by Osborne, Jon
Boy, is he ever mistaken about that.
Middleton smiles at me, showing off crooked yellow teeth. “Well, hello there,” he says. “Can I help you with something? The public restrooms are located in the back of the church, if that’s what you’re looking for, but I certainly don’t mind sharing mine. Share and share alike, that’s what I always say.”
I smile back at the man. “Thanks so much for the offer, Father. That’s awfully generous of you. But, no, there isn’t anything you can help me with. I, on the other hand, can definitely help you with something.”
The priest lifts his bushy eyebrows halfway up his broad forehead. “Oh, yeah?” he asks. “What’s that? What can you help me with, sir?”
I spring forward and jam the sharp point of the crucifix deep into the right side of his neck. Blood erupts from the priest’s throbbing jugular vein in a powerful explosion of red. A fine crimson mist of it sprays across my face and clothing.
“Help you with understanding that Dana Whitestone belongs to me, Father,” I say calmly. “As a matter of fact, she’s always belonged to me.”
CHAPTER 52
Father Lance Middleton’s high-pitched scream of agony echoed throughout the marble-tiled confines of Ascension Catholic Church.
From her position in the rear of the building, Dana’s heart leapt up into her throat at the soul-freezing sound. Instinctively springing to her feet, she bolted down the main aisle toward the source of the noise. Most people ran away from trouble, but thanks to her years of training with the FBI – training on which she’d turned her back until just this very morning – she ran toward it.
She came to a panting stop outside the doors of the sanctuary fifteen seconds later; her hand automatically going for her Glock before she suddenly realized that she’d left it back home at her vacation rental. After all, loaded guns didn’t usually make for acceptable fashion accessories in places of worship. So as a result, her Glock was still locked away in a fireproof metal box a mile away on Indian Bayou Avenue.
Dana took in a deep breath through her nostrils and forced herself to calm down. Unarmed or not, she was going in. She had to. Her job demanded it. She was an agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation, for Christ’s sake – no matter how confused about that she’d been before.
Stepping back, she kicked open the door to the sanctuary and stepped inside. Ten feet away, the priest lay on the floor surrounded by a rapidly expanding pool of blood.
Father Lance Middleton looked up at her with pleading eyes filled with terror. Only the top portion of a metal crucifix was still visible in the right side of his neck.
The kindly old man tried to speak, but no words would come out. Reaching up with a trembling hand, he pulled out the crucifix from his neck before Dana had a chance to stop him. Thick blood coated his trembling fingers as he the crucifix fell to the floor next to him in an eerie cacophony of jangling metal.
Dana winced, knowing that the crucifix had been the only thing keeping him alive. But what could she do about it now? Stick it back in his neck? Still, without the crucifix to staunch the powerful flow of blood, the red pulsed out even faster from Middleton’s throat with every tortured beat of his badly laboring heart.
Finally, the priest’s face went ghostly white.
A moment later, his eyeballs rolled up completely into the back of his head before he stopped breathing altogether.
The sudden voice that sounded directly behind Dana nearly caused her to jump five feet in the air. Her heart triple-pumped in her chest as she spun around.
“Should I call 911?”
The altar boy from ten minutes earlier, tears filling his glistening blue eyes.
Dana closed her own eyes and shook her head sadly.
No, she thought. You should call a priest.
CHAPTER 53
Two days later, Dana went on national television to do an interview with Brent Price – the reporter from Cleveland who’d ambushed her outside the front doors of her apartment complex five months earlier.
After a lengthy discussion with Bill Krugman about how they wanted to proceed, they’d finally decided that their best bet would be to lure Nicole Preston out from beneath whatever rock she was currently hiding under by staging an elaborate, televised presentation – ostensibly to talk about the recent, horrific murders of celebrities.
With the information they’d compiled about Preston’s psychology and the woman’s overwhelming need for the spotlight, Dana felt sure the murdering little bitch wouldn’t be able to stay away. And that was why the taping of the show would be accessible to the general public, as well. It was a dangerous gamble and one that probably bordered on the ethically questionable, but Dana and Krugman felt like they needed to take a chance at this point in the case, however dangerous that chance might be. To protect attendees, seventy-five plain-clothed FBI agents would be stationed all around Hammond Stadium, posing as snack vendors and concessions workers.
The home of the minor-league affiliate of the Minnesota Twins was located on Six Mile Cypress Parkway and seemed like a perfect place for the highly scripted ruse to unfold. The underlying hope was that the outdoor setting and the throngs of people expected to attend would lure Nicole Preston into a false sense of security.
Only time would tell.
At precisely eight o’clock in the evening, Dana took the stage in the middle of the baseball diamond following a short introduction from the public-address announcer. From her seat in the middle of the large wooden platform, she scanned the crowd.
More than a thousand people, easy. Just below the stage, dozens of members of the press lined the fishbowl, cameras focused squarely on her. Still no sign of Preston yet, though.
Brent Price turned in his seat to face her and smiled warmly. “Special Agent Whitestone,” he said in a deep voice that boomed over the stadium’s PA system. “Thank you so much for agreeing to this interview. I guess the main thing we all want to know is what can you tell us about the Censor? What can you tell us about Nicole Preston? What makes this woman tick?”
