THREE TIMES A LADY (32 page)

The house itself was weather-beaten in the extreme, light blue in colour and had a charming, laid-back feel to it.  A metal seahorse featuring an elaborate curly tail adorned the face of the structure next to the front door.

The mere
sight
of it made Nicholas’s heart leap for joy inside his chest.  This was everything he could have asked for and more.  He’d come down to the pristine white sands of Florida’s Gulf Coast to lure the greatest hunter of his kind back to her job and into the final chapter of his decidedly deadly little game. 

Much like Joe DiMaggio had Ted Williams and Muhammad Ali had Joe Frazier, Dana Whitestone represented the very worthy foil Nicholas needed to drive him to the top of his art form.  She’d lost her taste for fighting temporarily – thanks in large part to
him
– but Nicholas had something up his sleeve to re-inspire the woman, to re-whet her appetite for chasing killers.

An electric shiver tickled his spine as he drank in the tableau before him like a newborn baby surveying its strange new world for the first time.  Everything from the beach-cruiser bicycle parked out front to the black bikini that had been draped over the wooden porch slats to dry in the hot morning sun.

Dana Whitestone’s bikini
, Nicholas thought – an article of clothing that had caressed the most intimate parts of her luscious body.  Just like
he
’d soon caress the most intimate parts of her luscious body.

For three mornings in a row now, Nicholas had watched her leave her beach house at the exact same time, following her daily ritual of getting buzzed at one of the tiny beach town’s seaside bars before taking a jog to sober up, waving to her temporary neighbors as though they were lifelong friends as she left.  Still, the former FBI agent would find it very difficult to wave to people when her hands had been chopped off.  But not just her hands.  The more delicate bits of her, too.  The delicate bits that not even her bikini could hide from Nicholas’s view for ever.

As if on cue, a moment later, the front door across the street opened up and Dana Whitestone descended the wooden stairs with her short blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail.  Nicholas glanced down at his
Mickey Mouse
watch and smiled.  Eleven-thirty a.m.  Right on time.  Some masterful investigator
she
was.  She didn’t even know enough to vary her daily routine.  Another rookie mistake on her part for which she’d soon pay dearly.

Nicholas’s stomach flipped over inside his gut as he ran his gaze admiringly over the woman’s well-toned body.  Her vacation had been treating her well, that much seemed clear. 
Very
well.  Her milky white skin had glazed into a warm golden brown, and her silky blonde hair looked longer and fairer than it ever had before.  Nicholas shivered.  Had he still been a man possessing all the requisite equipment, his khaki shorts would have strained against his zipper as she stretched her elegant calf muscles against the stairs and rolled her slender neck on her soft shoulders.  And why not?  She looked absolutely
delicious
.

Thirty seconds later, the former FBI agent began her run, waving to a young couple who was pushing a baby stroller in front of them before disappearing around a bend in the street.  The most popular kid in class; that was Dana Whitestone all right. The prettiest girl in town.  The queen of the fucking prom.

And
he
had a date with her.

Nicholas turned away from the window and put on his game-face.  The end was finally upon them now; the third act finally at hand.  And this last act would be an absolute
doozy
.

Heart slamming in his chest, Nicholas exited his own house precisely three minutes after Dana Whitestone had left hers.  Glancing up and down the street to make sure that no one was watching him, he shuffled across the street with his head down.  Being a stranger in this neighbourhood was of no real concern – hell,
everyone
was a stranger here – but there was no point in pushing his luck any more than he absolutely needed to.

Slipping around the back of Dana Whitestone’s vacation house several moments later, he ascended the rickety wooden staircase that was shielded by the high landscaping rising up on both sides of her vacation residence before pulling back the unlocked sliding glass door to the lanai and stepping inside.

He was inside the cunt’s lair!

Inside the former FBI agent’s bedroom thirty seconds later, Nicholas fished out a pair of Dana Whitestone’s lacy, boy-cut panties from the dirty laundry hamper and pressed the crotch to his nose.  They were still moist.  Inhaling deeply, he swooned, the scent sweeter to him than that of a dozen fragrant roses.

The sweet smell of success.

There was nothing sexual about this action, of course.  Not in any technical sense, at least.  Still, Nicholas knew that if he could get this close to the vaunted man-hunter in the middle of the day he could get this close to her anytime he damn well pleased.  And he would be this close to her again very soon. 

Just as close as two human beings could possibly get.

Dana Whitestone’s vacation house felt light and airy, featuring hardwood floors that were covered with a light dusting of sand and very little furniture.  An homage to the minimalist movement, perhaps, or maybe just easier for the landlord to maintain the place that way.  Either way, it seemed like a nice place to just kick back and relax.  A place where you could let all your earthly worries slip off your shoulders and just fade away.  A
safe
place. 

Or so Dana Whitestone had probably thought when she’d rented it. 

How painfully wrong she’d been.

There were no large windows in the front of the structure, so no one on the street could see Nicholas as he snooped around.  Good thing for them, too.  Because if someone had found themselves with a wandering eye, he’d have happily plucked it out for them with his trusty knife.  The steel had been tempered in blood now, and with each passing murder Nicholas was finding progressively easier to take another person’s life.  Hell, it had even begun to seem
fun
to him now.

And he was just getting warmed up.

