by Fiona Quinn
Maybe Striker would be in command again at the May war, and I’d get to see him. The blush that rose up my face felt like a sunburn as I recalled my huge case of hero-worship and the mad crush I had on Striker. Who wouldn’t? Striker was movie-star handsome with the build and brainpower required to be in Special Ops Forces. He also had the solid unflappability of a Zen master, I remembered as I waited for Mr. Miller’s signal.
Sometimes Mr. Miller liked to test my patience and ability to lay low by leaving me in the mud for long, cold stretches. I tried to channel a little of Striker’s Zen quietude. I was out of practice with my field skills—I bet Mr. Miller was marking my scorecard with all the times I gave away my position.
I slowed my breath and forced my thoughts away from Striker to the itch on my right thigh and poor Bella’s terrible case of gas. The whistle blew. I shot three bullets and ran for the next station—my knees stiff with mud; twigs and debris clinging to my hair—and threw myself under the rocky ledge. My girls wedged in beside me.
On signal, I shot the target with the requisite three bullets and reloaded. I ran up the hill, then down the streambed. My dogs’ little tails waggled furiously. This was pretty great. I grinned broadly as I carefully jumped from rock to rock. As fun as speed trials were, I’d prefer to be practicing Master Wang style. Bummer I couldn’t reveal my technique to Mr. Miller, or he’d know Alex and I were the same person. Boy would that piss Spyder off.
I finished the two-mile sprint to the next nest. Beetle and Bella were in a down-stay behind a pile of rocks while I climbed the rope to the top of the wall, shot, and slid my way back down. Mr. Miller was waiting for me at the bottom with a grin and my scorecard. He handed me a canteen, and I bent to pour the cool water over my neck. Any Stalker stress I drove in with today had worn clean away.
Mr. Miller and I walked toward the house where I sat on the edge of my trunk, pulled off my combat boots and socks, and replaced them with sparkly flip-flops that matched the hot-pink polish on my toenails—back in my fluff-mode disguise. I signaled to Beetle and Bella, and they scrambled into my backseat. I turned to give the Millers a final hug.
With a beep of my horn and a wave out the window, I steered toward our little house. I couldn’t wait to get home. Home. Where I’d be secure with my new, state-of-the-art alarm system. At least that was what I was telling myself.
Besides, how could anyone possibly get at me with Beetle and Bella by my side? With that thought, my skin went inexplicably cold and clammy. Gooseflesh made the little hairs on my arm stand straight up. Any sense of “safe” flew out my open window.
Seven
The tattoo sounding at my front door could only be banged out by one person, but I pushed to my feet and peered through the peephole anyway. Precaution. After pressing the buttons to disengage the alarm, I let Dave in.
“I got your message.” He sauntered past me and dropped onto the couch, the only piece of furniture in my living room.
I returned to my place on the floor, rested my head on Bella’s belly, and stared at my wall. Beetle lolled in a little stream of sunshine on the bare wood, looking peaceful.
“You’ve been busy redecorating,” Dave said. “Interesting choice of wallpaper.”
I had lined the wall with white newsprint from a roll I bought cheap at the salvage shop. The words from each of the poems I received—penned in block letters with a Sharpie—loomed above me. Variances circled in red. The correct verse to the side in blue. I had just finished writing out today’s new addition. I found poem number three, accompanied by a wriggling glob of night crawlers, tucked into my newspaper after my run this morning. Oscar Wilde’s adulterated “Apologia.”
Is this thy will that I should wax and wane,
Barter my soul of gold for hodden gray,
And at thy pleasure weave a web of pain
Whose brightest threads are your screams?
Is this thy will,
That your Soul’s House should be a tortured spot
Wherein, like evil paramours, must dwell
The quenchless flame, and the worm which dieth not?
“Do you want to explain your system?” Dave asked.
“Sure. I circled the word changes, making lists—original words, new words, beginning letters. I was looking for anagrams.”
“And?”
“Nada. Then I thought there might be something in a foreign language, so I ran variations through Google Translator.”
