by Osborne, Jon
The words tumbled out of her mouth before she had a chance to stop them from coming. “I want him,” she blurted out.
Krugman cocked his head to one side. “What?”
Dana took in a deep breath that ballooned her lungs to capacity. It might have been a hasty decision, she knew, but the truth of the matter was that she really didn’t care right now. With every last fiber of her being, she wanted the boy. Needed him. Wanted and needed him more than anything else she’d ever wanted or needed in her entire life. “I want him,” she repeated, a little more forcefully this time. “I want to adopt the little boy. I want to take him home with me.”
Krugman looked stunned. “Dana, don’t you think that maybe you should…”
She cut him off with a look before he could finish. “I’m completely serious, sir. If it’s not too much trouble, could you please arrange for somebody at the Bureau to start the paperwork for me? I’ll take over from there once the ball is rolling.”
Krugman held her gaze and studied her eyes some more. After a long moment, he finally blew out a slow breath that sagged his chest. “These things take time, Agent Whitestone. As a matter of fact, they take a lot of time. I’ll have someone in admin start making some calls on your behalf if you’re absolutely certain this is what you want, but you need to remember that there’s no shame in changing your mind about it later on. This is a really big decision you’re making here. A huge one, actually. One you probably shouldn’t be making right now.”
Dana rolled her neck on her slender shoulders and felt the unbelievable stiffness there. If nothing else, she knew she needed to get the hell out of this hospital bed, pronto. And Krugman was right. It was a big decision she was making here. A huge one, actually. Crazy as the idea might sound at the moment, though – even to her – she knew there was no way in hell she’d ever back out of it.
Not now, not later and not ever.
Why would she? She already loved the little boy. Had fallen madly in love with him the very first time she’d laid eyes on him on the plane.
“I’m absolutely sure this is what I want, sir,” she said, meaning it with all her heart and soul. “As a matter of fact, I’ve never been more certain about anything in my entire life.”
Krugman finally dropped his stare and shook his head. “Fine, Agent Whitestone. If you’re absolutely sure this is what you want, then I’ll get the ball rolling for you. I’ll have someone in admin contact you just as soon as the process is started.”
Despite everything she’d just been through – despite everything she’d gone through since she’d been four years old – Dana’s body practically floated out of her hospital bed. “Thank you so much, sir,” she said excitedly. “You don’t know how much this means to me.”
Just then, Krugman’s cellphone rang in his pocket. He held up a finger to her and motioned for her to wait while he dug it out, flipping it open and placing it to his ear. “Hey, honey, what’s going on?”
A nervous thrill swirled in Dana’s stomach as the Director talked with his wife. It wasn’t that she was already having second thoughts about adopting the little boy, of course – far from it, actually – but holy crap, what had she just gotten herself into here? What did she know about being a mother? About taking care of someone else? Hell, she could hardly seem to take care of herself these days.
Still, if everything went well for her, she might just have the chance to become a mother, after all.
And she’d become mother to the handsomest little guy she’d ever seen in her entire life. A regular GQ model if ever there’d been one.
Then again, when had been the last time anything in her life had actually gone well for her?
Dana shook away the disconcerting thought when Krugman flipped shut his cellphone.
“Sorry about that,” the Director said, slipping the phone back into his pants pocket and shifting in his seat. “Marie was just calling to remind me to take my blood pressure medicine.”
He paused and shook his head in bemusement. “That woman, I swear. Always thinking about someone else and never about herself.”
Dana smiled. From the adoring look her boss’s eye, she could tell that he loved his wife more than he loved anything else in the entire world. And she knew exactly how he felt, too. Because – despite the overwhelming newness of it all – she already felt the exact same way about Bradley.
Krugman broke into her thoughts by rising to his feet and snapping open the latches on his leather briefcase. “Anyway,” he said, “I’ve got to get out of here for a little while, Dana. Much as I don’t want to, I’m having lunch with the head of the Northeast Ohio regional office in about twenty minutes. I’ve been putting it off forever now, but now that I’m up here it seems that I’ve run out of excuses.”
He extracted a pile of magazines and newspaper clippings from his briefcase and handed it over to her. “Here’s a little light reading for you while I’m gone. I’ll be back later on tonight to say goodbye before I head back to DC, OK?”
Dana nodded and looked down at the pile in her hands, feeling her breath catch in her throat and her brain buzz with an intense electric charge. On top of the pile and highlighted by her standard FBI ID picture, Newsweek’s cover teased readers to the main story inside:
AMERICA’S TOP COP IN COMA AFTER PLANE CRASH
She looked up at the Director, stunned. “What’s this?” she breathed.
Krugman leaned over the bed railing and patted her shoulder. “This,” he said, “is just some of the press you garnered while you were taking your extended nap, Agent Whitestone. Seems that you became an even bigger national celebrity while you were sleeping it off in dreamland. Enjoy the quotes from me in there, OK? I said some really nice things about you.”
He paused. “But, Dana?’
Dana looked up at her boss. “Yes, sir?”
Krugman smiled. “Don’t let it go to your head, OK, kiddo? I don’t need any prima donnas making my job any more difficult than it already is.”