Whistling REO Speedwagon’s
Keep on Lovin’ You
softly beneath his breath, Nicholas opened up Dana Whitestone’s dresser drawers and touched her things, rubbing his fingertips over her personal belonging and soaking in her energy.  Ten feet away, her clothes stared out at him 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 had been neatly made, just as Nicholas had known it would be.  Dana Whitestone had always been something of a neat freak, hadn’t she?  Had always liked everything in her life to fit into a neat little box.  And from the look of things, she still retained those particular idiosyncrasies, even though she was back on the sauce now.  Still, being a drunk didn’t mean that you also needed to be a slob.  Dana Whitestone was proof positive of that much. 

Shivering hard despite the heavy, almost
oppressive
warmth in the room, Nicholas allowed himself to enjoy all the many feelings that were rushing through his veins.  Anticipation.  Joy. 
Revenge.

Opening up Dana Whitestone’s purse, he counted out the bills inside her wallet.  Eighty-one dollars.  Then he took out her driver’s license and examined her vital statistics with great interest. 

Born 20 September 1972, she was thirty-nine years old now, a Virgo in the prime of her life.  And good thing, too.  She remained young and healthy enough to prove the worthy foil Nicholas needed to drive him to the very top of his game, even if it was her remarkable brain that had always marked her greatest strength.

Placing Dana Whitestone’s wallet back into her purse, Nicholas then returned to the bathroom from which he’d stolen her panties a moment earlier.  Leaning down, he ran his hand over the toilet seat where she did her dirty business.  They
all
did their dirty business in the privacy of their own homes, didn’t they?  Where they thought they were all alone and no one else in the world could see them. 

Once again, how painfully wrong she’d been.

On his way out of the house, Nicholas stopped in each one of the rooms, planting small listening devices throughout.  Some went behind furniture, others in potted plants.  With the end game upon them now, it was absolutely vital that he tracked Dana Whitestone movements at all times.  Just like his mother had always tracked his.  That was
key
if everything was to go according to plan from here on out.

Finally exiting the quaint beach house five minutes later, Nicholas shuffled across the street with his head down again, completely confident in the knowledge not even the best investigator in the world could tell he’d been in the former FBI agent’s house.  And thank God for that, too.  Because Dana Whitestone
was
one of the best investigators in the world.  Maybe even
the
best.  Still, she had her own special little gifts, and Nicholas had his.  To say the least, it should make for a very interesting match-up when the time finally came for the last act of the play to commence.

Back in his own bedroom two minutes later, Nicholas flopped down on his bed and lifted the pilfered panties to his face again.  Breathing in Dana Whitestone’s intoxicating scent once more, in his mind he made love to her for the first time, though certainly not for the last.

As he’d expected, she proved to be a
wonderful
lover.

Using both hands, Bill Krugman shielded his eyes from the bright Florida sunlight that was pounding down from the cloudless blue skies above. 

Exotic-looking seabirds squawked high in the air overhead as he pressed his nose against the glass and tried to get a good look inside Dana Whitestone’s vacation house, tunneling his vision with his palms and fogging up the window with his breath.

Krugman could just make out a sparsely furnished living room that had been decorated with two wicker armchairs, a rattan settee and the kinds of oil paintings you might find at a neighborhood rummage sale 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 deep in the pit of her stomach.  The man known to everyone in the FBI simply by his title of ‘the Director’ didn’t come by to pay former agents a personal visit for no good reason.  That couldn’t be good news for Dana 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.

Sweating like a pig by the time she’d finally turned up the driveway thirty seconds later, Dana blinked hard against the salty rivers of perspiration sliding down her forehead and into her eyes, stinging her retinas and blurring her vision.

For the most part, Indian Bayou was a quiet street that housed mostly seasonal residents – people who’d saved a year or more just to afford the high rental prices.  The clientele for these winter getaways ran the gamut of humanity.  Many were retirees fleeing the cold back home in Michigan or Ohio or Pennsylvania – Rust Belt states where the sun only shined three or four months out of the year.  But there were also some younger couples there, as well.  These people were in their late thirties or early forties who were embarking upon their first real vacations with their small children in tow – sawed-off, freckle-faced little tots who invariably clutched plastic buckets and shovels in their tiny hands to facilitate the digging of elaborate trenches in the sugary-fine sand of Fort Myers Beach.

The gravel-lined driveway crunched beneath Dana’s rubber-soled Nikes, causing Bill Krugman to turn around and smile down at her from the landing.  ‘Dana,’ he said warmly, not looking in the least bit embarrassed by the fact 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 as he straightened the crisp white sleeves of his dress shirt, pulling them into sight from beneath the arms of his lightweight, flawlessly tailoured blue suit.  Dana wasn’t at all surprised to see the Director’s 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.

Dana nodded a hello up at her former boss, squinting against the irritating drops of sweat searing her eyes.  ‘Hello, sir,’ she said.  ‘How is Marie doing?’

Krugman beamed.  ‘Picture of health, I’m proud to say.  Not a single trace of cancer left.’ 

Dana smiled.  And why not?  She was genuinely happy to hear the news.  ‘Thank God,’ she said, meaning it from the bottom of her heart.  ‘I’m so happy to hear that.’   Dana paused, knowing the Director hadn’t traveled all the way down to Florida just to deliver a personal update on his wife’s medical condition.  There had to be something else.  Clearing her throat, she asked, ‘So, sir, to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?’