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  Last Breath

  A Sherry Moore Novel

  George D. Shuman

  SIMON & SCHUSTER

  New York London Toronto Sydney

  ALSO BY GEORGE D. SHUMAN

  18 SECONDS

  Simon & Schuster

  1230 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, NY 10020

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright Š 2007 by George D. Shuman

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Simon & Schuster Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.

  SIMON & SCHUSTER and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Shuman, George D., 1952–

  Last breath: a Sherry Moore novel / George D. Shuman.

  p. cm

  1. Serial murder investigation—Fiction. 2. Psychics—Fiction. 3. Blind women—Fiction. 4. Serial murderers—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3619.H86S58 2007

  813'.6—dc22

  2007000337

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4165-4525-5

  ISBN-10: 1-4165-4525-5

  Visit us on the World Wide Web:

  http://www.SimonSays.com

  For Melissa and Daniel

  My reasons for everything

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  As always I thank Paul Fedorko, my agent and wizard behind the screen. To Colin Fox, senior editor, and the countless people at Simon & Schuster who work so enthusiastically on my behalf. To Cindy Collins—my first reader—for sound advice and punctuation, a faculty that has escaped me all my life.

  1

  SEPTEMBER 28, 1984

  NORWICH, CONNECTICUT

  She didn't feel quite right about the red dress; it wasn't a red dress kind of day. The blue one was nice. She'd tried on the blue one twice already, but the more she thought about it, the more she knew it had to be green. Yes, green would be best for today.

  "Green," she said, satisfied, laying it out neatly on the bed. She put nylons, panties, and jewelry next to it and went downstairs in her slip to vacuum the living room for the third time this morning.

  By nine she was at the kitchen table, stirring a cup of tea that she had no intention of drinking. She got up twice—once to search for cigarettes, then forgot what she was looking for and came back empty-handed; once to answer the doorbell, but as usual there was no one there.

  She chewed the skin on her knuckles, studying the refrigerator, conscious of the passing time. The rubber seals on the sides of the doors were dappled with mold, a job for Mr. Clean or Clorox or Natural Citrus, she could never remember which.

  Her nerves were shot, she thought, laughing out loud. "Silly, silly me." She pinched her wrist until it hurt, glanced up at the second hand sweeping the yellow sunburst wall clock. "One," she said out loud, and then "two," but by "eight" she couldn't get the words out anymore, and the first tear of the day plunked into her tea.

  She stared at the murky ripples in the cup, looking for a sign. Why couldn't she feel anything? Why couldn't she remember anything? What was she missing that the rest of the world seemed to have?

  She breathed in the warmth rising from the cup, the sweet cinnamon and sassafras collecting around her nostrils, and formed a crooked smile. She would like to have had people think of her as eccentric—eccentric was fashionable these days—but in truth she had a screw loose. That was the problem and everyone knew it.

  The ripples in the tea went still; she watched her reflection transforming into a gingerbread girl, silver candied beads thumb-pressed into a tiara. She smiled at the memory of rolling dough with her grandmother, but only for a second. There was a shadow behind the woman, and it portended bad things.

  The image of the gingerbread girl began to soak up the tea and then an arm broke away, a leg, and at last the head sank into the murky liquid and the girl with the tiara was no more.

  The noon bell tolled from Our Lady of Joy on Madison Street. Her eyes snapped up to the clock, then to the telephone on the wall, then to the grocery list on the refrigerator. She had been thinking about the refrigerator off and on all morning, but she didn't know why.

  She took a deep breath. Where had the morning gone? she wondered. It seemed as if there was never enough time to get anything done.

  "Groceries and green," she said evenly, "groceries and green." That's why she'd picked the green dress for today. It was to remind her of something, but what?

  Maybe John knew? John knew everything. She wanted to call John, but they would only tell her he was at work. That's what they always told her. Work, work, work, couldn't they understand that she needed to talk to him?

  She shivered. The house suddenly felt cold.

  She looked at the telephone again, then the door to the living room. Maybe she should turn on the television and check the weather. Maybe she would need a raincoat when she went out. "No, no, silly girl. It's not supposed to rain all week. You're just trying to think of excuses not to go upstairs."

  She put a hand on her chest, took a deep breath, and slid her fingers beneath the silk slip. She closed her eyes and massaged her breast, thumb exciting the nipple until it was hard, tears running down both cheeks now, and slowly she stood. With her hand still on her breast, she started for the stairs.

  The mask was in a bottom drawer under a yellow sweat suit she had bought at Neiman Marcus. What she planned to do with a sweat suit, she had no idea. She'd never worn anything but knee-length dresses all her life. That was about the only thing she was allowed to wear as a child. That was all she cared to wear as an adult.

