, and she doesn't have to know. If I tell her I lost you at the beach, she'll go ballistic on the both of us. It would be a bloodbath. So--you're at Everyday Music, huh? I'll be there in about ten minutes."

"Um, could you give me a half hour?" Eli asked. "Please, Uncle Kyle?"

"You have twenty minutes, okay?"

"Thanks, Uncle Kyle." He hung up the phone. The buses to Capitol Hill ran pretty frequently. He could make it there in twenty minutes. In fact, he even had time to hit the restroom.

Eli heard another rumble of thunder. He glanced over his shoulder as he headed toward the men's room. No sign of that weird guy.

Somebody was using the only urinal, so Eli ducked into the stall to pee. He heard the other guy flush and then leave. Not a hand-washer. Eli was just finishing up when the lights flickered. For a few seconds the restroom was totally black. He couldn't see a thing--not even his hand in front of his face. A panic swept through him, and he braced himself against the stall wall for a moment. The lights came back on, and he caught his breath. He flushed the toilet, then turned around and hesitated.

Someone stood on the other side of the stall door. Eli felt as if his heart had stopped beating. He glimpsed the man's beat-up loafers and the cuffs of his jeans through the opening under the door. The man was blocking his way.

Eli backed up, bumping into the toilet. He glanced up toward the ceiling, which was a polished metal and gave a reflection. He could see a dark-haired man waiting outside the stall for him.

The lights flickered again.

He heard the restroom door open, and looked up. The reflection in the metal ceiling showed another man had just entered the restroom. He went to the urinal.

But the dark-haired man didn't budge. He remained just outside the stall--as if standing guard. Eli figured the guy couldn't very well attack him while someone else was in the men's room. He quickly pulled open the stall door.

He almost plowed right into the man--a middle-aged guy with a goatee. It wasn't the creepy man with the bloodshot eye. "Sorry," Eli gasped. Retreating to the sink, he ran his hands under the water and dried them on the front of his shorts.

Then he hurried out of the restroom, without looking back.

When Rikki Cosgrove opened her eyes and gasped, it was as if the last breath had left her body.

She'd scared the hell out of Sydney for a second, and Arlene had even let out a little, abbreviated scream. The old woman was still leaning on her three-pronged cane and clutching her heart as Rikki slipped away moments later.

Sydney watched her eyes roll back and her jaw slacken. The eyes--almost all white--remained open. "She's gone," Sydney whispered, more to herself than to the elderly woman at her side. Along with a crack of thunder outside, she heard a siren getting louder and closer now. But they were too late.

She and Arlene stepped out to the living room while the paramedics tended to Rikki. There were two of them, the shoulders of their blue summer uniforms wet from the rain: a husky, pale woman with brown hair and a good-looking bald black man with a goatee. They'd rolled a collapsible gurney and some resuscitation equipment into Rikki's bedroom. Sydney asked if she could open a window and turn on the fan, and the two paramedics encouraged her to do just that. Some rain blew in, but so did the cool fresh air.

They'd left the apartment door open, and Sydney noticed two more firemen waiting in the hallway. She thought she might be in the way, but the woman paramedic had asked her and Arlene to wait. Sydney heard the two of them in Rikki's bedroom, radioing to the police and announcing a time of death.

Sydney felt horrible for thinking Rikki had exaggerated the severity of her illness. She also felt incredibly disappointed in Aidan for allowing his frail, sickly mother to waste away and die alone in such a filthy apartment.

"Look at this," Arlene said, glancing at the mess on the kitchen counter. "Her poor son, he tried to put her in a nursing home, but Rikki refused to go. He hired a maid and a nurse for her, but she kicked them out. Rikki just wanted him to do, do, and do everything for her--and he did."

Past all of Arlene's chatter, Sydney heard another siren, the piercing wail becoming louder.

"He flew up from San Francisco every weekend for her," Arlene continued. "This was the first weekend he's missed in I don't know how long. I saw this place last Sunday when Aidan was visiting her. It was neat as a pin--if you can believe it..."

Sydney glanced over at the easy chair facing the TV. She stared at the indentation still in the seat cushion, and the piles of magazines and trash around it. Beside the chair was a little table, cluttered with junk.

"He asked me to check in on her this week, but Rikki wouldn't let me in," the elderly woman went on. "She kept telling me to go away and mind my own P's and Q's. And the mouth on her, such language. Well, I shouldn't speak ill of the dead...."

Two policemen stepped into the apartment. Sydney backed up and tried to stay out of the way while one of the cops talked to Arlene. The other policeman ducked into the bedroom to consult with the paramedics.

Sydney noticed a cordless phone on the table by Rikki's chair. There was also a used Kleenex, a teacup, and a yellow legal pad. Sydney glanced at the note written on the top page. The print was large, so someone with bad eyesight could read it:

MOM,

--KEEP THE BEEPER WITH YOU AT ALL TIMES IN CASE YOU FALL AGAIN!

--DON'T THROW YOUR DEPENDS IN THE TOILET OR SINK! USE THE DIAPER PAIL IN THE BATHROOM.

--CALL THE SUPER & HE WILL TAKE OUT THE GARBAGE FOR YOU.

--USE THE PLASTIC DAILY PHARMACY THING FOR YOUR MEDICATION. I'VE MEASURED IT

OUT FOR YOU. DON'T TAKE ANY PILLS FROM THE PRESCRIPTION BOTTLES! REMEMBER LAST TIME!

--CALL ARLENE OR ME IF YOU NEED ANYTHING...

Below that was a list of important phone numbers--from Aidan's home number in San Francisco to Rikki's doctors to Pagliacci Pizza Home Delivery.

