by Osborne, Jon
Dana blinked back the bitter tears. With each passing, day the thought of lifting her Glock to her temple and pulling the trigger seemed less and less ridiculous. The previous night, she’d actually given it a trial run with no bullets in the gun.
She’d been surprised at just how easy it had been to pull the trigger.
Dana put her head down and ran even faster, fast enough to dry the tears streaming down her face. She knew that she needed professional help, of course, but she didn’t know how to go about asking for it. And, as broken as she was, she had very serious doubts that anyone could ever fix her.
The heavy smell of sea salt stung her nostrils as she turned the corner onto Estero Boulevard and picked up her pace even more, the pounding surf across the two-lane street echoing loudly in her ears and the wind whipping hard through her short blonde hair. Hitting a good stride, she willed her legs to move faster, and even faster still, until she broke out into a dead sprint. The muscles in her thighs screamed out in pure agony as she tried desperately to outrun all of the howling demons chasing her.
No good. The demons wouldn’t let up. Wouldn’t leave her alone. The muscles in her thighs burned even hotter from the overload of lactic acid coursing through her system, but Dana ignored the pain and pushed on.
Five hundred yards later she finally came to a panting stop with her lungs on fire, leaning over and pressing her palms hard into her trembling thighs for support, the runner’s high flooding through her bloodstream and clouding her mind while a faint, high-pitched ringing sounded in her ears.
Finally catching most of her breath, she looked up to see that she’d made it to just outside the sprawling, gated compound of Ascension Catholic Church now. Twenty feet away, an elderly landscaper was tending to a large stand of bushes near the ornate, marble archway. The man smiled at her when he noticed her watching him and leaned his wooden-handled rake against an intricate hedge.
He mopped at his heavily sweating brow with one thin forearm. “Mass every morning at eight a.m. if you’re interested, young lady,” he said. “The pastor’s an awful bore – a bit long-winded in his sermons and something of a doddering old drunk – but some people say we have the best choir in all of Lee County. Even better than the Baptists, if you can believe that.”
Dana forced the semblance of a smile onto her lips, but even she could tell just how fake it must have looked. But she just couldn’t pretend that she was happy anymore, not when her soul had become a black hole of misery that had completely sucked away whatever energy she’d once possessed. Besides, despite having lived with three different Catholic foster families when she’d been a kid after the deaths of her parents, she hadn’t stepped foot inside a place of worship for more than ten years now. Why would she when there was still a God in charge up there who thought that it was perfectly reasonable to let innocent people die perfectly horrible deaths? Her parents. Crawford Bell. Eric Carlton. Jeremy Brown.
“Just looking,” Dana said, then immediately felt foolish, like she’d just been caught window-shopping by a salesman who knew she had absolutely no intention of buying. She wished with everything she had that she could somehow reach out and snatch the words out of the air before they reached his ears, but the damage had already been done.
Thankfully, though, the old man just smiled at her and retrieved his rake from its resting place against the hedge, nodding thoughtfully and jerking his thumb over his right shoulder and toward the church. “Well, if it’s answers you’re looking for, you can always find them in there, ma’am. I know that they’re not always easy to find, but they’re definitely in there, that much I promise you.”
Dana let out a relieved breath; grateful that he wasn’t holding her feet to the fire for her stupid words. Finally working the muscles around her mouth into a real smile, she said, “Thank you very much. I’ll keep that in mind.”
And with that, she shook the stiffness out of her legs and turned back in the direction of her rented vacation house, already looking forward to the long afternoon of drinking that lay in front of her.
As she jogged away, Dana shivered despite the intense Florida heat that was pounding down hard on her from high overhead in the cloudless blue sky above, unable to shake the eerie sensation that the old man’s watery blue eyes were burning twin holes into the back of her skull as she went.
Finally turning the corner back onto Spellman Avenue and jogging out of his sight, Dana shivered again, even harder this time. No chance in hell of shaking off that weird encounter. Still, maybe a few Rum Runners over at the Lanai Kai would turn the trick.