“That sounds like it took some time.” Dave unbuttoned his coat and shoved his wool hat into the pocket.
“Yeah, I’m not sleeping anyway. I might as well keep my brain busy with productive thoughts.”
Dave pulled the throw pillow out from behind his back and tossed it to the other end of the sofa. “I bet you got nothing in the translation direction.”
“Wrong. Turns out Stalker spelled out ‘I am the walrus’ in Swahili.”
Dave shot me a sardonic grin. “Smart aleck.”
I waited while he read the newest poem on the wall.
“The letter was wrapped in my newspaper this morning.” I sat up and clutched my arms around my bent knees. “I asked around. No one in the neighborhood saw anything unusual. Apparently, the only ones awake at dawn were Stalker, the newspaper carrier, and me. And you, of course. How’d the case go?”
“Blood, guts, and shotgun shells. Did you check in with the delivery kid?”
I nodded. “Pete. Twelve-year-old boy from two blocks over. He brought the paper while the girls and I ran in the park. Pete said he hadn’t seen any cars drive by or anybody else up and around, no other joggers, or people heading in to work.” I chewed at my cuticle. “I hate this man coming into the neighborhood. Up to my house. If he has to stalk me, I much prefer he keep his distance, leave the letters on my vehicles while I’m out.”
“Did this one stink like a swamp to you?” Dave asked.
“To be honest, I wish I had a control knob on this psychic stuff. The smell is nauseating and doesn’t go away. I never get a break from thinking about Stalker.”
“So has your antenna picked up anything else over the psychic network?”
I rolled my eyes up in my head. This was why I didn’t like people knowing I had ESP skills. They assumed information was easily dialed up—whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted. Which it wasn’t. Or I’d be playing the lottery every week.
“Dave, you love the ocean. Look around you. Do you see waves and sand? Hear gulls? Can you smell the salt air?”
“Where are you going with this?” He crossed his arms over his chest and cocked his head to the side.
“You’ve got five perfectly good senses, but that doesn’t mean you can conjure something up when you want to.”
“True.” Dave’s voice crackled with phlegm, and he cleared his throat.
“Same here. I can’t just summon up the answers out of thin air with my sixth sense. I get what I get, when I get it. Mostly.” I pushed my hair back behind my ears.
“You located our dog easy enough when she went missing.”
“That was child’s play. Pets are simple. They want to be found. This guy doesn’t. Right now all I get is swamp gas filling my nostrils and this morning …” I pursed my lips as my stomach rolled over.
Dave scooted to the edge of the couch, his elbows on his knees, looking down at me expectantly. “What did you pick up on?”
“Nothing helpful. That’s for darned sure. When I got home, it felt like he contaminated my stairs and porch with a vile disease. I found myself holding my breath as I walked from front door to sidewalk—from sidewalk to front door. I didn’t want to be infected with his contagion.”
“So you Lysoled everything down?”
I offered up a wry smile. “Hadn’t thought of that.” Holding my hand up to the sunlight, my diamond sprinkled rainbows across the floor. “I called Boomer and hired him to come over and secretly install cameras with motion sensors. Maybe I can catch Stalker’s image.”
�
�Make sure Boomer angles two of the lenses to take in the road. We want a license plate. If this is someone you don’t recognize, then having a face won’t help much. We need a name and address, so I can go after him. So that’s all? Swamp gas and cooties?”
“I’ve got Aretha Franklin singing Think on endless loop.”
“Could be worse. Could be Metallica’s Bad Seed.” He stood up. “You got any coffee going?”
“Help yourself. I made a pot this morning when I came back from my visit with Pete.”
Dave moved toward my kitchen. I reached out and scratched under Beetle’s chin. Someone I didn’t know. I feverishly hoped it wasn’t someone I knew; someone who was close to me in any way. In the end, whoever this turned out to be, I didn’t really think Dave or the police could control this guy to the extent I wanted them to. I read the case law; the courts would probably slap a restraining order in place and let him go. Unless he hurt me. I squeezed my eyes tightly shut to block those thoughts.
