by Fiona Quinn
“I promise.” I hung up and set my phone back on the dresser.
Tired didn’t even start to describe the hollowness in my bones. I couldn’t remember ever being this kind of exhausted. The stress of the day had completely wiped me out. I checked the locks on my door, slipped out of my clothes, and let them drop to the floor. After pulling an extralarge T-shirt over my head, I climbed under the covers and fell instantly into an aerobic and strenuous sleep.
I ran through the sandstorm, choking on the dust-caked scarf I had wrapped around my face. My gun was jammed with tiny particles of silica, and I let it dangle ineffectually from my back as I fought my way up yet another dune. Gripping serrated knives in each hand, I used them to dig in and pull up. The heat and the smell of charred flesh filled my nostrils and made them burn.
I jerked reflexively as a bomb blew up a truck on the road below. The move made me lose my footing. I rolled down into the enemy encampment, where they sprang on me.
“Angel!” I screamed and thrashed to escape. I woke up knotted in the sheets, my damp hair plastered against my cheeks, panting for breath. Sunlight shot through my window, and I forced myself up and away from the desperation that clung to me.
Climbing off the bed, I scooped my hair off my prickling neck and made my way into the bathroom. It was so small I had to stand in the tub to shut the door. As I turned on the water, I started a mental list of the things I needed to do. Things that were completely unrelated to worrying about Angel or protecting myself from the stalker. Spyder taught me that a predator wanted to disrupt his victim’s life, keeping them in a state of fear. Life disrupted? Check. Living in a state of fear? Well, I’d work hard at distracting myself. I’d finish my calculus assignment, go to the gym—burn off some stress, perhaps I’d grab lunch downstairs.
The stream of hot water soothed my nerves. I reached for the minibar of hotel soap. It was safe here, I rationalized. Safer than a motel in DC anyway. Yeah, but sooner or later, I was going to have to go home and deal. I massaged the lather over my stomach.
White bones, dry veins, and melted skin. Holy hell. Who writes shit like that?
Suddenly, the world tilted. I stretched out my hands to brace myself against the white tiles. Words illuminated my consciousness with vibrant colors and dizzying oscillations. It was a psychic “knowing.” And a doozy, too. I crouched down in the tub and tried to breathe past the angst.
“Knowings” came to me frequently since I was a little girl but were mostly bits of useless banality—Dave likes ice cream or Cathy has a cold. Sometimes they acted as harbingers—the ice storm will last three days. Today’s “knowing” flashed a red warning sign.
Ring-a-ring of rosies. A pocket full of poesies. Hush! Hush! Hush! Hush! You fall down!
I wrapped up in a towel and flung myself across the bed. How to interpret this information? Okay first—not good. I pinched my nose closed and stared at the ceiling, trying to breathe deeply through my mouth, working hard at not freaking the hell out.
Think like Spyder’s operative holding a new puzzling clue. Let’s say Spyder came in with a new case and handed this to me. What would I tell him?
Anomalies. I’d start there. Hush! Hush! Hush! Hush! I’ve read something before … yes, in an antique children’s anthology—that phrase was used, but not common. Hmmm. I didn’t know what to do with it. Silenced, maybe? That no one would hear me if I needed help? I jumped up to pace. A pocket full of poesies. This was clearer. Not the customary “posies” like a bouquet of flowers. “Poesies”—from old French or Latin, meaning poems. And of course, the poem shoved under my door on my wedding day was Robert Burns’ A Red, Red Rose. That could explain the first line, Ring-a-ring of rosies. I would guess the Burns adulteration was going to be the first of many poems.
Then, You fall down. Not, “They all fall down.” This was a warning specific to me. I gripped my towel tightly to me. And fought to breathe.
Dressed in sweats, I sat cross-legged on the bed and stared vacantly out my window. Storm clouds gathered. I was trying hard to act like this was just a normal day. Keeping my mind on calculus homework wasn’t working out very well though.
A crisp knock on my door drew my attention and reanimated me. I looked at the clock radio. Ten on the dot.
Must be housekeeping.