Dana cleared her throat. “Thanks for having me, Brent,” she said, trying to ignore the unsettling feedback of her own voice in her ears. “It’s a pleasure to be here tonight. Anyway, Nicole Preston – or the Censor, as the press has taken to calling her – is a serial killer who’s been targeting famous people around the country. She’s already killed four people that we know of and she’ll undoubtedly kill more in the near future. She’s an egomaniac, has delusions of grandeur. And killers like her never stop until they’re finally caught.”
Price templed his fingers in front of his body and nodded, obviously playing up his time in the national spotlight for all it was worth. No big surprise there, however. From all appearances, he intended to parlay this once-in-a-life opportunity into a glitzy new job in New York City – or anywhere else in the country not named Cleveland. “I see,” he said. “And what exactly is the FBI doing to catch this woman?”
Dana cleared her throat again. She was just about to answer him when a gunshot suddenly cracked through the night.
A split-second later, a speeding bullet whizzed past her right ear.
Dana sprang to her feet as everything devolved into pure pandemonium from there, the screaming crowd stampeding toward the exits like a herd of terrified buffalo. Whipping out her Glock from the shoulder holster underneath her FBI blazer, she scanned the crowd frantically.
Nothing but chaos.
Another bullet whistled past her head a moment later, zinging by her left ear this time. Dana scanned the crowd some more, her breath hitching in her throat and her stomach trying to crawl out of her mouth. She saw plenty of guns out there, but they all belonged to the undercover feds working the stadium.
Finally, on the third shot from the crowd, she caught a muzzle flash coming from the fishbowl holding the press.
A huge chunk of stage exploded in a shower of splinters at her feet as a man with media credentials slung around his neck aimed the barrel of a huge
black pistol directly at the center of her forehead.
Dana narrowed her eyes.
A Mickey Mouse watch was strapped around the man’s left wrist.
A dozen thoughts raced through her mind at once, bumping into each other before shattering away into even more confusion.
Chief among them: How the hell could she get off a clean shot with so many people around?
Before she could outthink herself, before her brain could fuck this up for everyone, her instincts took over. Leveling her gun, she pulled back her finger on the Glock’s trigger and a familiar blast of power exploded up her arm as the firearm went off with a tremendous bang.
Thankfully – unlike her confidence – Dana’s aim hadn’t suffered one little bit since she’d been away from the job. Quite the opposite, as a matter of fact.
A split-second later, the bullet from her Glock tore off the top of the man’s head cleanly at his hairline.
An absolutely perfect shot.
A moment after that, his bloody scalp came to a tumbling stop alongside the third-base foul line, a good fifty feet away from where it had initially begun.
CHAPTER 54
Nicholas Preston – a terribly confused soul who’d legally changed his name to “Nicole” at the tender age of twenty-one – had time enough for just one more thought before the bullet from Dana Whitestone’s gun blew off the top of his head.
I’m going to be famous for this.
If he’d had the time, he would have smiled.
And why not?
This was everything he ever could have dreamed of.
And a whole lot more, too.
CHAPTER 55
On the plane ride out to Chicago later that night in the Department of Justice’s thirty-million-dollar Gulfstream IV, Dana again reflected on the events of her life, especially those of the past year. Once again, although things had been rough on her, she’d somehow made it through to the other side of a seemingly un-crossable chasm alive.
Above all else – no matter what anybody else might want to say about her – she was a survivor.
And that was certainly nothing to sneeze at.
Four hours later, she stepped inside the childhood home of Nicole Preston. In the master bedroom, she found a diary in the top drawer of a nightstand next to the bed.
Settling down onto the plaid comforter covering the top of the neatly made bed, she opened the well-worn red-leather cover and began to read:
November 18th, 1989
Dear Diary,
I just don’t know what to do about Timothy anymore. He thinks that he’s a girl and has started calling himself Nicole. I believe it’s the female version of his imaginary friend, Nicholas.
It all started when Timmy was seven years old. We were playing in the house one day when he slipped on the floor and banged his head against the bathroom sink. He was never the same after that. I’ve always blamed myself for this because I was chasing him at the time, playing a game of tag.
The doctors said there is nothing I can do.
When Timmy was thirteen years old, I came home from work one day to find that he’d chopped off his own penis with a meat cleaver. I barely managed to get him to the hospital in time to save his life.
Diary, I know that my son hates me, and this makes me sad beyond words.
Whatever happened to that cute little boy whose precious little face appeared in all of those televisions commercials? I’ll never know.
One thing I do know, however:
I miss my son with every last inch of my heart and soul, and I want him back desperately.
CHAPTER 56
Dana closed the diary and wiped tears from her eyes. A moment later, her cellphone rang in her pocket.
She dug it out, flipped it open and placed it to her ear. “Hello?”
A male voice came across the line. “Dana, it’s Gary Templeton. I need to tell you something.”
Dana frowned. Templeton’s speech sounded slurred, like he’d been drinking. And she knew better than just about anyone else how badly alcohol could cloud your judgment. How it could make you say and do things that you normally wouldn’t say or do. Still, slurred or not, it was nice to hear his voice. It had been a long time.
