Weakest Lynx

by Fiona Quinn

  I wiped sweaty palms down the sides of my jeans. “Out of my freaking mind.”

  “Good—then you’ll be careful. Have you considered this might have something to do with your work?”

  “Past work. Spyder’s gone.”

  “Still …” Dave pinched his lower lip between his thumb and index finger.

  “Of course it has,” I said. “I’ve been chewing over every possible scenario. I can’t figure out what to do with that one.” Exasperation made my voice scale upward as I spoke.

  Dave thrust a staccato finger at me. “Talk to Iniquus Command.”

  “No. Let it go.” I didn’t want to fight this fight with Dave. No one at Iniquus had a clue about me. Spyder and I had been so careful. Even our targets … I never went into the field as “Lexi.” I was always in disguise. No one should have been able to recognize me or make a connection. And if they had … Why would they be sending me these fucked-up poems?

  At the motel, I sat down with my laptop and a copy of the letter. Running a search on the poem line by line was scraping at my already-raw nerves. Apparently, the stalker changed enough of the words that even Google was confused. Entering “Love Song for Alexis” didn’t give me anything useful. But when I put in “A Song for Alex,” I found an original poem written by Maggie Waller. Alex. Coincidence? Or did this person know Dad called me Alex? Spyder did, too. I chewed on the end of my pen, staring out the window into darkness. Was I wrong not to go talk to Iniquus?

  After logging out, I took a shower to try to wash away the miasma clinging to my thoughts. Weird how I was getting an ESP impression through a putrid scent this time. I didn’t ever remember that happening before. Visuals, yes. And auditory. Occasionally something sensate like the oozing, oily crap I felt when I got the first envelope. I searched back in my memory. Maybe I had picked up a scent before, and I just didn’t notice because it smelled normal and not like the bottom of a swamp.

  I wished I’d have another “knowing.” A better one than the nursery rhyme in New York. Ha! Wouldn’t it be great if I woke up one morning with an address in my head? I could send the police to Stalker’s door to tell him—or her—to cut it the hell out! Obscenities—the lowest form of communication, according to Mom. But they felt so good right now. My thoughts were like one long stream of expletives. Dropping my terrycloth robe to the floor, I slid under the covers and into a restless sleep.

  The sun shot through the crack in my curtains before I expected it. I felt sluggish and achy, depressed to be waking up in yet another motel. So much for my wonderful plans to crawl out of my own bed this morning, put on a pot of coffee, read the newspaper on the porch …

  My cell phone buzzed; an unknown number popped up on the screen. I checked the clock—six fifty. Apprehension prickled my skin, making me hesitate before I put the phone to my ear.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, Baby Girl, I’m over at your house with Boomer.”

  Dave. He must be using Boomer’s phone. “This early?”

  “He wants to go over the system he drew up for you. He’s putting off his other jobs to get this done. Can you get over here?”

  I rubbed my face and threw back my covers. “I’m on my way. Tell him thanks.”

  I didn’t bother with a shower, just brushed my teeth, pulled a comb through my tangles, and jerked yesterday’s coral turtleneck over my head. On my way over to the house, I swung into Dunkin’ Donuts drive-through and got a dozen doughnuts and three coffees.

  When I pulled up, a massive, burly biker-type guy stood next to Dave on the sidewalk. They smiled when they saw my hands full of breakfast.

  Dave reached for the drink carrier. “Not in the truck today?”

  “I’m picking up Beetle and Bella. Not enough room in the pickup for such a long drive.” I took a welcome sip from my pumpkin spice latte.

  Dave nodded and made the introductions.

  “Glad you’re here, Boomer, thanks for bumping my project to the front of the line,” I said.

  “Dave said your husband’s in Afghanistan, and you’re afraid to stay alone.” Boomer’s gaze slid down to my feet then back up to my face. “I can understand that—little girly like you.”

  I slit my eyes at Dave. He gave me a shrug in return.

  “Dave wants you fitted with state of the art,” Boomer said. “But you’re renovating?”

  “Right. So I’ll need to move the system as I upgrade my doors and windows.”

  “Got it. This is what I come up with.” Boomer tapped his pen on the clipboard.