  Besides, she was the same weight now that she had been in high school. Sweatpants were for women who either were trying to lose weight or had accepted the fact that they weren't going to. That's what her neighbor Celia was always saying.

  That's why she'd never put on the yellow sweatpants.

  Celia? Why did she just think of Celia? Why did Celia make her think about the grocery list?

  It was Friday. They needed everything—milk, eggs, bread—even though she had just been to the store on Tuesday. Why in God's name hadn't she remembered to get them on Tuesday? It must have been one of those senior moments, like Celia was always joking about.

  She closed her eyes and pursed her lips. "Concentrate, concentrate," she told herself. "John says you never concentrate enough. That's why you never get anything done."

  A moment later she sighed, pushed Celia from her thoughts, and looked down at the mask, not unlike the way a junkie looks at a tourniquet: wanting it, repulsed by it, repulsed by herself. She lifted her hair and pinned it behind her ears. Then she picked up the mask and held it in both hands, thumbs kneading the rubber collar, tracing the molded cast of the rubber face piece.

  It was Soviet made and as obsolete as its designers, but then almost everything John handled was obsolete, from dated survival gear to archaic uniforms, things that could be qualified for sale only as novelties. In fact the only thing he handled that was new were the medical kits he took to restock nursing homes.

  The mask had a frightening quality, she thought. She remembered the first time she had seen the boxes in the basement. The cartons were labeled Red Army-SchM-1 M38—1941. Someone had written HELMET across the box in Magic Marker. It wasn't a helmet, of course, more of a hood, and the face was made to look like that of a giant insect or one of the aliens you see in vintage comic books. It was black and smooth, with a broad forehead and a triangular chin. Its
eyes were round glass panes, and over its mouth there was a respirator hose attached, which was supposed to match up to a filter canister, but canisters would be in other boxes that weren't in the house and you didn't need one anyhow unless you were trying not to breathe contaminated air.

  She couldn't explain why she had to put it on, but she knew the moment she saw it that she had to. That was almost a year ago. By now she had gotten very good at it.

  She tilted her chin and slipped the hood over her head, pressed the face piece against her cheeks, and sucked the air out of the mask until it was snug.

  She grasped the footlong hose that protruded from the mouthpiece, took a deep breath, and heard the rushing of air through the intake hose. Then she cupped off the open end of the hose with her hand and felt the stifling discomfort of a vacuum. This was a world where you couldn't bring your little problems, your little idiosyncrasies. This was a place of the present, of focus, where you thought about yourself and nothing else. This was the amateur walking the high wire.

  Things looked different when the senses were ratcheted up to the nth degree; the world looked unfamiliar through the lenses of the round glass eye portals. She was on the other side of the continuum, anonymous and looking back in. She was no longer naughty Mary Dentin.

  She put her hand on her face, caressing the slick black rubber. Her husband handled the masks all the time, but John would never have appreciated the beauty, would never have considered putting one on. Poor dismal John in his world of gray. He saw no good, no bad; no happy, no sad. She knew she was to blame. She knew that she weighed heavily on his mind. John, who worked three menial jobs to support her and all the while she was forgetting or burning his dinner, spending like she was out of control, having no interest in his hands, his lips, unable to respond to his slightest attempts at affection. She knew all that.

  She knew too that he loved her, even though he understood there was no love inside of her to give back. It wasn't that she didn't love him in particular. She had no love for anyone. She was devoid of the feeling and there was nothing he could do, no matter how hard he tried, to make her happy. They had come to terms with that long ago.

  He would be horrified to look at her now. He knew that she had secrets. He knew there were nights she walked the streets alone, was not at the movies with friends.

  He knew she drank and she did, but only to anesthetize her racing mind. She used the mask when she was home alone, because when she put it on, she wasn't responsible anymore. She wasn't the disgraceful wife and mother. She wasn't a bad girl anymore.

  She pushed off the straps of her slip and let it fall to the floor. She took a terry-cloth belt from one of John's old bathrobes and walked mechanically to the bathroom, where she closed the door and pulled the old wicker clothes hamper to the middle of the floor and stepped on it.

  One end of the belt had been fashioned into a noose, and this she slipped over her head, pulling it snug around the collar of the gas mask. The other end was knotted around a large S hook she'd bought at a Home Depot. She slipped the S hook through the antique iron ring that held the light fixture, stuffed a small washcloth into the hose, and let her knees bend until the fixture took the weight of her body.

  Slowly she picked up her feet and put her hands down, closing her eyes to a faint field of stars, nerve endings prickling. She put her hands on her breasts, then on her stomach, and goose bumps began to rise on her arms and thighs. She felt her head begin to clear, the clutter of her craziness dissipating into the vacuum of space.