There was another thunder crack. Sydney heard the elevator ring in the outside hallway. A moment later, a tall, tanned handsome man with thick chestnut-brown hair stopped in Rikki's doorway. He had a full hiking pack strapped to his back and wore a white Oxford shirt, khaki cargo shorts, and sandals. There was a policeman behind him. "Oh, God," the young man murmured, visibly dazed. Shucking off the backpack, he let it drop to the floor, and then headed toward Rikki's bedroom.

But the cop stepped in front of him, and shook his head. "If you could just give them a minute, sir," the policeman said.

The handsome man turned to Rikki's neighbor "I saw that ambulance outside, and I was hoping it wasn't...Arlene, were you with her? Did somebody call a priest for her? She would have wanted a priest..."

Arlene patted his shoulder. "We were with her when she passed away, dear." The elderly woman nodded toward Sydney. "The two of us were at her side. Your mother wasn't alone...."

He gazed at Sydney as if he were just noticing her there for the first time. "Sydney? Sydney Jordan?"

"I'm so sorry. Aidan," she murmured.

Tears welled in his eyes. He walked to her and threw his arms around her. Aidan pressed his face to her shoulder, and began to cry. "I should have stayed with her this weekend," he murmured, his voice choked with emotion. "She thought she was dying, but she's been saying that for years...."

"There now," Sydney whispered, stroking his back. "It's not your fault."

In this strapping, handsome twenty-five-year-old, she could still see the burnt and broken little boy she'd saved from that fire. Sydney still felt a connection to him after all these years. This was the first time she'd actually been able to hug him. "It's okay, Aidan," she said. "It's okay..."

Then Sydney started to cry with him.

Beyond the raindrops slashing at the front window of Everyday Music, Eli saw his uncle's Mercedes SUV come up Broadway and pull over to the curb by a life-size statue of Jimi Hendrix playing his guitar. Running out of the CD store, Eli covered his head from the rain with a free music magazine, and then he jumped in the front seat. Uncle Kyle was at the wheel. His eyes narrowed at him. "Where's your friend?" he asked.

"Oh, um, he--he wanted to go to Broadway Video," Eli lied. "He said he'd get home on his own. Thanks a lot for picking me up, Uncle Kyle. I'm really sorry I screwed up. I didn't mean to make you worry."

Pulling into traffic, Kyle studied the road ahead. The windshield wipers squeaked a bit. "I should be seething right now," he said. "Just consider yourself lucky that I met this total hunk on the beach while I was looking for your sorry ass. I was so worried about you, I didn't even pick up that he was interested in me. Anyway, I was just on the phone with him ten minutes ago, and we have a date tonight." At a red light, he glanced at Eli. "Is this too much gay stuff for you?"

"No, it's cool," Eli said. "I'm just glad you're not really, really pissed."

His uncle squinted at him. "Hey, where's your backpack?"

Eli's hand automatically felt along the side of the car seat--even though he knew the backpack wasn't there. He realized now that in his panic, he'd left it in the library. He tried to remember if there was anything valuable in it: his book, a beach towel, and sunscreen.

His uncle pulled forward as the traffic light changed. He was looking ahead once again. "You had a backpack when we went to the beach. What happened? Did you leave it in the store?"

"Um, no, I--I let Earl borrow it," he lied. He figured he'd call the library when they got home. Maybe they had the backpack in their Lost and Found unless that creepy man with the weird eye ended up stealing it.

Eli asked if his mom was home yet. His uncle explained that she was probably still visiting this sick old lady. It was the mother of the kid she'd saved from that fire. "We'll call her when we get home," his uncle said. "I can't stick around too long. I need to get ready for my big date."

Because of the rain, parking spaces had opened up near the beach, so his uncle was able to park right in front of the Tudor Court. They walked through the courtyard together. "Well, it looks like Earl was here before you," his uncle said, as they approached the front door.

For a moment, Eli didn't know what he meant. But then he saw something by the doorstep, and Eli stopped dead.

It was his backpack.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

A soft breeze drifted through the kitchen window as she washed the dinner dishes. Sydney shook the water off her hands, then turned and grabbed the pot and dish towel from Aidan. "You're a guest here," she said. "And you've been through a hell of a lot today. Let me pamper you, okay?" She pointed to the kitchen table. "Sit."

She'd watched Aidan for nearly two hours this afternoon in his mother's pigsty of an apartment. He seemed shell-shocked as he'd dealt with the police, paramedics, and finally the coroner. Sydney had made her exit when the two men from the funeral home had arrived, but before leaving, she'd invited Aidan to dinner. She'd figured he shouldn't be alone tonight. He'd given her a sad smile and nodded. "Here you are, rescuing me again," he'd said. "Dinner would be great, thanks."

Sydney had returned home to Eli, in her office using her computer, and Kyle, all pumped up about a date tonight with some guy he'd met on the beach. She hadn't heard back from Troy Bischoff, and thought about calling him again. Sydney had wondered if perhaps she'd indeed overreacted about the Heimlich maneuver fax. Maybe Kyle had been right. Yes, the news about Leah and Jared's and Angela's deaths had been a shock, very disturbing and sad. But she'd let her imagination go wild with her theories and paranoia.

Maybe all it took for her to stop obsessing was someone who really needed her right now--someone who wasn't her son.

In fact, she'd even left Eli alone in the apartment for a few minutes while she'd run to the Apple Market to pick up some food for dinner. She hadn't seen any sign of Mr. 59 since Saturday--two days ago. She'd figured Eli would be safe for twenty minutes, and he had been.

While dinner had cooked, she'd jumped into the shower, and then thrown on a pair of white slacks and an orange print top. She'd even put on some makeup. In the middle of getting ready for Aidan, she'd wondered why it was so important that she look pretty tonight.

While polite all through dinner, Eli had seemed uncomfortable around Aidan. Maybe he'd just felt awkward around this stranger whose mother had just died this afternoon. Yet he'd also seemed a bit resentful of the handsome young man at their dinner table, this man who wasn't his father.

Eli was in the living room right now, watching The Bourne Ultimatum for the fourth or fifth time.