Ring-a-ring of rosies … sang a childlike voice in my head as I walked cautiously toward the door.
Squinting through the peephole, I saw a liveried man holding a funeral wreath composed of deep red roses in his white-gloved hands. Ring-a-ring of rosies … Ah, so the first phrase was a literal freaking interpretation.
I inched open the door but left the security chain in place and cleared my throat. “May I help you?”
“Flower delivery for a Miss India Alexis Sobado, ma’am.”
My formal name. “Just the card, please,” I stammered.
He looked at me quizzically, then plucked the tiny envelope from the clear plastic stem and handed it to me through the chained door.
You see, my love,
Words have no power to impress the mind,
Without the exquisite horror of their reality.
My mouth fell open. An electrical buzz from the shock of the note numbed my brain. The man shifted his weight between his feet.
“Where did these come from?” I finally managed.
“A florist dropped them with the valet, madam.”
“Thank you, I don’t want them.”
The man glanced down at the flowers and then down the hallway; he seemed confused about what to do. I dug a couple of dollars from my pocket and pushed them through the small crack allowed by the chain. Shutting the door quietly, I slid to the floor and hugged my knees tightly.
How did he find me? My mind searched the possibilities. All the scenarios I’d studied under Spyder’s tutelage. All of the cases we had worked together for his job at Iniquus (the private government support group that ignored red tape, and sometimes even the law, to get the bad guys threatening American security).
When I decided to stop working as Spyder’s private operative—realizing the Nancy Drew life wasn’t for me—I hadn’t ever imagined I’d have these kinds of thoughts again. My operative’s hat was one I had pulled off and stuffed in the back drawer after Mom died, and Spyder went off-grid. But here I was, digging through my chest of tricks and trade secrets, looking for an answer. I had checked my car as best I could for tracking devices at the truck stop. He couldn’t have accessed my phone or computer could he? Read my credit card report from when I charged this room? I kept coming up empty-handed. I had no explanation.
I moved over to my laptop and typed the words from the florist’s card into Google. Up popped a site for Edgar Allen Poe—the father of creepy crap. Figures.
Leaning over, I grabbed the room phone and dialed security. I didn’t want to take any chances. Less than a minute later, a knock sounded at my door. The guy standing in front of my peephole held his security badge up by his cheek, and was pretty darned cute, in a boyish-charming kind of way. Even better? No roses.
“Mrs. Sobado? I’m Mr. Channing with hotel security. What can I do for you today?” he asked.
After a quick explanation, I handed him the card. “I need to know who sent those flowers.”
“I’ll do my best to figure it out for you.” The guy’s eyes glowed with excitement. I knew that look. That was me when Spyder handed over a new assignment. I deeply missed Spyder, and for a split second, I missed my old life—the thrill that travelled up my spine as I started a new crime puzzle. I shook my head to clear away those wayward thoughts and gave the security guy my cell number. The hell if I was hanging out here waiting for answers.
As soon as he left, I threw my few belongings back into my suitcase and called down to the front desk to get my bill and my car ready. New York and its obscurity didn’t give me a sense of protection anymore. I needed to get back to DC where I knew people. There, someone would care if I suddenly went missing.
“What? What happened?” Tension tightened Dave’s words.
It occurred to me that talking about this over the phone was a bad idea. “I’m headed home. I’ll tell you in person.”
“Are you safe?” Dave was shouting now.
“Safe? No, not even a little …”
Five
369 Silver Lake Road—my new address. I liked the roundness of the numbers and that they all lined up in multiples of three. I read somewhere that three in Hebrew represented limitless light, creation, and overcoming evil. Today’s date was also in multiples of three—the Ides of March when Julius Caesar was attacked by his buddy Brutus. I sucked in extra air. Did I know the stalker? Was this a supposed friend ready to stab me in the back, literally? I tried to shake off the sense of foreboding.
The day had turned out to be chilly, gray, and dreary. As I drove down the street, cranking my car heater, I decided neither the date nor the weather was going to be an omen for my new life here.
