by Osborne, Jon
Dana lifted her eyebrows in surprise. The question tumbled out of her mouth before she could stop it, her curiosity piqued despite her resolve to stay just as far away from this sort of thing as she possibly could.
“Amber Knightly the pop singer?” she asked.
Krugman nodded. “Yep.”
“Any leads?”
Krugman shifted in his seat. “As a matter of fact, we know exactly who the killer is.”
Dana waited for him to go on. When he didn’t immediately continue, she said, “Well? Who is it?”
Krugman caught her by surprise again. “Her name’s Nicole Preston,” he said. “We found her prints at the scenes of each of the murders I was telling you about. Killed her mother late last night, too, according to the field office out in Illinois. Hung her dead body from a steel hook in the family’s butcher’s shop after the deed was done. Real sick piece of work.”
Krugman hesitated. Then he blew out a slow breath and said, “I know what happened to you in the parking lot of the coroner’s office, Agent Whitestone.”
Dana’s breath caught in her throat. Her heart slammed violently against her ribcage. She was so stunned for a moment that she couldn’t even breathe.
She finally swallowed back the shame in her throat and whispered, “How?”
Krugman stretched his fingers, looking uncomfortable. “We also found Nicole Preston’s prints in the autopsy room in Ohio,” he said. “I saw the video, Dana, saw Preston hold up the picture of your brother to the camera. That was when it occurred to me to check out the surveillance footage from the parking lot. I saw what those men did to you. I’m very sorry that happened. It was absolutely awful.”
Dana’s lips trembled, but she didn’t speak. She didn’t know what to say.
Krugman straightened on the settee. “Anyway, Nicole Preston killed Christian Manhoff, too, but that’s not the main reason why she was in Cleveland. Manhoff was just a prop. She came to Cleveland because she’s targeting you too, Dana. I don’t know why she’s targeting you, but that much I know for a fact.”
Dana shook her head, unable to believe what she was hearing right now. Still, she already knew that Krugman was telling her the truth. Why would he lie?
She let out a deep breath that deflated her chest. “I know,” she said. “Preston told me as much right to my face. But how the hell do you know that?”
Krugman cleared his throat. “Because the Illinois field office also found a list of five names pinned to the chest of Nicole Preston’s mother.”
Dana’s heart thrilled in her chest. “And?”
The Director dropped his stare. “Your name was the last one on it, Dana.”
CHAPTER 48
Kill two birds with one stone, I think as I watch Dana Whitestone and her former boss enter the vacation house across the street. Just murder them both right now in cold blood while they’re together and speed along the entire process of achieving fame.
I shake my head to chase away the temptation, knowing that I need to stick to the game plan here; no matter how strong the urge might be to alter it. And the urge is plenty damned strong, too. Practically overwhelming, for Christ’s sake.
I sigh heavily as I resign myself to my fate. No doubt the authorities will make short work of tracking me down now with all of the evidence I’ve left behind. Still, I don’t really care. After all, that’s been my goal ever since the very beginning, now hasn’t it?
Of course, it has.
To go out in a blaze of glory.
On national television.
I press my lips together in anticipation. The simple fact of the matter is that you could murder anyone you wanted, just as long as you wee willing to give your own life in return. Even an FBI agent. And I’m more than willing to give my own life in exchange for Dana Whitestone’s. Always have been ever since the day I’d watched my little brother brutally murdered by the same woman who’d given us life before snatching it away again with her sick compulsions to live out her own dreams of fame through her two little boys.
Two little boys who hadn’t known any better. Two little boys who’d never stood a chance against a woman like her.
I enter my kitchen and pull out an ice-cold Heineken from the refrigerator. The tinkling of glass hitting glass fills my ears as the bottle makes contact with the rest of the twelve-pack inside. Time for some suds. And why not?
Things were about to get very interesting now.
Returning to my living room, I pop the top on my beer and kick back on the comfortable leather couch, at the same time positioning the tiny listening device in my left ear. With any luck at all, the bugs that I’ve planted around Dana Whitestone’s vacation house will pick up every last word of her conversation with Bill Krugman, the head of the FBI.
Taking a long swallow of my beer, I catch the proper frequency and listen intently as they talk. Krugman is updating his former charge on each of my exquisite murders, including the horrific butchering of Dinah Leach the previous year.
“The poor woman was de-sexed, Dana,” Krugman says to his famous protégé. An underlying edge of irritation laces his voice, which pleases me all the more. “Her breasts and vagina were sliced off with a knife, for God’s sake. Please come back to the Bureau. We need you.”
From the comfort of my own living room, I can almost see Dana Whitestone’s face go white at her former boss’s shocking words. God, how I wish I’d have thought to put a video camera in there, as well. The look on her face right now had to be absolutely priceless. Why the hell had I skimped on costs this close to the end? A video performance of this would have been so much more fun.
I sigh again and shrug my shoulders. To hell with it. There’ll be plenty of cameras around when the final cut is made and delivered to the general public, so that isn’t a major concern. Because whether or not anyone out there wanted it to happen, my fame has been all but assured now.