"That was a terrific dinner," Aidan said, sitting on one of the stools. "I hope you didn't knock yourself out too much."

"Oh, please, a bottle of Newman's Own, some Italian Chicken Sausage, and pasta. I didn't have to do much." In the darkened window above the sink, she could see him sitting at the table behind her.

"Eli's lucky to have a mom who cooks. I grew up on Chef Boyardee and Spaghetti-o's, which I learned to cook for myself when I was eight. Way too often, my mother wasn't around at dinnertime, and I had to fend for myself."

"Well, Eli has had to fend for himself on a few occasions, too," she said, eyeing his reflection as she scrubbed out the salad bowl.

"It's not the same thing, Sydney," he muttered. "Rikki was a pretty crummy mother. I don't have many good memories of her. Well, you know what she was like. You had to deal with her from time to time. On the way here tonight, I was racking my brain trying to come up with something nice about her that I could hold onto. Right now, I'm just angry with her."

Turning off the water, Sydney dried her hands. She looked at him and shrugged. "Well, maybe anger is what you need right now to get you through this. People grieve in different ways."

Aidan sighed. "Did you see the way everyone was looking at me this afternoon? The cops, the paramedics, the funeral guys--I could tell they thought I was total shit for letting my mother waste away like that." He shook his head. "I can't believe how quickly she slid downhill since I saw her last weekend. I really did as much as I could for her..."

"Your mother's neighbor told me how you tried to get her some help," Sydney said, leaning back against the sink. "And you flew up from San Francisco to visit her every weekend. That really adds up--in time and money and patience."

"Well, money hasn't been that much of a problem," he mumbled.

"So--the acting is paying off?" Sydney asked.

"Two commercials for a Honda dealer in Oakland, one for a bank in Sausalito, and eight weeks doing Barefoot in the Park for a dinner theater." He gave her a sardonic smile. "My career isn't exactly skyrocketing."

Sydney remembered Aidan's mother saying something about an older woman who was supporting him. She decided not to ask about her.

Aidan glanced toward the wall at her autographed poster of the 1994 Olympic Games in Lillehammer. He pointed to it with his thumb. "I guess if it hadn't been for me, you'd have been on that team, maybe even brought home a medal."

"Oh, I doubt it. There were some incredibly talented skaters that year." Sydney came and sat down at the table with him. "To be honest, I do miss skating sometimes. But I really love what I'm doing now. And that might never have happened if I hadn't...been incapacitated for a while. I probably wouldn't have met my husband either. Anyway, I can't complain."

"Speaking of your husband, what's happening with you two?" Aidan leaned forward a little. "Do you mind me asking?"

Sydney hesitated. "We're--separated right now."

Aidan looked into her eyes for a moment, and then he smiled. "Well, he's a damn fool for letting you go. You're so beautiful."

Sydney felt herself blushing. "Thank you," she said. She felt a spark with him. It was strange, like having a little crush on someone she used to babysit. Maybe she was just lonely--or mad at Joe--but she felt a real attraction to Aidan. "As long as we're passing out the compliments--and I'm not just saying this--you certainly turned out to be a very handsome young man."

"For a long time, I wasn't that easy to look at." He tugged down his shirt collar to show his neck. "This was all scarred from the burns," he said. "Well, you remember, you saw what I looked like in the hospital. Anyway, I had extensive plastic surgery two years ago. No more scars...." He unbuttoned his shirt to show her his smooth chest and shoulders. "You'd never know I was that same burnt-up kid. I can go outside with my shirt off now and not scare people."

Sydney stared at his chest and nodded. "Well, they--they did a beautiful job."

He took her hand and guided it to his chest. "Here, feel."

Her fingers glided over the silky skin. She could feel his heartbeat. Sydney nodded again, then gently pulled her hand away.

"They fixed my back, too," Aidan said, buttoning up his shirt. "It was like a miracle--the end to twelve years of agonizing pain." He left the last three buttons undone, and took hold of her hand once more. "Maybe I shouldn't be telling you this, but I feel kind of bad I don't have any more scars...."

"Why in the world would you feel bad about that?" she asked.

"Because I don't have anything left over from that day, but you--you're still limping, Sydney. I did that to you. It's my fault."

She didn't know what to say. She shrugged. "Oh, please, don't worry about it."

He kissed the back of her hand and pressed it against his face.

Sydney gingerly took her hand away, and then patted his shoulder. Even if Aidan was attracted to her, his mother had just died this afternoon. And Eli was in the next room, for God's sake. She could hear Matt Damon on TV, kicking someone's ass. What if Eli had come in there two minutes ago and found her fondling Aidan's bare chest?

She slid off the stool and went back to the sink. Grabbing a towel, she started drying some cooking utensils. "So what are you going to do now?" she asked.

"Well, my mother will be cremated," he said. "I don't think I'm having a service for her or anything. It'll take a few days to clean out her apartment. Right now, I should be looking for a cheap motel. I certainly can't stay at my mother's tonight..."

"You're more than welcome to stay here," Sydney offered.

He got to his feet. "No, thanks, I've imposed on you enough. In fact, I should get going. Thanks for a wonderful dinner."

Putting down the dish towel, Sydney walked him toward the front door.

"So long, Eli," he said, passing by the living room. "It was nice meeting you."

Eli put the movie on pause. "Bye. I'm sorry about your mom."

Sydney stepped outside with him. "I hope I'll see you again before you go back to San Francisco."

He nodded and said nothing for a moment. His eyes wrestled with hers. "I--I need to tell you something, Sydney," he whispered at last. "The reason I can afford all these trips back and forth between here and San Francisco is because of this--older woman. Her name's Rita. She's very rich, very high society. She's about sixty-five, and has had about a dozen tummy tucks and face-lifts. It was her surgeon who did the repair job on me. She paid for it. She paid for my back surgery, too. She pays the rent on my one-bedroom apartment. If you ask any maitre d' or salesperson in the finer San Francisco restaurants or department stores, they'll tell you that Rita Bellamy is a raving bitch. But around me, she's very sweet and vulnerable. She saw something in me when I was still hideous-looking. I'm very grateful to her. Anyway, I guess you could say I'm her 'kept man.'"