The lawyers met me over at Mrs. Nelson’s since she only left her house for doctors’ appointments. We had to sign a million papers. But when Mrs. Nelson handed me the key, “awesome” didn’t even begin to explain how I felt.
I didn’t have much to move. There were three boxes of Angel’s belongings. My two boxes held my parents’ journals and our photo albums—the only things I had time to grab as I ran from the burning apartment building into the freezing January night. After taking in a laundry basket filled with my new clothes, I stood in the middle of the living room, hugging myself in a moment of pure joy. I was a homeowner. I glanced around. Okay, it was an empty home, but Angel and I owned it—weeds, mold, cracked ceilings, and all.
I stood beside Angel’s truck outside of the Furniture Barn near my old apartment. I had picked up some cheap essentials—a bed, kitchen table, and sofa. My plan was to hand them over to charity before Angel came back. I hoped to get everything fixed, decorated, and perfect for his homecoming.
The men loaded the make-do-quality furniture into my truck while I daydreamed about the really nice things I wanted to get, eventually, when I settled on my color scheme and the windows would shut all the way. Now that I thought about it, I wasn’t sure about Angel’s taste in decorating. Ours was such a whirlwind romance with such a short period between hello and good-bye … Well, there was a lot I needed to learn about him. When he got back to his base, I’d have to work at completing some of the blanks.
My next stop was Walmart for linens, towels, and basic kitchen and cleaning supplies. I piled my goodies into the bed of the truck, filling crevices and pockets left by the furniture boxes. Tonight was going to be my very first night in the first house of my life. A grin stretched across my face and made my cheeks ache.
I circled the front fender and glimpsed the cream-colored envelope tucked under the windshield. Fury roiled through me. I grabbed the door handle. With trembling hands, I took out the first-aid kit and pulled on a pair of latex gloves.
When I worked with Spyder—us against the bad guy—I felt in control. Happy, even. Dealing with the bad guy coming after me … not so freaking happy. I grabbed the letter up, climbed in the cab, and jammed the key into the ignition. A paranormal stench assailed my nostrils. The oily ooze of something dangerous. I breathed shallowly through pursed lips and swung my head around. Was someone watching me?
I gunned the engine on Angel’s black F-250. Its big macho bravado gave me the sense of a protective tank. My hand juddered on the gearshift as I backed out, revving the motor to show my disdain. I was furious this day was shot to hell, just like my wedding day. How could I extract my revenge when I found this guy? Hanging him upside down from the Brooklyn Bridge came to mind.
At the red light, I took a deep steadying breath and called over to Dave’s house; his wife, Cathy, answered the phone. My tongue tripped cheerfully over my “hello, how are yous.” Years of Spyder McGraw training made playacting easy. No one should know about my issues but Dave and me. Not even Cathy. As Spyder said—not only is more not the merrier—sometimes “more” could be deadly. No one could know about my skill sets and connections. For safety’ sake, I needed people to think of me as the sweet little girl next-door without a care in the world. I wanted everyone to underestimate me. That was all fine—as long as I didn’t overestimate me and think I had a handle on something clearly outside my comfort zone.
My fluffy-bunny charade continued through chatter about the house and new marriage until I finally asked for Dave.
“He’s not home yet, but I expect him any minute now,” Cathy said.
“I was hoping he’d help me get some furniture into my place.”
“Not a problem. Why don’t you come here? We’re having an early supper, and I bet you haven’t turned your fridge on yet. Dave can scrounge up a few guys from the neighborhood, and they’ll give you a hand.”
Thirty minutes later, I parked in front of the Murphys’ home. I cast my gaze over to the envelope laying on the seat beside me. I didn’t want to read the letter out here. Truth be told, I didn’t want to read it at all. Using the gloves to protect any fingerprints Stalker might have left, I put the envelope in a baggie in my purse. I flipped the mirror down to make sure I had some color on my face and slapped on a make-believe smile.