Only one way to find out.
CHAPTER 45
Like the other beach houses along Indian Bayou Avenue on Fort Myers Beach down in Florida – nicknamed “the Sunshine State” for very good reason – Dana Whitestone’s vacation residence sits on stilts in order to protect it from flooding in the event of a hurricane.
The house itself is weather-beaten in the extreme, light blue in color and has a charming, laid-back feel. A metal seahorse with an elaborate curly tail adorns the face of the structure next to the front door.
The mere sight of it makes my heart leap for joy inside my chest. This is everything I could have dreamed of and more. I’ve come down to the pristine white sands of Florida’s Gulf Coast to lure the greatest hunter of my kind back to her job and into the final chapter of my mother’s decidedly deadly little game.
Pretty soon, the beautiful FBI agent will know exactly how my mother’s story ends.
An electric shiver skitters down the length of my spine as I drink in the pleasing tableau before me. Everything from the beach-cruiser bicycle parked out front to the black bikini draped over the wooden porch slats to dry in the hot morning sun.
Dana Whitestone’s bikini, I think – an article of clothing that has caressed the most intimate parts of her luscious body. Just like I’ll caress the most intimate parts of her luscious body when the time comes, though there certainly won’t be anything sexual about it when I do.
For three mornings in a row now, I’ve watched her leave her beach house at exactly the same time, following her daily ritual of getting buzzed at one of the tiny beach town’s many seaside bars before taking a jog along Estero Boulevard to sober up, waving to her temporary neighbors while she goes as though they’re lifelong friends. Still, she’ll find it pretty difficult to wave to people when her hands have been chopped off. But not just her hands. The more delicate bits of her, too. The bits of her that not even her bikini can shield from my view forever.
As if on cue, the front door across the street opens up a moment later and she descends the wooden stairs with her short blonde hair pulled back into a tight ponytail. I glance down at my Mickey Mouse watch and smile. Eleven-thirty a.m. Right on time. Some masterful investigator she is. Hell, she doesn’t even know enough to vary her daily routine. A rookie mistake on her part for which she’ll soon pay dearly.
I lift my eyebrows on my forehead and run my gaze admiringly over her well-toned body. Her vacation has been treating her well, that much seems clear. Her milky white skin is glazed a warm, golden brown now, and her silky blonde hair looks longer and fairer than it ever has before. If I’d still possessed the required equipment, no doubt my khaki shorts would’ve strained against my zipper as she stretches her elegant calf muscles against the stairs and rolls her slender neck forward on her soft shoulders. And why not?
She looks absolutely delicious.
Thirty seconds later, the former FBI agent begins her run, waving to a young couple pushing a baby stroller in front of them before disappearing around a bend in the street.
The most popular kid in class; that’s Dana Whitestone, all right. The prettiest girl in town. The queen of the fucking prom.
And I have a date with her.
I turn away from the window and put on my game-face. The end game is finally upon us now; the third act finally at hand. And, thanks entirely to my mother; this last act will be an absolute doozy.
Slipping around the back of her vacation residence several moments later, I ascend the rickety wooden staircase that’s shielded by high landscaping on both sides and pull open the unlocked sliding glass door to the lanai before stepping inside.
I pause and take stock of my surroundings, unable to believe how far I’ve come since that terrible day with my mother in the butcher shop’s walk-in freezer way back in 1981.
Against all odds, I’m inside the cunt’s lair!
CHAPTER 46
Inside the former FBI agent’s bedroom thirty seconds later, I fish out a pair of Dana Whitestone’s lacy, boy-cut panties from the dirty laundry hamper and press the crotch to my nose. Unbelievably, the panties are still moist. Inhaling deeply, I swoon, the scent of my prey sweeter to me than that of a dozen fragrant roses.
The sweet smell of success.