  We moved around the first floor. I tried to focus as Boomer waxed poetic about the alarm system, complete with door and window sensors, motion detectors, and a two-way communication system. I swear, if the alarm were a girl, Boomer would be making out with her right now. Weird.

  They’d change my locks on the doors and install peepholes, dead bolts, and window locks. It looked good to me—safe—and safe was the only thing that counted.

  “A few questions—Can you put motion-sensor lights on the front and back porch in protective cages? How long until the system is up and running? And what kind of cost are we talking here?”

  “No problem with the lights. We’ll put them on timers for you. We can start installation this morning and be done by dinner. You can say bye-bye to the motel.” He gave me a macho smile—yeah, whatever, Boomer.

  “This is the price.” He circled the total on his clipboard—the knife-wielding skeleton tattooed on his forearm danced as his hand moved. “Dave here’s calling in a favor, so it’s the system itself you’re paying for. Labor is gratis.”

  “Gratis?” I raised my eyebrows in surprise and sent a questioning look over to Dave, who offered up a conspiratorial wink.

  After I signed the contract and wrote out a check, Boomer got on the phone to his office to get the parts brought over. Dave walked me to my car where I gave him a hug.

  “That was nice of you. I don’t know what favor you called in, but it’s appreciated.”

  “Oh, this isn’t an act of kindness, Baby Girl. You owe me big, and I’m planning on collecting, too.” He wore a satisfied grin.

  “Yeah? How exactly am I paying off this debt?” I squinted past the early morning sun at him.

  “Food. I’m planning on eating lots and lots of your good cooking. Hey, but don’t tell Cathy I said that. If she gets offended, it’s spaghetti for a week.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and sent a sheepish glance toward his house.

  With a finger wave, I motored off, heading to the highway exit where I turned north toward Millers’ Kennel. My puppies lived there their whole lives. Actually, they were nearly a year and a half now. I shouldn’t call them puppies anymore. They were beautiful black Doberman pinschers—a gift from Spyder. Hmm, more like a reward for a job well done.

  On my eighteenth birthday, Spyder said he had a task he needed help completing. The prize, he said, was pick of the litter when the Millers’ breeding bitch, Dagger, dropped her pups.

  “This is a safe job?” I was nervous, chewing on my nails.

  He pulled my hand from my mouth. “I wouldn’t ask you to do it if I thought you were in danger, Lexicon. But that doesn’t mean be complacent. You must use your brain.”

  “Who am I’m doing this job for … ?” I didn’t really expect an answer since Spyder worked classified contracts.

  “A branch of the US government,” he replied.

  Spyder wanted me to use my sleight-of-hand skills. The job was to slip a transmitter into the pocket of a mark named Tandesco, one of the executives at Tangelsmeere Corp. That day, I dressed in a suit, bumped into the guy on the elevator, and won my prize; Spyder bought Beetle and Bella for me.

  My babies stayed at the kennel while they trained as work dogs, well operative-support dogs. Now that I wasn’t going to be an operative any more, I’d just use their skills for sport and for volunteering with the Search and Rescue crew.

  I was supposed to have picked them up over a month ago, but
with the fire and the motel policies, I had to put it off until there was somewhere to bring them home to.

  The trip out into the country took a little over an hour. My frequent visits meant I could drive on autopilot. Thinking stalker thoughts. Thinking. Thinking. Spyder would have tapped me on the head and said, “Come. You must use your brain, Lexicon.” I’m afraid he’d hear a hollow sound when he did. I was empty of ideas.

  Six

  When I arrived at the training ground, Mr. Miller trudged across the field toward me with my girls at his heels. I climbed out of the car and sucked in a lungful of pine-filled air. Beetle and Bella stayed at Mr. Miller’s side but were squirming and whining with excitement. Mr. Miller chuckled and released them. The girls bounded over, whole bodies wagging. Ah, bliss. I rubbed their onyx fur until they calmed down.

  “Hey.” I greeted Mr. Miller with a smile as he ambled up on his long, thin legs.

  He pulled me into a hug, “Congratulations, Baby Girl. New home. New husband. Proud of you.” He patted my back. “Come on up to the house. Judy wants to see you. She’s got Spyder’s dogs with her.”