Sydney stood on the front stoop, her hand still on the outside doorknob. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because it matters to me what you think," he whispered. "I care about you, Sydney--and not just because you saved my life. I want you to know me. Do you--do you think I'm sleazy for letting this woman take care of me?"

She shrugged. "No, I wouldn't think that of you, Aidan." She couldn't really judge him. Considering how awful his mother had been, and everything life had offered him, he was probably doing the best as he could.

"Thank you," he said. He hugged her. As he pulled away, his lips brushed against her cheek and touched the corner of her mouth.

"Good night, Aidan," Sydney said, awkwardly pulling back.

"I'll call you, okay?"

Touching her lips, Sydney nodded and watched him walk away.

On the TV, Matt Damon was in PAUSE mode, frozen and suspended in midair as he leapt off a tall bridge. Sitting on the living room floor with the DVD remote in his hand, Eli squinted at her. "What were you guys doing outside for so long?"

His mother shut the front door. "We were just talking, honey."

"Does Dad know that guy?" he asked.

"No, they've never met. The last time I saw Aidan, he was only a year or two older than you are now. I've already explained that to you." She started toward the kitchen. "Anyway, thank you for being nice to him at dinner. He's been through an awful lot today. Poor guy, he's been through an awful lot--period."

Eli followed her into the kitchen. "Does he want to date you or something?"

She started to dry the rest of the cooking utensils. "Eli, I'm fourteen years older than him."

There were several knocks on the front door.

His mouth open, Eli glanced at his mother. She put down the dish towel. "He must have forgotten something..."

Eli ran ahead of her and checked the peephole. Aidan stood outside. He looked like he was about to knock again. Eli quickly opened the door.

Aidan seemed out of breath. "I don't mean to scare you," he said. "But maybe you should call the police. I was about to leave and glanced back. I saw this creepy-looking guy sneaking around your place. He was peeking into the living room window."

Sydney stared down at the footprints in the muddy garden directly below her living room window. The cop, a slightly beefy, tanned man with a strawberry-blond crew cut, shined his flashlight on the evidence. "Thanks to the rain today, this guy left his calling card," he said.

Sydney shuddered and nervously rubbed her arms. Eli and Aidan stood beside her. Aidan put his hand on her shoulder, but then Sydney caught Eli glaring at them and she delicately pulled away. They followed the cop to the front door. He directed his flashlight beam on the door--around the lock. The wood was chipped in spots near where the catch protruded. Some paint had been scraped away at the corresponding location on the door frame. "Somebody's been trying to force his way in," the stocky policeman said. "And not just tonight; it looks like they've been at it for a while."

Sydney felt stupid for not noticing it earlier. She told the cop about the possible break-in on July Fourth and the dead bird she'd found on her bed on Saturday. "Also on Saturday afternoon," she continued. "I'm pretty sure someone followed me from here all the way out to Auburn. He was in his late twenties, about six feet tall, with black hair and a dark complexion." She turned to Aidan. "You sure you didn't get a good look at the prowler out here just now?"

Frowning, he shook his head. "I just saw him in the shadows. As soon as I got close to the apartment again, he must have seen me coming, because he just shot out of there." Aidan nodded toward the alley on the other side of the courtyard driveway, where the patrol car was parked with its blinkers going. "He disappeared down there. It all happened so fast, I never got a good look at him."

"I think I saw the guy you're talking about at the beach today, Mom," Eli piped up. "He's dark, and one of his eyes is all red and bloodshot, right?"

Sydney stared at him. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Wincing, he shrugged. "I think he was there yesterday, too."

"Good lord, Eli! I asked you about him yesterday, and you said you didn't see anyone like that."

"Did he approach you or threaten you in any way?" the cop asked him.

Eli shook his head. "No, sir. He was just there."

"But he was close enough that you could see his bloodshot eye," Sydney said, edgily.

"Um, the guy wasn't around for very long, Mom, just a few seconds. That's why I didn't remember it until I saw him again today."

The cop said they would step up patrols in the area. He recommended that in the meantime she have a locksmith install metal plate locks on both her front and back doors; and maybe she should install a few more lights outside, too--with motion-detecting sensors. Getting together with the other Tudor Court residents and starting a Neighborhood Watch wasn't a bad idea either.

The cop retreated to his patrol car to call in a report on the police radio. Standing by the front door, Sydney could hear him mumbling and the static-laced muffled responses.

Aidan turned to her. "If that invitation for me to spend the night is still good, I can crash on your couch if you'd like."

"Oh, if you could, that would be great," Sydney said. She worked up a smile for Eli. "I'll feel a lot better with two strong men in the house."

Eli just rolled his eyes at her.

Sydney decided to ignore him. "Could you guys wait here a second?" she asked. "I just remembered something I want to ask the policeman."

Sydney caught up with the cop before he climbed inside his car. "Excuse me," she whispered.

A hand on the hood of his patrol car, the cop turned to her.

"I didn't want to say anything in front of my son." Sydney spoke in a hushed tone. "But when this character followed me down to Auburn on Saturday, I tried not to push the panic button, because--well, I'm on TV, and if somebody's following me around, it sometimes comes with the territory. But if he's preying on my son, that's a different story altogether. What do you suggest I do about it? And I mean beyond battening down the hatches and creating a Neighborhood Watch."

The blond cop frowned a bit. "Well, you could get together with a police sketch artist. Or you and your son might come down to the precinct and pore over our files on convicted pedophiles and other sex offenders. You might be able to ID the guy. But unfortunately, unless we catch him trespassing, peeping in your windows, or trying something with your son, we can't arrest the guy."