Dana Whitestone clears her throat softly and I sit up straighter on the couch and press the listening device farther into my ear. This is it! The vaunted former FBI agent will now return to the hunt – and then the fun and games can really begin in earnest.
I lean back my head and take another long, celebratory sip of beer.
And then I nearly choke on it, spitting out a mouthful of foamy liquid all over the hardwood floor at my feet.
“No,” Dana Whitestone says in response to Krugman’s request that she rejoin the FBI. “Absolutely not.”
CHAPTER 49
Krugman narrowed his dark brown eyes. His disbelieving voice rumbled out of his throat like a freight train barreling off the rails.
“Dinah Leach didn’t die from the sexual mutilation, Agent Whitestone,” he snapped. “She was still alive, still breathing when they finally unzipped the goddamn body bag. That’s a miracle in and of itself, a testament to just how hard she fought to live. She couldn’t talk, but she tried to talk. Right up until her last breath. You could probably learn a thing or two from her.”
Dana stared at her former boss. “Excuse me?”
Krugman didn’t blink. His own stare was hot enough to burn right through six inches of solid steel. “I said you could probably learn a thing or two from Dinah Leach, Dana. Did I stutter?”
The Director closed his eyes and shook his head. Then he opened his eyes again and softened his voice. “Listen, Agent Whitestone, I can’t even imagine how terrible it must have been for you when those men violated you. I understand why you left work, I really do. But you represent the wall of protection that stands between the animals out there and the rest of society. There aren’t too many of us left, so we can’t afford to lose a single brick in that wall. More than that, you’re a goddamned cornerstone. People depend on you. Hell, I depend on you. Think it over, at least.”
Dana pursed her lips. “I really don’t see what good that would do, sir. My mind’s already made up.”
Krugman rose to his feet and shook his head again. “Just think it over,” he said, heading for th
e door. “Do it for me. Do it for Crawford. Do it for that little boy you want to adopt. Hell, do it for yourself, Dana. Everyone needs you. Don’t ever forget that. And no matter what you might think right now, running away from your problems isn’t going to make them disappear.”
Krugman paused as he reached the door and turned around. “Anyway, I’m putting a 24/7 watch on you. You’re a target of this whack-job now so we need to keep you safe.”
Dana shook her head. She didn’t need a baby-sitter. Didn’t want a baby-sitter. She was a grown woman, for Christ’s sake. She could take care of herself. And even if she couldn’t take care of herself, that was nobody else’s business but her own. “No, thank you, sir,” she said firmly. “That won’t be necessary.”
Krugman opened the door. “Wasn’t a request, Agent Whitestone. You’ll have two agents here within the next twenty-four hours. They’ll be shadowing every step you take until we can catch this lunatic, so you might as well just get used to the idea right now.”
And with that, the Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation left her vacation house and disappeared down the stairs.
Dana went to the window and watched him go. When he’d hopped into his rental car and had driven out of sight, she gritted her teeth before reaching into her pocket and extracting the small gold hoop earring that she’d appropriated from the parking lot of the Cuyahoga County Coroner’s Office, squeezing it hard in her fist.
Bile rose rocketed up her throat and burned the thin lining of her esophagus. Her temples throbbed. This wasn’t what she’d wanted, at all.
Goddamn it, she’d wanted the woman in black for herself.
CHAPTER 50
Dana tossed and turned all night Saturday with the Director’s words still echoing in her ears:
Do it for me, Dana. Do it for Crawford. Do it for that little boy you want to adopt.
Hell, do it for yourself.
She sat up in her bed in the darkness and wiped away tears from her eyes. The only problem with Krugman’s request was that she didn’t know if she could do it for herself anymore. She’d focused so intently on helping other people her entire life, on putting her own selfish concerns to the side, that she’d lost sight of herself somewhere along the way. Now it felt like she didn’t even know who she was anymore. Wasn’t sure if she’d ever known who she was.
At quarter to eight on Sunday morning, she dressed in a knee-length white skirt and a conservative, light-pink blouse before walking over to Ascension Catholic Church. She knew that she needed some help making this decision in front of her, and thankfully she knew exactly where to look for it.
Settling into a pew in the back of the church ten minutes later, she started to pray while the church began to fill up with people:
God, please help me. Tell me what I should do. I’m so lost right now.
Dana hadn’t been to Mass in years, but there were some things in life that you never forgot, no matter how much time had passed.
At its heart, Catholic Mass was an assembly. Greeters met you at the door with warm smiles on their faces, and everybody around you was literally dressed in his or her Sunday best. Near the entrances, bowls of holy water glistened, beckoning worshippers to dip in their fingers before making the Sign of the Cross, starting at your forehead and ending at your right shoulder. The act of genuflection before the altar had been imported from medieval Europe, where it had been customary to drop down to one knee in front of a king or nobleman.
