THREE TIMES A LADY (12 page)

Dana looked up at the Director and held her boss’s stare.  ‘Yes, sir?’

Krugman smiled.  ‘Don’t let it go to your head, OK?  I don’t need any
prima donnas
making my job any harder than it already is.’

Dana spent the next several days reading and re-reading the articles detailing her life and her career. 

It was absolutely
astounding
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 New York City earlier in the year, they hadn’t missed a single trick. 

Dana sighed, having always cherished what little privacy her job allowed.  They didn’t know
all
the details yet – and hopefully never would – but 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 fucked-up life, including just how close her relationship to the Cleveland Slasher had actually been.  Then again, she guessed that was the price you paid for being the supposed hero in two of the most sensational serial-killer stories of the past twenty-five years.  For being the supposed hero who’d help bring down a trio of the most bloodthirsty killers this side of Jeffrey Dahmer. 

For being the supposed hero who’d 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 shook her head in disgust.  Hopefully, they’d brought along plenty of coffee with them, because she had absolutely
zero
intention of speaking with any of them when she came out.  Or with anyone else either, for that matter.  Let somebody else’s name fill up the newspapers for a little while. 
Her
name needed a break 

Dana sighed again and felt the weight of the world resting on her 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, 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 the horrible events of her life. 

To run away from all the ghosts still chasing her.

A knock at the door mercifully pulled her out of the macabre inventory of deaths she’d caused over the years, either directly or indirectly.  A moment later, Dr Aloysius Spinks entered the room.  ‘Good afternoon, Agent Whitestone,’ he said in his rich baritone, holding her medical chart in his right hand.  ‘How are you feeling today?’

He didn’t wait for Dana’s 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 Dana’s scalp, examining the long row of stitches laced into her skull like a blind man reading Braille.  After a moment or two, he looked down at her and smiled.  ‘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.  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.  Any idea of when I can get out of this place?  I’ve got a serious case of cabin fever going on and I’ve got someone at home who really needs me.’  It was true – 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 pressed her lips together into a tight line.  From the look of things, flimsy paper gowns like the one she was wearing right now was the
only
kind of privacy she could expect in the hospital.  Then again, why in the hell should Fairview General be different from any other place in the world?

‘It’s been hard – no doubt about it – but I’m feeling 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 frowned again, and Dana frowned back at him this time.  From all appearances, though, the doctor didn’t plan to let her get away
that
easily.  ‘We have psychologists on staff here at the hospital,’ Spinks said.  ‘I think that you should probably talk to one of them about what you’ve been through.  Maybe even more than one, if you feel the need.  Who knows?  It might make you feel better about everything.  And I know that it would sure as hell make
me
feel better about the thought of discharging you so quickly.’

Dana’s stomach lurched.  If she didn’t get out of this hospital bed – and
today
– she knew she’d go crazy.  That is, if she weren’t there already, which was undoubtedly still a highly debated subject in some quarters.  Still, she’d considered Spinks’s possible reluctance to discharge her from Fairview General for three long days 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 told Spinks now, regurgitating the spiel she’d rehearsed mentally for the past seventy-two hours now.  ‘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 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 for now.’

Spinks shrugged, but the look on his face let Dana know that 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. 

That being said, it didn’t mean Spinks wasn’t disappointed with her decision.  Far from it, as a matter of fact.  As Dana’s 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.

Dana bit down gently into her lower lip and considered her options.  There weren’t many.  From what the chatty orderly had told her, the national television networks had been lighting up the hospital’s switchboard nonstop for the past three days now – ever since she’d first emerged from her coma.  And in their frantic quest to score the initial interview with her, the local press had turned the hospital’s parking lot into their own personal Holiday Inn.  No one seemed willing to give Dana a chance to catch her breath, to unwind, to
relax
for an hour or two.  Not that it surprised her all that much.  After all, in today’s cutthroat world of 24/7 journalism, even
tomorrow
’s news was yesterday’s news.  The press wanted their interview from Dana and they wanted it from her
now
.  And Dana knew that they wouldn’t let up until they got it from her.  It just wasn’t in their nature.