Someone who wasn't married to a cop might have argued with him, but Sydney understood how restricted they were at times. It was frustrating as hell, but she understood. She thanked the cop and asked for a contact number to set up an appointment with a police sketch artist. She didn't want Eli looking through those creepy files, but she was prepared to do it.

The young police officer scribbled down a phone number on the back of an unused Seattle's Best Coffee punch card, and handed it to her. "Call them, and they'll set it up for you, Ms. Jordan. By the way, I'm a big fan of your work."

Sydney thanked him again. She had the extra automatic gate-opening device with her, and followed his patrol car halfway down the driveway. Then Sydney pressed the device and watched the gate open for him. The police car pulled out of the driveway and turned down the street. She stood there and watched the gate close again.

She'd considered telling him about the deaths of Angela and Leah and Jared, and how someone had sent flowers in her name to their next of kin. But what could he have done about it? None of the victims had been killed in Seattle or Washington State. And so far, no one had threatened her.

As she started back up the driveway, Sydney warily glanced at the shadowy bushes on either side of her. She shuddered again and nervously rubbed her arms. Sydney spotted Aidan waiting for her by the front stoop. But he was alone.

Then Eli appeared in the doorway. "Hey, Mom, phone's for you!" he called. "Someone named Meredith from New York! She says it's about Troy somebody...."

"How did it happen?" Sydney asked, her hand tightening on the cordless phone. She sat hunched over her office desk. In front of her was the faxed diagram of the Heimlich maneuver. She could hear the TV in the living room. Eli and Aidan were in there, watching the last part of The Bourne Ultimatum.

Troy Bischoff's roommate had already explained that she'd returned home from a weekend trip this morning to discover Troy dead in his bedroom. She'd been with the police the entire first half of the day, and making funeral arrangements during the second half. But she'd gotten Sydney's voice mail and wanted to call her back.

"The police are calling it an accident," Meredith told her in a shaky voice. "They say he died from self-strangulation."

Sydney glanced down at the first illustration of the Heimlich maneuver instructions. The outline figure was clutching his own throat.

"What does that mean?" Sydney heard herself ask.

"It's a--a sexual thing," she explained. "Autoerotic asphyxiation, I guess some people are into it. They fix it so they cut off their oxygen supply during sex to heighten the--the intensity of their orgasm. They bite into a lemon or lime to get revived so they don't pass out and accidentally hang themselves."

"And choke to death," Sydney whispered--almost to herself. She rubbed her forehead. "Listen, Meredith, do they know who he was with when this happened?"

"It looks like he was alone, masturbating," Meredith said quietly. "I found him, dangling from this harness he'd made out of his belt. I still don't believe it, even though I saw it with my own eyes. I knew Troy better than anyone, and he wasn't into that kind of kinky stuff. We used to make fun of people who were into really weird scenes like that."

"You said earlier that you talked to the police," Sydney said, reaching for a pen. "Was there one cop in particular, one who was in charge of the investigation?"

"Yeah, I forget his name. He gave me his card. It's in my purse."

"Could you dig it out for me? I'd really like to call this policeman and talk to him."

"Sure, Sydney, hold on."

She stared at the Heimlich maneuver diagram while she waited. Troy Bischoff saved someone from choking to death, and that was how he'd died. Angela Gannon had talked a man from jumping from a fourteenth-floor window; and she'd plunged to her death from that same window. Leah and Jared had foiled two killers who had intended to rob that Thai restaurant and shoot the staff.

Sydney suddenly remembered something from the interview she'd done with Leah and Jared. With the phone still to her ear, she stuck the pen in her mouth, then got up and checked her DVD files. She found Leah and Jared's segment from December and loaded it into her computer's DVD drive.

Meredith got back on the line. "Sydney, are you still there?"

She took the pen out of her mouth, and sat down. "Yes, Meredith."

"The guy's name is Detective Lyle A. Peary," Meredith said. She read off a phone number with a New York area code.

"Thanks, Meredith," she said. "You said you found Troy's body this morning. About what time, do you remember?"

"Around ten."

Sydney stared at the time at the top of the fax sheet: 6:32 A.M. She knew about Troy's death before anyone else. His killer had told her. And before anyone else, the killer would send Troy's next of kin flowers, and her name would be on the card.

"Sydney?"

"Yes, I'm here. Do you happen to know how I can get hold of Troy's parents? I--um, I want to send them some flowers."

"Well, I wouldn't bother with them. They kicked Troy out of the house when he was seventeen because he told them he was gay. I tracked them down today and called with the news. I just said it was an accident. I didn't go into specifics. The mother cried, and then his father got on and said that as far as he was concerned Troy died when he was seventeen. Then he hung up. Sweet, huh?"

"Well, I'd like to talk with them anyway," Sydney said. "Do you have a phone number?"

"It's right here. Mr. and Mrs. Ronald Bischoff, 501-555-1452."

Sydney scribbled it down at the bottom of the fax sheet. "Five-oh-one, where is that, Arkansas?"

"Yeah, some suburb of Little Rock."

"Can I ask you for one more favor, Meredith? If you happen to receive some flowers from me tomorrow, could you get the name and phone number of the florist delivering them?"

"Oh, you don't have to send any flowers, Sydney. Besides, I'm not at the apartment right now. I'm staying with a friend for the next few nights. If you want to do anything for Troy, make a donation to charity in his name."

"I will," she said, scribbling the word donation beside Troy's parents' names. "But if the flowers should arrive anyway, could you get the florist's name, please? Call me, and reverse the charges."

"Um, okay," she said, obviously a bit puzzled by the request.

"Thank you, Meredith. I know it doesn't make sense, but it might later."