  “You hear anything from him?” I asked with as much nonchalance as I could muster.

  “I was about to ask you the same. We get a check for his dogs’ care regular, but it’s from an accountant’s office. We’ve got nothing from the man himself.”

  Bella pushed her head under my hand, and I scratched her ears. “How are my babies doing? They give you any trouble?”

  “They’re running the obstacle courses beautifully—working on flanking out on the shooting range. Good on enemy take-downs. You need to bring them in from time to time, so we can keep their work skills up, especially scent work.”

  “Okay.” I nodded. “I can do that.”

  “They still got some maturing to do.” Mr. Miller’s hands moved to his pockets. “You’ll notice a big difference in the next six months to a year.”

  I paused and shielded my eyes to scan the field toward the agility course. “You have anything planned for this spring?”

  Mr. Miller stopped beside me. “We’re doing a paintball war. Iniquus against Omega.”

  “Wow. That’ll be spectacular. I want to play.” I squinted up at him.

  “I’ll also have some prospective clients coming in for the weekend to watch the obstacle courses.”

  “When’s this?” We moved over the uneven ground toward the house, again.

  “Last week of May. I need you to do the demo with Spyder’s pair and then with yours. It comes off different when you’re on the circuit. The guys figure if a little piece of fluff can do it, they sure as hell can.”

  “Now I’m a little piece of fluff?”

  “You’re as fierce as they come, Lexi, but a guy sees you, he’s not got his mind on war games. He’s thinking date night.”

  “Hmm.” I stopped.

  Mr. Miller glanced back at me. “Now don’t start putting your hand on your hip with me, young lady. I got enough of that from my own house.” He pointed at the figure peering out at us from behind the glass door. “I don’t need you adding to the women’s lib crap. You know I respect the hell out of your talent. But I’m gonna call it the way I see it. The way I see it is their thinking you’re a piece of fluff is always a winning situation for you. And that’s the way Spyder wants it. Right?”

  I pursed my lips.

  Up at the house, a plump, gray-headed woman swung open the door. Her soft, comfortable body encouraged hugging.

  “Oh, Lexi, look at you!” She stretched out her hands to gather me in then pushed me out to arm’s length. “I can’t believe Spyder’s little girl is a woman, and all married.”

  Mrs. Miller clucked and fussed as she pulled me into the kitchen and over to a chair at the table. “Perfect timing for an early lunch. I cooked up a nice Brunswick stew, and I’m putting some in this here Tupperware for you to take home with you.”

  The three of us sat down at the round table. Big white pottery bowls steamed with Mrs. Miller’s hearty stew. Fresh bread and apple butter rested on the cobalt-blue tablecloth.

  “So, sweetie, I want you to tell me everything. Who are you partnered with while Spyder’s off-grid?” Mrs. Miller unfolded her napkin and laid it in her lap.

  “No one, ma’am. I’m out of the business.” I ladled some stew into my bowl.

  The Millers looked at each other for a minute then back to me “Out altogether?” Mr. Miller pulled at his ear lobe as he locked disbelieving eyes on me. “You’re not on anyone’s payroll?”

  “You have to remember,” I said, taking a sip of water. “I worked directly for Spyder. He’s the one who made the contacts. With him gone, I don’t have anyone handing me cases.”

  “Surely someone else wants to put your skills to good use.” Mrs. Miller clunked her spoon down.

  “No, ma’am. I’m not in the market for a new partner. I decided to focus on school. There’s only one more semester left before I finish at the community college then I’ll apply to a four-year and see where that takes me. Maybe I’ll stay home and be a mom.”

  “Hard to believe, Lexi. What made you come to that decision?” Mrs. Miller considered me through squinty eyes, like she couldn’t quite make me out.

  “I thought choosing a normal kind of life would be better for me in the long run. You know, hearth and home, raising children—no, I’m not pregnant.” Both of the Millers had settled their gaze on my stomach.

  “Average?” Mr. Miller asked. Then, they burst out laughing.

  “What? WHAT? Why are you making fun of me?”

  “Because water will always find level, sweet girl.” Mr. Miller spooned up more stew.

  I blushed. “I don’t understand.”

