The Dying Breath: A Forensic Mystery

perpendicular to her kidney.
    The woman laughed and shoved her hip against the man, also laughing. They were only yards away now—the woman wore a perfume that smelled like cloves.
    Once again Kyle dropped his voice so low that Cameryn could barely register his words. “If you draw attention to us in any way I will go to Gertrude Gorman’s house with this knife. I know your mammaw’s there.”
    With his FedEx cap once again on his head, he tilted the bill down as the couple closed the gap. Cameryn could feel its stiff rim against her cheekbone. “Two old ladies won’t be much of a challenge for someone like me. So try to look normal and keep walking. You’re shaking. Put a smile on that pretty face.”
    Step, step, step, Cameryn kept moving forward, which seemed impossible when her mind was frozen on what was left behind in the sheriff’s office. Justin, dying. Justin, already dead. Her grandmother. The blade pressed against the wool sweater, slicing yarn. Nodding at the couple as they passed them, Cameryn looked at their faces, but they didn’t even register her face, too intent on their own conversation.
    “Perfect,” Kyle crooned when they were past. He propelled Cameryn down the county courthouse back stairway that led to a plowed parking lot. The building’s door had not quite closed shut when Cameryn heard the woman scream, “Oh my God, is that blood?” and the man’s cry, “It looks like footprints. Coming from there. . . .”
    “Keep moving,” Kyle hissed.
    She stumbled as he pushed her toward a black Jeep; Kyle righted her and lifted her so that for a moment her feet dangled inches above the ground. He set her down next to the Jeep and opened the door.
    “Get in.”
    Her muscles felt like wood. “No,” she croaked. “If you’re going to stab me, do it here.” She knew the statistics; once a victim got into a car his or her life was basically over. It was better to take your chances on the outside. But Kyle, pushing the blade in so hard she cried out in pain, whispered, “Do what I tell you and your grandmother lives. Give me any trouble and I swear I will go to that house and slit her throat.”
    “Mammaw?” she gasped.
    “Don’t you get it? It’s you I want. And now you’ve got a choice.” His hazel eyes blazed. “Do you seriously want me to hurt anyone else? I killed Justin because of you. Do you want another soul on your conscience?”
    She could barely get her mouth to move. “No.”
    “Good girl. Good Catholic girl. All the police are at the Old Hundred Mine and there is no one in this stupid town to help you. So get into the Jeep, Cammie, or more people will die. Final warning.”
    Fear stabbed her as her mind worked through the decision that was now not a choice. Kyle, who had once told her he killed because it gave him a thrill to have power over life and death, held every card. There was no doubt he could kill Mammaw. Or anyone else he chose. Slowly, she folded herself into the bucket seat. He grabbed her right hand and placed her wrist on top of the metal grab bar installed over the glove compartment. From a pocket he produced a thin piece of plastic. The zip tie was threaded around the bar and her wrist so fast she barely registered his motion as he pulled one end of the plastic so tight it cut into her wrist. She cried out in pain but he ignored her.
    “That should do it. Now you won’t be going anywhere. That first time I used duct tape on you, but I’m proud to say I’ve improved my style. There’s no way out of a zip tie.” He walked toward the driver’s side, his movements sinuous, like a large cat. Tall and well muscled, Kyle was far too big for her to overpower. In the seconds it took for him to make his way around the car she jerked against the zip tie with all her strength, but it did not give.
    “When are you going to learn to stop fighting?” Kyle asked as he slid into the driver’s seat. He was talking fast, his movements disjointed. Pulling off his FedEx cap he tossed it into the backseat. He set the knife on the dashboard and the Jeep’s engine roared to life. Blood glazed the knife blade, and she thought of the red stained glass in St. Patrick’s, the red frosting on her grandmother’s Valentine cookies, and the red of her father’s once fiery hair. Strange, disconnected thoughts, confetti memories whirling behind her eyes, useless memories of the ones she loved.
    “Kyle, please,” she whispered. “Please!”
    “Please what ?”