After Sydney hung up with Meredith, she clicked on the DVD and watched the Movers & Shakers segment with Leah and Jared. Her friend Judy had left her the message on the Fourth of July, the night they'd been shot in their apartment. She remembered Judy telling her that the murder scene had looked like a "burglary gone from bad to worse," and one of Leah and Jared's neighbors had found both bodies in the bathroom.

Sydney watched the two of them together in the video short, and her heart broke. They were both so young and cute, such a sweet couple. She thought of Angela, and now, Troy. All of them heroes, and all of them had met such violent, senseless deaths.

But to someone, it made sense.

Sydney watched a visibly shaken Leah in close-up as she talked about the thugs in the Thai restaurant. Leah was crying: "When I heard they planned to--to take us all into the bathroom and shoot us, I was just so scared...."

Sydney's finger clicked on the mouse, hitting Pause. She leaned in closer to her computer screen, and played it back again. "Take us all into the bathroom and shoot us..."

"Oh, God," Sydney whispered, hitting the Pause icon again.

On the computer screen, Leah's face was frozen. Tears were locked in her eyes and her mouth was open. Leah didn't know it at the time, of course. But she was describing exactly how--six months later--she and her fiance would be killed.

"You've reached the desk of Detective Lyle A. Peary, NYPD," said the man on the recording. Then an automated voice chimed in: "To page this person, press one now, or leave a message after the beep. If this is an emergency, please hang up and dial 9-1-1."

Sydney paged him, and left her phone number. Then she called the number again and waited for the beep.

"Hello, this is Sydney Jordan," she said into the recording. She gave him her phone number again. "I've just paged you as well, Detective. I have some important information about the death of Troy Bischoff. I'm a correspondent with On the Edge, and I did a story about Troy a few months ago. Someone sent me a fax at 6:32 this morning from Kinko's..." She gave him the Seventh Avenue address. "I believe this fax was sent to me by the person who killed Troy. I don't think it was a self-strangulation. I can explain everything to you. Just check with that Kinko's. The manager's name is Paul. This person used a credit card to send this fax, and it's on file there. I'm sorry about the late hour, but I--"

There was a beep. Then the automated voice chimed in again, saying if she was satisfied with her message to press one.

Sydney wasn't satisfied, not yet at least. But she pressed one anyway.

She figured she wouldn't hear back from Detective Peary until tomorrow morning. It was too late--past eleven-thirty in Arkansas--to phone Troy's parents. She'd have to try them first thing in the morning--before the florist delivered the With Sympathy floral arrangement from Sydney Jordan.

She realized what was happening. The fog of uncertainty had lifted, and it was so terribly clear. Someone was killing the heroes from her Movers & Shakers stories. And in a twisted kind of "What goes around comes around" logic, he'd taken the fate from which they'd saved someone and used it to design their murders. He'd furnished her with tokens symbolizing each murdered hero--a broken teapot and some spilled rice, a dead bird, and a diagram on how to save someone from choking. And if she didn't catch on to his cryptic calling cards, there was always a thank-you note from the victim's next of kin for the sympathy bouquets sent in her name. It was as if he wanted her to feel included in each murder.

But who was doing this, and why? This person was making some kind of statement. He obviously had a grudge against her. Maybe it was someone who didn't like one of her Movers & Shakers segments about a hero.

Hunched forward in her desk chair, Sydney held a hand over her mouth. She wondered if her stalker was somehow connected to the Movers & Shakers killer. Eli had seen him at the beach yesterday and today. So when did this man have time to fly to New York City and kill Troy? Perhaps he was working with the killer, spying on her and Eli, breaking and entering to leave her the occasional cryptic clue.

Sydney was grateful to have Aidan spending the night. She'd left the poor guy parked in front of the TV with Eli for the last forty-five minutes. Getting to her feet, she started toward the living room. She could hear people on TV talking about The Bourne Ultimatum, which meant the movie was over, and Eli had moved onto the Special Features.

"You're going to go blind," she said, finding Eli on the floor directly in front of the TV.

He just nodded and kept staring at the screen.

Dead asleep, Aidan was slumped in the corner of the sofa with his head tipped back. He made a faint snoring sound.

"Aidan?" she said. "Aidan, did you want to wash up or anything?"

He didn't move.

"I tried to wake him up earlier," Eli explained. "He didn't budge. He's history. Great bodyguard he's gonna be tonight."

Sydney turned to him. "You have a choice. If you want to share your room, I'll get him upstairs now, and you can stay down here as long as you want. Otherwise, you need to skedaddle so I can make up the couch for him."

Pausing the movie, Eli gave her an apprehensive look. "Would you be ticked if said I don't feel like sharing my room?"

She shook her head, and then sat down on the floor beside him. "No, honey, you hardly know him," she whispered. "And I really don't think it's going to make any difference to Aidan where he sleeps tonight. But I am ticked at you. I can't believe you didn't tell me about that man following you around at the beach yesterday--and today. Why didn't you speak up earlier?"

Eli shrugged uneasily. "I--I didn't want to worry you."

She gave him a wary sidelong glance. "I don't think I'm getting the whole story here, Eli. Something's going on with you that you're not telling me. What is it?"

He let out a nervous laugh. "Nothing, Mom. Nothing's going on."

She stroked his arm. "Sweetheart, this guy following you around could be very dangerous. There have been some strange, disturbing incidents with people I've worked with on my videos. I'm not sure what it's about yet, but I'll tell you once I know more. Anyway, Eli, until further notice, we need to be cautious and on our guard."

He stared at her and blinked. "What kind of incidents?"

"Some very serious stuff," she replied. "Like I said, I'll tell you when I know more. But the important thing is, you need to be honest with me. If someone is following you around, or someone is secretly communicating with you, you need to let me know."

Sydney studied him. "Is someone communicating with you, honey?"

He shrugged again. "Just our ghost, nobody else."

Sydney worked up a smile. "Okey-doke," she said, kissing his forehead.

Then she got to her feet and headed upstairs to get some bedding for their overnight guest.