A few minutes after she’d taken her seat in the back of the church, the first strains of the opening processional filled her ears, bringing a smile to her face.
The upbeat song lifted her spirits immediately. Before she knew it, she was singing “On Eagle’s Wings” right along with the rest of the congregation at the top of her voice.
Several moments later, three altar boys – the lead one carrying a large crucifix affixed to the top of a long metal pole – processed down the main aisle in front of the priest.
Dana’s jaw nearly smacked into her chest when she got her first look at the holy man bringing up the rear.
It was the old landscaper from the previous day, the same one who’d urged her to look for the answers she was seeking within the walls of the building that he’d been working so hard to beautify out in the hot Florida sun.
Dana shook her head in bemusement. No wonder he’s been so intent on selling her on the concept of attending church as a means to finding the answers she was looking for. He was the shepherd, and he’d led her right into his flock without her even realizing it.
She had to admit, she was impressed.
When the last strains of the opening song drifted away, the landscaper/priest ascended the steps leading up to the altar and turned around to face the worshippers.
Stretching out his arms wide in front of his body in his flowing purple robes, he greeted the faithful.
“Good morning, everyone. My name is Father Lance Middleton. Thank you so much for joining me on this fine Sunday morning to give thanks and glory to the Lord our God. All of us are truly His children, and He loves each and every one of us dearly. Please don’t ever forget that.”
The rest of the Mass was easily recognizable to Dana despite her long absence from the Church. She’d minored in theology at Cleveland State, so she’d spent plenty of time inside places of worship just like this one. And much like the chapters of the FBI guidebook, the details of the rites had stuck to her brain like glue.
After the greeting came the penitential rite, followed by the opening prayer and the Liturgy of the Word. Then there were three readings and a psalm before the congregation stood for the reading of the gospel. As it turned out, today’s selection came from the Book of Job.
Appropriate, to say the least.
Clearing his throat dramatically, Father Middleton began to read, his deep voice booming over the church’s sound system.
“In the land of Uz there lived a man whose name was Job. This man was blameless and upright; he feared God and shunned evil…”
The story continued from there to recount Job’s many trials following Satan’s challenge to God that Job only worshipped Him because he’d been blessed in his life. Even through the countless horrors Job faced – including the loss of his family, wealth and sanity – he still praised God’s name.
When the reading ended, Father Middleton immediately launched into his homily.
The main crux of the priest’s sermon hit Dana in a very personal way.
“Whatever burdens we bear in this life, we must always remember that there is a reason for the trials the Lord give us,” he said. “We may lose our way from time to time, but God always knows exactly where we’re going. Follow His light and your path will always shine brightly before you. That much I promise.”
The rest of the Mass passed quickly for Dana from there as she reflected on Father Middleton’s words, just as she’d reflected on Bill Krugman’s words the previous night. Before she knew it, the final blessing and dismissal were being delivered. Never before had an hour of her life passed so quickly.
To top things off, the closing song was “Amazing Grace” – one of her all-time favorites.
Tears filled her eyes as she sang out the words along with the rest of the worshippers from the very bottom of her soul.
Ten minutes later, the church gradually emptied out, but Dana remained on her knees for a while, still praying.
This time it was a prayer of thanks.
She couldn’t explain it, but she felt filled with the Holy Spirit right now. No matter how hard things might have been for her in her life – and they’d been plenty hard – she knew there were others out there who had it far worse than she did.
A renewed sense of strength flowed through her body. She finally felt ready to get back to work. Finally felt ready to fight the good fight again for those who weren’t strong enough to fight it for themselves.
A tiny hand on her left shoulder jerked her mind back into the present.
Looking up, she saw the lead altar boy standing over her, dressed in his snow-white cassock.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” the boy said in a shy voice. Not much more than nine or ten years old, he had sandy brown hair and an angelic face that was sprinkled with freckles. “Father Lance asked me to invite you back to the sanctuary. He said to tell you that he was very happy to see you at Mass today and that he’d like to thank you personally for coming.”
Dana smiled at the boy and resisted the urge to reach up a hand to tousle his hair. “Please tell Father Lance I’ll be back there in just a minute,” she said.
The boy nodded and turned away. Closing her eyes, Dana exhaled deeply, feeling the entire weight of the world slip from her shoulders as she did so.
Time for just one more quick prayer of thanks.
CHAPTER 51
As quietly as a church mouse, I emerge from the bathroom of the sanctuary at Ascension Catholic Church just as Father Lance Middleton completes his disrobing following Mass, revealing pressed black clothing complete with a stiff white Roman collar fastened around his wrinkled old neck.
To pass the time while I’d waited, I’d spent the majority of the service working the bottom portion of a handheld crucifix back and forth against the concrete floor in the bathroom, honing the metal until the bottom edge had sharpened into a gleaming point.
To the priest’s great credit, Middleton doesn’t seem at all surprised to see me standing there with the crucifix balanced in my right hand. Maybe the senile old goat thinks I’m just another lost parishioner seeking some sort of guidance from above.