“What do you need to tell me, Gary?” she asked softly.
Templeton paused. Then he cleared his throat and said, “I’m in love with you, Dana. I’m sorry for telling you over the phone like this, but I’ve always been in love with you. Ever since the first time I laid eyes on you.”
Dana smiled and let down the Cleveland cop as gently as she could. She wasn’t ready for another relationship yet. Not even close. Wasn’t sure she’d ever be ready for another relationship after what had happened to Jeremy. “Thank you for telling me this, Gary,” she said, “but I think it’s best if we just stay friends for now. Is that OK with you?”
A click sounded in her ear.
Dana frowned again and took away the phone away from her face, checked the battery indicator to make sure the damn thing hadn’t died on her.
Five strong bars.
She placed the phone back to her ear. “Hello? Are you still there, Gary?”
No response.
Dana flipped closed her phone and sighed. It wasn’t easy, but that was just the way the world worked sometimes. Sometimes the people you fell in love with didn’t love you in return. And if they did love you back, you’d better count yourself among the lucky ones inhabiting this crazy, spinning blue ball upon which they were all stranded.
Thankfully, though, that wasn’t something Dana needed to worry about right now.
Because she already counted herself among the lucky ones.
EPILOGUE
A week later, Dana flipped over onto her stomach on Fort Myers Beach down in sunny Southwest Florida, working on her tan and listening to Evanescence on her iPod while thoroughly enjoying the last day of her vacation.
She reached back and tugged at her yellow bikini bottoms to make sure she’d maintained full coverage throughout the body-flipping manuever. Tomorrow morning, she’d board a plane back to Cleveland and retrieve Oreo from Maggie Carter’s care. The old woman had already assured her it would be OK. And after that, she’d get on with her life as a special agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation.
After all, that was what she’d been born to do, wasn’t it?
Damn right, it was.
It took Dana several moments to realize that her cellphone was ringing beside her while the hot sun pounded down from high overhead in the blindingly blue sky above. Finally hearing it, she looked down at the caller ID and frowned, not recognizing the number. Cleveland area code.
She removed the iPod earbuds from her ears and flipped open the phone before wiping away sand from the mouthpiece and placing it to her ear. “Hello?”
A woman’s voice sounded on the other end of the line. “Hello, ma’am, my name is Shelley Margolis. I’m a case manager for Child Protective Services in Parma. I’m calling to ask if you still have any interest in adopting Bradley Taylor Thomas.”
Dana’s stomach lurched. “What?”
The case manager cleared her throat. “He’s been asking about you for two solid weeks, ma’am, says that he wants you to be his new mother.”
Dana’s hands trembled. She nearly dropped the phone to the sand in shock. She couldn’t have been any more stunned if her parents had just strolled hand-in-hand up the beach and took a seat on her blanket beside her.
“Of course I want him,” she said. Her throat tightened so painfully with the words that it was difficult to choke them out. “What exactly would I need to do, Miss Margolis?”
Adrenaline coursed through Dana’s body as Shelley Margolis ran down the laundry list of requirements for adopting a child. There would be background checks and home visits and a million other little things that Dana would need to go through. And no doubt the child-care advocates would want to make absolutely sure they got Bradley’s adoption exactly right this time, consideri
ng the unspeakable horror to which the little boy been subjected at the hands of the belt-happy lawyer, who in turn would now be spending the next fifteen years of his worthless life rotting away in prison from the heartless crime of aggravated child abuse.
Dana continued to struggle for breath the entire time that Shelley Margolis ticked off all of the requirements involved. Somehow, though – despite the complete lack of oxygen reaching her lungs – she managed to mumble one-word answers to the case manager’s questions.
“So, I’ll see you next Saturday at noon then?” Margolis asked.
Dana sucked in a sharp breath that sent a bracing rush of oxygen flooding through her system, steadying both her nerves and her voice. “Yes, of course, Miss Margolis,” she said. “I look forward to seeing you then.”
The call switched off when Margolis cut the connection from her end, and Dana placed the phone back down on the sand beside her, shaking her head in utter disbelief. After everything that had happened to the two of them, pretty soon, two broken people might just get the chance to make each other whole again.
And any way you looked at things, that wasn’t a bad payoff, now was it?
Nope, wasn’t a bad payoff, at all.
Dana sniffled a little as the first tears of joy began to form in her eyes. Before she knew what was happening, tears were streaking down her cheeks in a wet rush of emotion.
Unlike the day she’d met the little boy on the plane, however, this time she didn’t care if anyone saw her crying.
Dana stood up and brushed the sand off her thighs before gathering her things. To heck with tomorrow morning. She wanted to get home tonight to start preparing for Saturday’s visit.
Tucking her beach towel into her backpack, she slipped her shoulders into the straps of her leather backpack and took another deep breath. Though she hadn’t known it, she’d waited her entire life for this day to finally arrive, and she didn’t want to wait a single moment longer now. After all of these years of being alone, she finally had the chance to be part of a family again. A real family. After all of these years of being alone, she just might become a mother.