Spinks stretched his muscular neck six inches to the right and let out a deep breath.  Despite his obvious misgivings about the matter, though – whether self-centered or not – to his credit, he recovered quickly.  Probably because he knew that he’d still be a highly sought-after interview for the next month or two in connection to Dana’s story, which would in turn afford him the opportunity to continue citing medical privacy laws in a solemn voice to the hungry reporters who hung on his every last word like ravenous wolves waiting impatiently for their daily ration of bloody red meat.

‘Completely understandable, Agent Whitestone,’ Spinks said now, and actually did a passable job of sounding like he meant it.  ‘Makes sense to me.’ 

He blew out another slow breath as 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,’ Spinks finished up.  ‘After we figure out a way to get you out of here unseen, of course.’

Relief flooded through Dana’s being.  A thousand-pound weight lifted off her chest.  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 Dana cared about was getting the hell out of this hospital bed. 

Besides, Dana knew for a fact that she’d need Spinks’s help in getting out of the hospital undetected.  So what in the hell did she care if he went home and told his wife all about his interesting day?  Still, she knew that the good doctor should probably be a little more careful about what he wished for.  He just might get it.

Just like Dana had when she’d joined the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

It had taken about a hundred days for Nicholas’s wound to heal fully.  More than three months of walking bowlegged around the house and feeling like an overworked cowboy who’d spent a long day of busting broncos on his isolated ranch out in Wyoming with no one else around to lend a helping hand.  More than three months of not daring to step so much as a high-heeled foot outside the confines of his and Annabeth Preston’s oh-so-peculiar domestic living arrangements.  More than three months of having his mother clean his private parts with a solution of rubbing alcohol mixed with water while he sat on the toilet in front of her with his legs splayed wide. 

The burning sensation Nicholas had felt when the rough cotton cloth made first contact with his horribly blistered skin had been intense – no debating that simple fact – but it had been absolutely
nothing
compared to the searing gratitude he’d felt inside for the kindly woman who’d been kneeling before him. 

A concerned look of concentration had coloured in Annabeth Preston’s gorgeous face as she’d lovingly tended to his injury. 
God, how Nicholas adored her.
  She was his own personal angel of mercy; had showed him unimaginable generosity by giving him life for a second time.  Because, cheesy as it might sound – and even
Nicholas
knew it sounded terribly cheesy – he’d truly been born again, only this time as a woman.  And thank the heavens above for that. 
Lord almighty, thank the heavens above!
  Finally, his outside matched the way he’d always felt deep down on the
inside
, down in that special place between his legs where he’d never felt especially comfortable before.  Finally, he’d found the warmth on the
outside
of his body that he could never seem to find there when he’d been eight years old, no matter how hard he’d looked.

Things weren’t
all
good for him as a woman, though.  Far from it, actually.  Through a lot of trial and error on his part, he’d found out the hard way that women didn’t bitch just to bitch, after all.  And there were
plenty
of obstacles for him to overcome after the system-shocking transition.  As with all newborns – and not so much different from people who’d been temporarily paralysed in horrific car crashes, Nicholas supposed – he’d needed to learn how to do everything again for the first time.  Needed to master control of his strange new shell.  Silly little things like learning how to pee while sitting down and getting used to the uneven trickle that sprinkled forth from between his legs now as opposed to the steady flow of urine that had come from his penis.  Silly little things like learning how to mop up the excess moisture with toilet paper as opposed to the way he’d done it before with a few quick shakes of his sinful, dangling appendage. 

Silly little things that – added altogether – had transformed Nicholas into a living, breathing
lady
.

Home schooling had been the answer to hiding his physical transformation from the school authorities.  Over countless cups of tea, Nicholas and his mother had passed long afternoons learning the same information they taught the other children – the so-called ‘normal’ children – in the public schools.