I smile and tuck the panties into my pocket, knowing that if I can get this close to the vaunted man-hunter in the middle of the day I can get this close to her anytime I damn well please. And I will be this close to her again very soon.
Just as close as two human beings can possibly get.
The woman’s vacation house feels light and airy to me as I treat myself to an unguided tour. Hardwood floors covered with a light dusting of sand. Very little furniture. An homage to the minimalist movement, perhaps, or maybe just easier for the landlord to maintain the place that way. In any event, it seems like a nice place to just kick back and relax. A nice place where you can just let all of your earthly worries slip from your shoulders.
A safe place.
Or so Dana Whitestone had probably thought when she’d rented it.
How painfully wrong she’d been.
There are no large windows in the front of the structure, so no one on the street can see me as I snoop around.
I whistle REO Speedwagon’s “Keep on Lovin’ You” softly beneath my breath as I enter the bedroom and open up Dana Whitestone’s dresser drawer to touch her things, rubbing my fingertips lightly over her personal belongings and soaking in her energy. Ten feet away, her clothes stare out at me from an open closet door – superhero costumes waiting patiently for her to slip them back on and get back to work.
The queen-sized bed in the middle of the room is made with sharp hospital corners, just as I’d known it would be. From what I’ve gathered over the past few months of watching her, Dana Whitestone is something of a neat freak. Likes everything else in her life to be just so. And from the look of things, she still retains her endearing idiosyncrasies, even though she’s back on the sauce now. Still, being a drunk didn’t mean that you also need to be a slob, now did it? Of course not.
I shiver hard despite the heavy warmth in the room, allowing myself to enjoy all of the titillating sensations rushing through my veins. Anticipation. Joy. Revenge.
Opening the woman’s purse, I count the bills inside her wallet. Eighty-one dollars. Then I take out her driver’s license and examine her vital statistics with great interest.
Born September 20th, 1972, she is forty-one years old now, a Virgo in the prime of her life. And good thing, too. Because she’s young and healthy enough to prove the worthy foil I’ll need to drive me to the very top of my game, even if it’s her remarkable brain that interests me the most.
On my way out of the house, I stop in each of the rooms and plant small listening devices throughout. Some go behind furniture, others in potted plants. With the end game upon us now, it’s absolutely vital that I keep track of her movements at all times. Just like my mother has always tracked me.
Finally exiting the quaint beach house five minutes later, I shuffle across the street with my head down again, completely confident in the knowledge that not even the best investigator in the world could tell I’d been inside the former FBI agent’s house. And good thing, too. Because Dana Whitestone is one of the best investigators in the world, according to the media, at least. Maybe even the best. That being said, she has her own special gifts, and I have mine.
To say the least, it should make for a very interesting match-up when the time finally comes for the last act in our murderous play to commence.
Back in my own bedroom two minutes later, I flop down on my bed and lift the pilfered panties to my face again, breathing in Dana Whitestone’s intoxicating scent once more.
In my mind, I make love to her for the first time, though certainly not for the last.
Just as I’ve always suspected, she proves to be an absolutely wonderful lover.
CHAPTER 47
Bill Krugman shielded his eyes from the bright Florida sunlight that was pounding down hard from high overhead in the cloudless blue skies above, peering into his former agent’s rental unit on Fort Myers Beach while exotic-looking seabirds squawked noisily in the air all around him.
Pressing his nose against the glass, Krugman tried to get a good look inside the house, tunneling his vision with his palms and fogging up the window with his breath.
Straining his eyes, he could just make out a sparsely furnished living room decorated with two wicker armchairs, a rattan settee and the kinds of oil paintings that you could usually find at neighborhood rummage sales for fifteen bucks apiece.
Watching this as she jogged back down Indian Bayou a few minutes after her odd encounter with the old landscaper at the church, Dana felt a cold lump of dread form in the pit of her stomach. The man known to everyone in the FBI simply by his title of “the Director” didn’t pay former agents a personal visit for no good reason, which couldn’t be good news for her under even the best of circumstances – and was probably enough to justify the expense of her running away to Bora Bora instead of the more easily accessible Gulf Coast of Florida.