Once I had a tag on him, I would go to Iniquus. Their covert work fell under a different set of rules; they made sure things got handled thoroughly. I drummed thoughtful fingers on my knees. I’d have to wait. I wouldn’t go to them with my tail tucked between my legs. Cowed. They wouldn’t respect me. I’d reflect badly on Spyder, and I’d never intentionally do that.
Grinding my teeth together, tension radiated across my jaw. Iniquus and Spyder. My only contact with criminal craziness came from playing Nancy Drew for them. Otherwise, I had lived a pretty sheltered life. I should sit down and make a list of cases I had worked for them and the players—see if anyone jumped out at me. Figuratively speaking.
Dave was banging around my kitchen, opening the fridge. I read over this morning’s poem again. It sounded like Stalker thought he could outsmart me. “And let your dull failure at my unveiling …” Normally I’d say, “Give it a go. I’m up to the challenge.” I really wanted to say, “Go to hell. I’m not playing.” So he planned to toy with me for a while. Should that make this better somehow? Hmm. Not so much when he said “tortured.” I didn’t like the word “tortured.” For sure I didn’t want my house to be a “tortured spot.”
Dave came in, sipping from a magenta-pink mug that said, “I know Kung Fu—and like two other Chinese words.” A birthday gift from my sparring partner.
“Hey, I found a pile of repair estimates lying on your kitchen table.” Dave handed me a ceramic smiley-face mug.
“Thanks.” I reached out gratefully then burned my lips on the too-hot coffee with too little milk. “You mean you were snooping through the pile?”
“Occupational hazard. Snooping’s a way of life. So what’s on your priority list?” he asked, hiking up his pants and taking up his habitual spot on the couch.
“The roof’s about to cave, and the inspector said I can’t put it off.” I set my mug aside. “I want to have the whole house fixed and beautiful when Angel gets home, but that’s looking like a pipe dream. I’m going to look for a part-time job to help pay for the contractors.” I frowned. “Adding this to my school schedule won’t leave me much time for DIY stuff. “
“What are you looking for?” Dave asked.
“I don’t know … A barista at Starbucks? Get a gig singing? I was going to look through the help-wanted section today, but I threw my newspaper in Mrs. Nelson’s outdoor bin.”
“Because?”
“It was septic with stalker germs.”
Dave quirked an eyebrow, and I offered a sheepish grin in reply.
“Starbucks doesn’t pay squat. Maybe you should put your skills to use,” he said.
“I don’t have any certifications. I can’t do a stint as a PI, or a locksmith, or anything.”
“Martial arts instruction?”
“No belt ranking.” I absentmindedly popped the elastic hair band on my wrist. “I didn’t train in a Kwoon.”
“Iniquus would hire you in a heartbeat if they knew you were already in the field doing investigations with Spyder McGraw.”
“What is it with you and Iniquus? You want me to tell them about these.” I gestured toward my wall. “Honestly? I think that’s a really bad idea. I don’t want their help with the poems, and I don’t want to work for them.”
“Give Iniquus some more thought, Lexi. Seems like a one-stop shop to solve your problems.”
I scowled by way of reply.
“I have another idea, but you’re going to prefer the Iniquus option better.” Dave slouched down with his mug resting on his knee. He had dark circles under his eyes, and his gaze was a little bleary. I couldn’t blame him; he’d just come off a double shift.
“Okay, I’m listening.”
Dave smirked. “Manny across the street.”
“Hoarder House Manny?” My brow wrinkled.
“Yeah. He’s new to the neighborhood too. Moved in right after Christmas.”
“You’re kidding. How in the hell did he just move in and already there’s crap spewing over his porch and onto the lawn like that? You’d think that kind of mess would take decades to make.”
Beetle plopped against Dave’s leg. Dave reached down to scratch her ears for her, which earned him a face full of wet kisses. Dave screwed his lips to the left so he could answer me without French kissing my dog. “He inherited it from his grandparents already filled.”