CHAPTER 18
Dana spent the next several weeks reading and re-reading the articles detailing her life and career. That is, whenever she wasn’t being subjected to the daily, grueling physical rehab sessions with a twenty-two-year-old intern named Zachary who seemed to have muscles even in his hair and who made Torquemada look suspiciously more like Mother Theresa by comparison with all the ridiculous twists and turns contortions he loved to put her through.
Dana shook her head in disbelief as she reviewed the large pile of press clippings for the umpteenth time since Krugman had given them to her, absolutely astounded by the information the press had dredged up. From the murder of her parents way back in 1976 to the Cleveland Slasher case involving her half-brother two years prior to the Chessboard Killer slayings out in LA earlier in the year, they hadn’t missed a single trick.
Dana sighed heavily, having always cherished what little privacy her job allowed. Though they didn’t know all the details yet – and hopefully never would – anyone with an Internet connection, basic cable-television package or subscription to the local newspaper was now privy to an extremely well-researched synopsis of her colossally screwed-up life, including just how close her relationship to the Cleveland Slasher had actually been. Then again, she supposed that was the price you paid for being the supposed hero in two of the most sensational serial-killer cases to come down the pike in the past twenty-five years.
For being the supposed hero who’d – indirectly, anyway – cost so many innocent people their lives.
Worse, the press was still out there digging for more information. Literally, right out there. From a helpful orderly, Dana knew that a small cadre of reporters had set up camp out in the hospital’s parking lot, just waiting for her to emerge. And the relentless media showed no signs of going home anytime soon, either.
Dana let out a disgusted breath that fluttered her lips against her teeth. Hopefully, they’d brought along plenty of coffee with them, because she had absolutely zero intention of speaki
ng with any of them when she came out. Or with anyone else, for that matter. Let somebody else’s name fill up the newspapers for a little while. Her name needed a break
She sighed again, even more heavily this time, feeling the entire weight of the world resting squarely on her unsteady shoulders. Above all else, she knew that she needed some alone time right now. Some “me time”. Maybe even a vacation somewhere warm. With Cleveland stuck in the grips of yet another brutally cold winter, Florida might be a nice change of pace for a while, give her a chance to clear her head. Maybe even Hawaii.
One thing seemed obvious: she needed some time to unwind, to decompress, to process all of the horrible events of her life.
And to run away from all of the ghosts still chasing her.
A knock at the door mercifully pulled her out of the macabre inventory of deaths she’d been connected with over the years. A moment later, Dr. Aloysius Spinks entered the room, holding her medical chart in his right hand and smiling brightly.
“Good afternoon, Agent Whitestone,” he said in his rich baritone. “How are you feeling today?”
He didn’t wait for her to answer before making his way over to her bedside and laying down her chart on the table. Leaning over the bed railing, he ran his long fingers deftly through the recently re-grown blonde hair on her scalp and examined the long row of stitches laced into her skull as expertly as a blind man reading Braille.
After a moment or two of rifling through her hair, he looked down at her and smiled again. “What’s your secret, Agent Whitestone? If I could bottle this stuff I’d be a millionaire.”
Dana looked up and him and shrugged. “Not sure, Doc. Just lucky, I guess.”
Spinks chuckled and straightened to his full height, which looked to be somewhere around six-four. Retrieving her clipboard from the table, he marked something down before flipping it shut again. “Any questions for me?” he asked.
Dana pushed herself up straighter in bed and nodded. “As a matter of fact, yes, Dr. Spinks,” she said. “Any idea of when I can get the hell out of this place? I’ve got a serious case of cabin fever going on over here and I’ve got someone at home who really needs me.”
It was the truth – even if that particular someone was a black-and-white cat named Oreo.
Spinks frowned. “Well, to tell you the truth, Agent Whitestone, I’m a little concerned about your psychological state right now. Your physical wounds have healed up beautifully, but how are you feeling mentally? You’ve been through quite a rough patch with everything that’s gone on lately, and I’ve got to imagine it’s been pretty tough on you.”
Dana pursed her lips. From the look of things, flimsy paper gowns like the one she was wearing right now were the only kind of privacy she could expect here in the hospital.
Then again, why the heck should Fairview General be any different from the rest of the world?
“It’s been hard – no doubt about it – but I feel fine psychologically,” Dana lied. No way in hell she was telling the truth on this one. “So if my skull is ready to leave the hospital, then so am I. I’d really like to go home today, if that’s OK with you.”
Spinks deepened his frown, and Dana frowned back at him this time. Judging by the disapproving look in the good doctor’s eye, though, he wasn’t going to let her get away that easily.
“We have psychologists on staff here at the hospital,” Spinks said. “I think you should probably talk to one of them about what you’ve been through before we discharge you. Maybe even more than one, if you feel the need. Who knows? It might make you feel better about everything. And I know it would make me feel a lot better about the thought of letting you out of here so quickly.”
Dana’s stomach lurched. If she didn’t get out of this hospital bed – and today – she knew she’d go crazy.
If she weren’t there already, which no doubt remained a subject of hotly contested debate in some quarters.