She was sweating like a pig by the time she finally turned up the driveway thirty seconds later. Blinking hard against the salty rivers of perspiration that were sliding down her forehead and into her eyes, she cleared her throat loudly in order to get his attention.
The Director turned around and smiled down at her from the landing.
“Dana,” he said warmly, not looking in the least embarrassed that he’d just been caught playing the role of the quaint, seaside town’s Peeping Tom.
Krugman’s gold Rolex glinted in the bright sunlight overhead as he straightened the crisp white sleeves of his dress shirt, pulling them into sight from beneath the arms of a lightweight, flawlessly tailored blue suit. Dana wasn’t at all surprised to see his choice of attire. Even considering the blazing temperatures, Krugman wasn’t the kind of guy to break a sweat. Ever. Cool as a cucumber at all times, that was him, all right.
She nodded a hello up at her former boss, still squinting against the irritating drops of sweat that were searing her eyes. “Hello, sir,” she said. “To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”
Krugman descended the wooden steps with a laugh. “No time for pleasantries, huh, Agent Whitestone? Fair enough. I can understand that. I was never one for small talk myself.”
Reaching the foot of the stairs, Krugman squinted his own eyes against the blinding sun. “Could we maybe go inside, Agent Whitestone? It’s hotter than hell out here.”
Dana flushed, suddenly remembering her manners. She might have been raised in six different foster homes, but not a single one of them had been a barn. “Of course, sir,” she said quickly. “Come on in and I’ll get you something cold to drink.”
She brushed past him and ascended the wooden steps before sliding her key into the lock and opening the door, stepping aside to let him in first.
“So, what can I get for you, sir?” she asked him once they’d both made
it inside. “Beer? Water? Soda?”
The look on Krugman’s face let her know that alcohol was out of the question for him – and probably should be for her, as well.
Dana’s found herself hoping that he couldn’t smell the beer on her breath, but then she shook her head to chase away the concern. What the hell did she care if he smelled beer on her breath? She didn’t work for him anymore, so she could drink whatever she wanted, whenever she damn well pleased.
“A water would be great, Agent Whitestone,” Krugman said. “Thanks.”
Dana did her best to ignore the fact that Krugman was still calling her by her former title as she headed into the kitchen with him following closely at her heels.
Pulling out a bottle of Aquafina from the refrigerator, she twisted off the cap with the gunshot sound of snapping plastic and handed it over. Then she and Krugman went back into the living room and took seats on opposite ends of the rattan settee.
Krugman tilted back his head and took a long swallow of his water before clearing his throat. “I need you back, Dana,” he said, cutting right to the chase. The guy was more efficient than Dr. Michael Baden on an all-night autopsy bender. “I’ve got a serial killer on my hands who’s murdering famous people.”
Dana looked away from him, knowing that she couldn’t even deal with what had happened to her in the parking lot of the coroner’s office back home in Cleveland yet, much less deal with chasing down another serial killer. Not now and probably never again. It was just too much too ask of her, not to mention much too soon. After all of these years of somehow staying strong despite the nearly insurmountable odds that had been stacked up against her in her life, the woman in the autopsy video had finally broken her spirit. Crushed it, actually. She had nothing left to fight with anymore.
She’d been completely and utterly emptied.
Unfortunately for her, Krugman mistook her silence for interest. “The press has taken to calling this person ‘the Censor’,” he said. “The targets are mostly B-list celebrities. Dinah Leach from ‘The Real Housewives of Atlanta’ was the first victim last year. Penelope Hargrave – Steve Hargrave’s oldest daughter, the guy who’s trying to bankroll the rebuilding of the Twin Towers – was the next to go in New York City. And Amber Knightly was murdered just two nights ago out in Arkansas.”