  She groaned at the pleasure, put a foot on the hamper, and pushed to take the weight off the noose. She found the slightest bit of oxygen in the air she sucked through the plugged hose, prolonging the experience; then she dropped again, and again, until she was nearing climax. One more minute, one more breath; she arched her foot, toes on the hamper, pushing off one last time, when she heard a loud snap and a leg of the hamper skidded across the bathroom floor and under the space beneath the closed door.

  She fell five inches fast and jerked to a stop, arms shooting upward to grab the light fixture, legs kicking frantically to find the hamper again. She couldn't die like this, she couldn't be here; she couldn't let them see how pathetic she was. She swiped up at the hook above her head, breaking lightbulbs. Glass rained down over her.

  She began to get dizzy, the glass eye windows fogged, she thrashed about some more, then her arms fell to her sides, muscles contracting, spasms contorting her back. Her fingers were clenched into fists, legs swinging over the broken hamper, feet trying to catch the edge, and then suddenly she managed to touch a corner of the hamper with a big toe.

  The doorbell rang.

  She hung there as still as possible, arms at her side, one leg out in space, the other supported by her big toe on the hamper now leaning precariously to one side.

  The doorbell rang again.

  Celia?

  She put pressure on the toe, managing to rise gently a quarter of an inch. The old wicker groaned under her weight. It was enough to relieve the pressure on her neck, but she was panicking and there was little oxygen to be had through the plugged tube. She tried to calm herself, to hold off as long as she dared without breathing, then put pressure on the toe again to rise and catch another breath, letting herself down again.

  Someone was knocking now, knocking persistently on the door, and no one but Celia ever came to her door anymore. What had she forgotten this time? Was she supposed to do something for Celia?

  Suddenly she thought of the grocery list on the refrigerator. Was she supposed to go to the store with Celia to buy something?

  The doorbell quieted. The knocking stopped. Whoever it was had given up. Green and Greg's mom and groceries .

  She raised herself an inch on her toe and took a careful breath.

  How many more could she get before the hamper broke?

  *

  It was Friday and the end of a week of school. The first hint of orange tinged the leaves around the old brick schoolhouse. The sun was low on the horizon, casting long shadows of the maple trees onto the city streets. He ran his hand along the iron picket fence that went around the playground, kicked a tennis ball lost by a dog, and jumped over a fire hydrant. Horns persisted on distant Fremont, where people rushed home from work to the suburbs.

  His father would be at work until midnight at his second job, stocking nursing homes with medical supplies. He was never at home to take him anywhere. They had never played ball together or gone to a game. The family had never taken a vacation together. It seemed there were always bills to be paid, groceries to buy. He couldn't understand why the other boys' fathers were able to do things his father couldn't.

  He stopped in his tracks.

  The newspaper was still rolled and stuck in the door. The old blue Nova was still parked at the curb. His mother must not have gone shopping. His heart sank in a long moment of wretched disappointment.

  He started for the house again, crossed the street, and tried not to doubt her. The windows looked dark at Greg's. Greg's mom's little white Toyota was not in front of her house either.

  Stop it, he told himself. She won't forget. She wouldn't forget this time.

  He took the steps two at a time. "Home," he yelled, letting the screen door bang.

  He opened the fridge and grabbed a Pepsi, snapped the can, and climbed on the counter, looking in the space above the kitchen cabinets for something to eat.

  His mother often bought junk food and hid it from herself. She was forever buying things and forgetting about them. He knew most of her hiding places—candy in the well on top of the kitchen cabinets, new clothes under the basement stairs, shoes under the twin beds in the extra bedroom. She had a way of acting as if there were different people inside of her, all fighting for her attention at the same time, all disagreeing. She'd buy a television for the kitchen and put it in the attic. She'd light cigarettes only to stamp them out. She'd fix a drink and pour it down the sink, open a savings account and clos
e it in the same day. She never wore the same clothes all day long, never returned clothes that didn't fit, never read the books she purchased or watched the movies she rented. It was as if she were guided by opposing voices.

  "Mom?" he yelled, grabbing a handful of Oreos from an open package, guzzling the soda. "I'm going next door to Greg's."

  He was only kidding, of course. He couldn't go next door until everything was ready. Until his friends got home from school and changed and picked up their presents and got rides back to Greg's.

  He knew about the surprise birthday party two weeks ago. Greg had heard his mother suggest it to Greg's mom, Celia, who offered to have it at her house so it would be a surprise.

  She would make him clean his room or do homework or something to take up the time.

  "Mom?"

  No answer.