Fletcher and Colin, the Murphys’ five-year-old twins, greeted me at the door. They got their auburn-red hair and dusting of freckles from their mom. They looked like all-American kids in their jeans and superhero T-shirts. I walked in, and they went from curious about who came to visit, to wrestling in the middle of the floor in five seconds flat. They giggled and squirmed as Cathy tried to separate them and send them upstairs to wash up for dinner.
“Dave beat you in.” Cathy raised her voice over the din. “He’s changing his clothes. Make yourself comfortable, and I’ll go turn the heat off of the stove.”
As she turned, Dave called from the stair, “Hey, neighbor.” When he saw my face, his enthusiasm evaporated. He dropped his voice. “What’s up?”
I glanced toward the kitchen then whispered, “The creeper left me another note.”
“You read it yet?”
“Thought we could do that together.”
“Yup.” He called back to the kitchen, “Hey, honey, I need a minute to talk over a police matter with Lexi—you wanna go ahead with dinner?”
Cathy came in, wiping her hands on a dishtowel; she corralled the boys to her as they stomped and jumped their way down the stairs.
Dave pulled a pair of gloves from his desk drawer, and I handed him the bag. After digging a Swiss Army knife from his front jeans pocket, he slit the envelope across the top.
A Song for Alexis
My monkey-wrench girl is my sweet compulsion;
the love of my life, from youth to quickened death.
Your heart belongs to ME and to ME only;
the pain of your flesh is yours and bears my rage …
Bile slicked up the back of my throat, making me gag.
Dave fixed on the letter, skimming over the words again. “You recognize this?” His focus moved sharply to my face. “Is this another poem he’s messed around with? Or do you think it’s original?” Dave put the stationary back in the plastic bag.
Nothing specific popped into my mind like the Burn’s poem did. I shrugged. “Look, I was driving Angel’s truck today, and I drove my car in New York City. He doesn’t seem to have a problem following me—no matter what I drive or where I go. He’s smart. Hotel security said someone paid a courier cash to take the flower order—also paid in cash—to the florist for the roses …” I drummed nervous fingers on my knees. “Shit. If I had to get a loony, why couldn’t he be a stupid one?” I leaned my head back onto the couch and released a huff of air. “He must know I closed on the house. The first letter crapped up my wedding, and this one sure as hell drained all the happy out of my closing day
.” I paused, focusing on the blue braided rug. “Who knew I was closing though? I didn’t tell anyone. Only you. Mrs. Nelson … The lawyer.” I let my gaze raise up to Dave. He was reading over the letter, his eyes stormy.
“Do you think it’s a coincidence this one starts ‘My monkey-wrench girl?’” he asked.
“Could be someone I know—someone from my past, maybe from Dad’s garage.” My mind scanned for other possibilities. “Or someone who was watching me at the motel. Angel’s truck didn’t pass inspection. He and I were working on it out in the parking lot.” I sighed, twisting my wedding rings back and forth. The rings held Angel-juju; I needed some of that right now. “There’s always the possibility it’s a random poem the nutter picked, and it happened to have significance to me.”
Dave nodded. “So, what’s the plan?”
“First, I’ll mooch dinner off you. Then, I’m going to ask for your help getting the furniture inside my house. I’ll stay at a motel again tonight. Tomorrow, I need to go get my puppies at the kennel, put new locks everywhere, and call for an emergency alarm system to go in.” I ticked these off on my fingers. “Other than that, what would you suggest?”
“In general? Those are good plans. About the alarm system? I know a guy. I’ll give him a call and get you hooked up.”
Of course, Dave knew a guy. “Please don’t tell him what’s going on. I want this to stay between us, okay?”
“You’re probably right about keeping this quiet. Go on back and get yourself a plate fixed up, and I’ll get in touch with Boomer.”
I took a step toward the kitchen then turned back to find Dave’s focus honed laser sharp on me. “Do you think you can get hold of the tapes from the Walmart surveillance cameras?” I asked. “I’d like to have something concrete to work with. Maybe this guy isn’t even a guy. Maybe we could get a vehicle, or better a plate, to trace.”
“I’ll make a call.” Dave tipped his head back, making his chin jut forward. “You scared?”