Still, she’d considered Spinks’s possible reluctance to discharge her for weeks now, so she was prepared with her answer.
“The FBI requires mandatory psychological counseling whenever an agent undergoes a traumatic event such as the plane crash I was involved in,” she said, regurgitating the spiel that she’d rehearsed mentally ever since first emerging from her coma. “Since the nature of my job involves quite a bit of sensitive information, I really think I’d feel more comfortable speaking with a mental-health professional who’s been approved by the Bureau. Thank you very much for your concern, Doctor – I really appreciate it – but I’m afraid I’ll have to pass.”
Spinks shrugged, but the deep lines etched into his broad forehead let Dana know he wasn’t especially pleased with her answer. Still, he knew that unless he invoked the Baker Act and kept her on a forty-eight-hour psychiatric hold that he didn’t have any real authority in the matter. Dana knew it too.
Clearly, though, Spinks was frustrated with her decision. And then some. Because as her primary attending physician he most likely would have been kept in the loop on some of the juicier details of her story – sort of his “Barney the Orderly” to her Hannibal Lecter. And that represented exactly the kind of information everyone seemed to be dying to know lately. Only there was no quid pro quo involved this time. People wanted things from Dana, sure – they wanted lots of things from her – but nobody seemed to be offering her anything in return.
Spinks finally stretched his tree-trunk neck three inches to the right and let out a deep breath that deflated his muscular chest. Despite his obvious misgivings about the matter, however – whether self-centered or not – to his credit, he recovered quickly.
“Completely understandable, Agent Whitestone,” he said now, and actually did a passable job of sounding like he actually meant it. “Makes sense to me.”
He blew out another slow breath while he finished coming to terms with the fact that his prized patient was holding most of the cards right now since there didn’t seem to be anything wrong with her – physically, at least. “So let’s get those stitches out of you and get you home,” he finished up. “After we figure out a way to get you out of here unseen, of course.”
Relief flooded through Dana’s body. A thousand-pound weight lifted off her shoulders. She didn’t even care that Spinks was getting an obvious kick out of the chance to participate in what he most likely perceived as a high-stakes game of cloak-and-dagger with the press. Let him have his fun. All she cared about was getting the hell out of this hospital bed.
Besides, she knew for a fact that she’d need Spinks’s help to leave the hospital undetected. So what did she care if he went home and told his wife all about his interesting day?
She didn’t.
Still, she knew that the good doctor should probably be a little more careful about what he wished for. Because he just might get it.
Just like she had when she’d joined the Federal Bureau of Investigation.
CHAPTER 19
Many, many years passed before my mother and I finally compiled a list for me to work from.
With one notable addition she knew nothing about, of course.
Following my life-alerting bris when I was thirteen years old, I’d chucked caution entirely to the wind when I’d turned twenty-one and just went the whole nice yards without ever looking back from there.
A complete sex change – complete with perfect silicone breasts featuring my own God-given nipples and the fashioning of a vagina from the skin left over from my brutal castration – completed my stunning transformation. Thanks to Timmy and all the money he’d made with his stupid television commercials – commercials that to this day still brought in residual checks every six months or so – the cost of the operation up in Canada had been surprisingly affordable.
Estrogen treatments had eventually replaced the testosterone shots, making my voice higher and more feminine-sounding in addition to the added bonus of softening my skin, a feature I maintained by applying copious amounts of moisturizing lotion all over my b
ody each night, slathering myself in the stuff until my pores could take no more. For more years than I cared to remember, I’d needed to continue shaving my face and legs every day – twice a day – but the monthly visits to the clinic in downtown Chicago for electrolysis treatments had slowly removed that aggravating inconvenience from my life as well.
And here I was now all these years later: finally a girl on the outside, too – not just on the inside, anymore.
And life was certainly good when you were a girl, wasn’t it?
It sure as heck was. As a matter of fact, life was very good when you were a girl. Especially when you were a girl like me: a self-sufficient, take-no-prisoners sort of gal who could slip effortlessly back and forth between the genders without anyone becoming any the wiser.
Stylish male wigs in a breathtaking variety of colors and Ace bandages wrapped tightly around my newfound bosom allowed me to continue appearing as a man whenever I so chose – not that it was a route I chose to travel very often, mind you. Because being a man was an inconvenience, a pain in the ass, something only to be done when it was absolutely necessary to further my mother’s wonderfully thought-out plans.
My heart singing with joy in my chest, I stare down at the tattered sheet of paper in my hands and read through the names again. The first name on my list has already been checked off. A warm-up act, really. By following the script my mother had provided, I’d brought down the curtains on the insufferable woman and her glittering lifestyle of thoroughly undeserved fame once and for all.
Now with her out of the way, four more names await my undivided attention:
Dinah Leach
Penelope Hargrave
Amber Knightly
Annabeth Preston
Dana Whitestone
I shudder a full-body shudder as I read through the names on my list once more, a cold quiver snaking down the entire length of my spine at the delicious memory of my first kill. A woman out in Atlanta – one of those “real” housewives” who wouldn’t have known the definition of reality had it jumped up and bitten her directly in her big fat ass.