  Mrs. Miller smiled, “Oh, honey, you’ve never led a typical life, you don’t know how to lead a typical life. Your life was cut out of a more colorful fabric.”

  I twisted my fingers fretfully in my lap.

  “Why, Lexi, look at what happens when you try to be average,” she continued. “You marry a man you’ve known for three weeks—met him when your apartment caught fire, didn’t you? Come on now, who does that?”

  She meant it kindly, but as tightly wound as I was, it felt like an attack. My eyes hardened, and I puckered my lips to keep defensive words from jumping out of my mouth.

  “You get one night of honeymoon, and he’s off to war for a year or more. You buy a house, but it’s not an average house. It’s going to take above-average work to even make it livable.”

  She wasn’t stopping, was she? Couldn’t she tell she was ticking me off? That this hurt? Besides this was absolutely none of her business.

  “You’re just not an average person, Lexi.” Mrs. Miller reached over and patted my hand.

  “Maybe not, but I’m going to give it a shot anyway.” I’d made my decision. I wanted to get on with my life. My new life. I didn’t want Iniquus and crime puzzles to take up any of my brain space—at least not until Spyder got back home.

  “Okay,” Mr. Miller joggled his spoon at me. “Even though you say you’re out of the business …”

  “I am!” I punctuated my conviction by pounding a fist into my thigh.

  Mr. Miller raised a single brow at me—I couldn’t tell if it was from surprise or a warning to watch my manners. “You’re still going to keep the pups’ training up, right?” He tilted a questioning head to the side. “And you’ll help out from time to time on the adventure side of our business?”

  I glanced down at Beetle and Bella lying at my feet. They seemed so peaceful with their heads resting on their paws and their lids drooping half-mast. “I’ll barter with you,” I said. “I want to teach Beetle and Bella some cadaver scent skills for my Search and Rescue team at the Rescue Squad.”

  “Deal. Now if you’re done with your lunch, let’s get the dogs out. Run them through some trials.” At the door, he looked around at me. “You have your gun loaded?”

  I took my dogs to the starting line. Mr. M
iller held his binoculars and a pad of paper, ready to take notes on where I could improve my run-through times.

  When the whistle sounded, I raced forward and dove under a bush, waiting for my next signal to move. A bright pink paintball pellet caught my eye. I reached out my hand, and wondered if this was mine from two years ago when I fought my first paintball war here on the Millers’ farm.

  I was eighteen, and Spyder had arranged for me to take his place on the Iniquus team. Iniquus was pretty secretive. At the time, I only had a vague understanding of what his job actually entailed. I still only have a vague idea, I thought, tossing the paintball back under the bush

  Mr. Miller blew his whistle, telling me to move to my next target. I signaled a shift to the right, and my dogs inched forward soundlessly, I aimed my Springfield 9mm and shot a bulls-eye on the practice dummy.

  The dogs and I ran full-out up the hill and rolled into place at the next sniper’s nest.

  In the first paintball war, I’d been showing Master Wang’s stealth technique called “shadow walking” to Spyder. It was a much more graceful and skillful method than the one I was using now.

  That day, I found myself out in the woods, prowling in my soft-soled shoes like a tiger in the jungle, Master Wang style. I became a shadow. Keeping the sun behind me, I concentrated on being one with my environment. When the enemy appeared, I nailed him full-torso with my hot pink paintball, slipping silently, seamlessly, into the brush so they couldn’t track me.

  Back then, I dressed in gray—baggy cargo pants, loose T-shirt, knit cap, sunglasses, and an enormous sweatshirt with the hood up, hiding the sides of my face—no one knew I had girly curves. Laying here in the mud with Beetle panting by my ear, I remembered how the Iniquus men had looked me over and discounted me right away. Took me for a little twerp. Didn’t even make room for me in their huddle as they discussed strategy. I had glanced over at Spyder, and he gave me a grin. Their disinterest wouldn’t last long.

  The team had handed me the only paint color left. Hot pink. Some of the men laughed and slapped me on the back, making sardonic remarks. Not Striker, the team lead. He seemed concerned that not having Spyder running would leave them one man down and put them at a disadvantage, but he didn’t give me shit like the others.