She managed to wake him up and steer him into the downstairs powder room. While Aidan washed his face, Sydney made up the couch with sheets and a pillow. Eli had already retreated to his room.

Aidan was so tired he just nodded groggily and said, "Thanks, Sydney," when she told him that he could help himself to anything in the kitchen and sleep as late as he wanted. Aidan stripped down to his undershorts while she was still explaining that she'd be in her office for a while longer.

"And if the light bothers you, I'll..." Sydney didn't quite finish. He had a beautiful, athletic physique, and he seemed so unself-conscious about it. She watched him lie down on the sofa and pull the sheets around him.

"Thanks again, Sydney," he murmured. "Are you--going to kiss me good night?"

She gazed at him. He had a sleepy smile on his handsome face.

"Um, no," she said, crossing her arms. "Sleep well, Aidan."

Sydney retreated to the kitchen. She wasn't sure anymore just how unself-conscious that striptease had been. Maybe he'd been kidding about the good-night kiss. Or maybe he'd just needed someone to be a mother to him and tuck him in for the night. She couldn't really read him. One thing she knew, she didn't want to be like that sixty-five-year-old Rita woman with all the face-lifts in San Francisco.

She poured a glass of the merlot left over from dinner. More than anything right now, she wanted to call Joe and tell him how scared and confused she was. But he was a stranger to her now. He'd become one the minute he'd hit her that afternoon two months ago--maybe even before that.

She almost expected Aidan to show up in the kitchen doorway in just his undershorts, saying he couldn't sleep. But she heard him in the living room, snoring lightly.

Sydney took her wine into her office and called her brother. His machine picked up, and then she remembered his date tonight. She waited for the beep.

"Hi, it's me, and I'm sorry," she said into the machine. "I totally forgot about your hot date tonight until just now. I hope it's going well. As soon as you're free, can you call me? There's a lot going on here, and I really need to talk to you. It's--um, ten-twenty."

Sydney clicked off the phone. Sipping her wine, she stared at the Heimlich maneuver fax again. She wondered how Troy's killer had trapped him. Had Troy picked him up in a bar? Or had the killer set up some kind of chance meeting?

Her brother had just met that man on the beach today.

Grabbing the phone, Sydney clicked it on again. She speed-dialed Kyle once more. "It's me again," she said, after the beep. "Listen. Call my cell as soon as you get this. I don't care how late it is. I really need to talk to you, Kyle. I probably won't fall asleep until I hear from you. Anyway, call me right away. Thanks."

Sydney clicked off the line.

It would be a long night ahead.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Evanston, Illinois--Tuesday, 1:54 A.M .

Thirty-one-year-old Chloe Finch hobbled along Evanston Beach, looking for just the right place. She was carrying her shoes, and her feet had gotten used to the cold lake water. It was too muggy and warm for a raincoat tonight, but she wore one. She would need it later. She'd been collecting good-size stones and cramming them into the raincoat's pockets. They would weigh her down when she walked into the lake to drown herself.

The police patrolled the public beach, which was closed. But that didn't stop the occasional skinny-dippers or others who wanted a midnight dip. Chloe had to find an uninhabited stretch of beach. She didn't need anyone trying to be a hero and saving her life.

It meant navigating a break in a fence along one private beach, and then jumping a fence that bordered another. And Chloe wasn't good at jumping fences.

"You're one in a thousand," the doctor had once told her, referring to how many babies were born with clubfoot. She was in good company: Lord Byron; David Lynch; Dallas Cowboy quarterback, Troy Aikman; Damon Wayans; and Dudley Moore. Whenever the topic came up during a date, she always rattled off the list of famous people born with talipes equinovarus. She always left Josef Goebbels from that list. Who in their right mind wanted to be grouped with Goebbels? Another one in a thousand--and the one who inspired Chloe the most--was Kristi Yamaguchi, who took home the gold medal in figure skating in the 1992 Winter Olympics.

Chloe became a huge fan of figure skating, but could never do it herself. They'd botched the operation on her foot when she'd been a baby. Three attempts at corrective surgery after that had failed, leaving her left foot slightly deformed. She could walk, but had a prominent limp. On bad days, she needed a cane.

Lately, there had been a lot of bad days, but that had nothing to do with her foot. Then again, maybe if she hadn't tripped over her own damn cane one day last week, she probably wouldn't have met Riley.

Chloe was thin with a long face and a prominent nose that had a little bump in it. This jerky girl in high school used to call her "horse-face," which had hurt her feelings. But oddly, it had also given Chloe a bit of hope about fitting in with everyone; at least the girl hadn't made fun of the way she walked. For the last several years, her short plain brown hair was Honey Auburn--that was the color name on the L'Oreal box. She'd never considered herself very pretty, but did the best with what she had.

Yet Riley had made her feel beautiful--for three whole days.

She wasn't killing herself because of Riley. The son of a bitch wasn't worth it. No, Chloe didn't have one big reason for drowning herself in that cool lake. It was a lot of things, piling up.

Piling up, like the stones in her pockets. Chloe was beginning to get tired--walking in the sand with all that extra weight. She stopped at a small, private beach with a narrow strip of sand between Lake Michigan and a hillside of trees and shrubs. The last people she'd passed had been two naked, skinny teenage boys in the water, trying to persuade this girl with them to take off her top--at least. The girl kept shrieking her refusals. Chloe had given them a wide berth. Looking over her shoulder, she could barely see them anymore; they were just specks on the moonlit beach. She couldn't even hear the girl's high-pitched squeals--only the sound of the waves on the shore.

Chloe glanced in the other direction: the beach was empty. There was an old pier with ALDER HILL ROAD--PRIVATE BEACH stenciled in yellow on the side, the letters worn and faded. The pier was made up of three concrete sections that seemed to be crumbling in spots. The slab farthest out was slightly askew and appeared ready to break off from the rest of the pier. Chloe figured she could take a running jump off that last slab, and she'd instantly be in over her head. If the stones in her raincoat didn't drag her down, she'd swim away from the pier and keep swimming until it was too late to turn back. Then she'd give in to the overwhelming fatigue and let the lake swallow her.

She smiled. How satisfying that image was. She'd never felt so in charge of her life until now, just moments before she would end it.

Still smiling, Chloe took one last look around to make sure she was alone. She noticed a strange, bright pinpoint of light in the dense, dark hillside jungle behind her. It seemed to be moving, coming closer to the beach. Chloe heard bushes rustling. She scoured the edge of the thicket and saw a break in the trees and shrubs. There were some stone steps and a crude path that snaked through the hillside woods.

She heard a woman giggling, then a man's whispers. A beam of light illuminated the end of that path. Chloe ducked back into the bushes to avoid being seen.

She watched a dark-haired man holding a lit flashlight to navigate the end of the trail. He wore a blazer and he'd loosened his tie. He looked handsome in the distance. He had his arm around a blonde in a pretty red cocktail dress. She was still giggling. They looked very much in love.

Assholes, Chloe thought, frowning at them. She'd recently graduated from lonely romantic to out-and-out bitter hag. That was one more thing she didn't like about herself lately. She had no patience for people in love. They made her step aside on the sidewalk, because God help them if they broke apart for a few seconds. They just had to walk side by side. And they used their "We're a couple" status to checkout-line shop in the store. Go ahead and get your stupid boyfriend to pick up eleven more last-minute items while you stand in line in front of me, I really don't mind. And sure enough, she'd find herself bumped in line for some dipshit's boyfriend with a handcart full of crap. "Oh, we're together," the woman would explain when Chloe gave them a filthy look.

And now, here was this beautiful couple out for a stroll on the moonlit beach, and she resented the hell out of them. On top of being in love, they were throwing a cog in her grand exit plan.

"I should be so mad at you," the woman was saying, bumping her hip against his. "Making me get all dressed up so we can go to a drive-thru....

Chloe ducked behind a bush and watched them walking hand in hand toward her pier. Maybe they would just keep walking along the shore, and then she'd have this beach to herself again. Was that too much to hope for?

Apparently so, because the twosome turned and walked down to the end of the pier. They embraced and kissed.

Chloe felt tears stinging her eyes. Why couldn't that be her? Just once?

The woman giggled again. Chloe realized her boyfriend had unzipped the back of the red dress. She started to peel down the top part of the dress while he kissed her neck. Chloe could see the woman's breasts in the moonlight. The man's mouth moved down from her neck to one breast. After a moment, he stepped back.

"Good God," Chloe whispered. She realized the man--like her--carried at least one stone in his pocket. Suddenly, he pulled the rock from his blazer pocket and bashed it over the blonde's head. The woman let out a shriek and then a strange warbled groan that was like gibberish. A hand on her forehead, she staggered back from him. Blood was already dripping through her fingers down to her elbow.

With a forceful shove, the man pushed her off the pier. She plunged into the water.

A hand over her heart, Chloe watched them from the edge of the thicket.

The man stood at the end of the pier, gazing down at the lake for only a moment. He threw the stone into the drink. Then he turned and hurried toward the path they'd taken down together.

Chloe recoiled behind the shrubs as he strode past her. She tried to keep perfectly still. He pulled the small flashlight from his other blazer pocket. She could hear him breathing hard, and then his footsteps on the stone path, and bushes rustling.

Chloe's shook horribly as she pulled out her cell phone and dialed 9-1-1. She shucked off the heavy raincoat and started to hobble toward the pier. The operator finally answered.

"Yes, hello," Chloe said, out of breath. "I'm at--at Alder Hill Road Beach. It's a private beach, and I just saw this guy hit a woman over the head and throw her into the lake. I think he might have killed her..."

"All right, ma'am," the operator said. "Could you give me your name and the address you're calling from?"

Glancing over her shoulder, Chloe saw the lone pinpoint of light moving back up the dark hillside forest. "My name is Chloe Finch, and I told you, I'm at a private beach on Alder Hill Road. Listen, the guy's getting away. You need to send someone here as soon as possible. This woman's going to need an ambulance..."

She raced to the end of the pier, and spotted the woman a few yards away, floating facedown in the silvery water. Her naked back looked so white. The wet red dress--bunched around her waist--seemed to be pulling her down. "Oh, God, I see her," Chloe gasped into the phone. "Please...please, hurry!"

Tossing aside the cell phone, she dove off the end of the pier and furiously swam out to the unconscious woman. Flipping her over, Chloe cupped her hand under her chin and started paddling toward shore. She couldn't tell if the woman was still breathing. Her eyes remained closed; her lids didn't even flutter. The lake water splashed away blood from the gash in her forehead--but only temporarily. It didn't look like the bleeding would stop.

Once she reached the shallow water, Chloe grabbed the lifeless woman under the arms and then dragged her to the sandy shore. Her wet, limp body was heavy. Frazzled, Chloe could hardly get a breath.

She rolled the woman onto her stomach, and repeatedly pushed at her lower back. "C'mon, c'mon..." Chloe whispered. "Please..."

At last, she heard a choking sound, and the woman stirred. She started to cough up water. Chloe was still shaking as she turned the woman over. Her wet blond hair was swept across her face, mingling with sand and blood. She gasped for air and coughed again.

Chloe held her head in her lap. The woman was shivering, and Chloe pulled the top of her dress up to cover her. Then she quickly unbuttoned her own wet short-sleeve shirt. She wrung it out and applied it to the gash on the woman's forehead.

Catching her breath, she could hear a siren in the distance. "It's okay," she said to the woman. "There's an ambulance on the way..."

Chloe didn't realize it then, but she'd been right about that man and this woman. Together, they'd thrown a cog in her grand exit plan.