“How can he even get in to his place, let alone live there?”
“He doesn’t have much choice.” Beetle lay down, and Dave swiped a flannel sleeve across his face. “His wife kicked him out and moved another guy in.”
“Ouch.”
“Yeah and he’s paying child support and spousal so he hasn’t got a lot left over to set himself up anywhere else. Manny thought he could get his house cleaned up at least enough so the city doesn’t condemn the place, and so the social workers will let his kids come over and visit.”
“How many kids?”
“Two. Boys.”
“If it were me, I’d probably just torch the mess and use the insurance money to start over.” I edged over to the wall, leaned back, and stretched out my legs.
Dave drained his mug. He must have an asbestos tongue.
“Manny tried, but no one will insure him. Fire hazard,” he said.
“I was kidding. Jeez. Can you imagine? Nothing like a little smoke damage to take down our real estate prices another notch.” I tilted my head. “Where is this conversation leading, Dave? And if you say it’s leading toward me cleaning up his catastrophe, the answer is flat-out no.”
“Speaking of real estate prices, do you realize why you got this house for so cheap?” he asked.
“Because it’s falling apart at the seams?”
“Only partly. The other part is—houses don’t sell in this neighborhood because of the hoarder house.”
I tried another sip from my mug. The coffee tasted bitter so I set it aside. “You bought here.”
“I make a cop’s salary. The choice was here or public housing. Anyway, Manny and me was talking, and I told him you grew up bartering stuff.”
“Dave!”
“And I know how expensive it is to put in new systems and all.”
“Dave!”
“He says he can get everything you need easy. Top of the line. Installed. All the warranties and guarantees.”
“How?” My brows knit together. “Is he a contractor?”
“No.” Dave paused before he said, “He plays poker.”
My eyes widened, and my voice went up a full octave. “You’re out of your mind. I’m not doing it.” I pointed emphatically in the direction of hoarder house. “I am not cleaning up a junk mountain in exchange for some guy playing poker for me.”
“Think about it, Lexi. You’d get your house fixed up nice like ‘Metropolitan Home.’ You could keep your own schedule, so it wouldn’t interfere with your classes. And you’d raise the resale value on your house.” Dave was ticking off the pros on his fingers.
“Not to mention yours,” I added
.
Dave winked. “And you’d be out of this house during the day.”
“Yeah, Dave. Across the street. I think Stalker could find me. Why doesn’t Manny clean up his own mess?”
“Come on, if someone wanted to attack you, he’d probably knock ten feet of garbage over on himself. And Manny says he’s tried to clean up since he inherited the place last fall, but it was ingrained since birth—nothing gets thrown out at his grandparents’.” Dave tapped a finger to his head. “He has a mental block. Can’t do it.”
“He needs therapy …” I took a deep breath in and let it go in one big exhale. “I probably need therapy, too, because I seem to be considering this.”
I stood up, walked over to my front window, and looked across the street and down one house at the early twentieth-century standalone. The yellow paint was dim with accumulated pollution and mold, and it seemed to vomit junk out of every orifice. It should definitely star in a Hoarders TV special. No. Too big of a project. Okay, it would make a great setting for a horror flick, Nightmare on Silver Lake. I wouldn’t be too surprised if I found a body or two lost under all the trash. Or some evil creature from the bowels of the Earth.
I turned to watch Dave closely, looking for his body language tells. I always knew when he was bluffing. “He’s really that good? Poker for heating systems?” It sounded stupid when I said it aloud.
“He’s got a reputation.” Dave had twisted around, watching me, too. “No one on the force will play with him. No one can afford to lose that bad.”
“Well the whole thing just makes no damned sense.” I gathered our mugs and walked them to the kitchen, calling over my shoulder, “If he’s so good, he should play for a professional to come take care of his problem.”
Dave waited for me to come back before he answered. “Can’t. If he profits from his wins, he has to declare the gains as income. It ups his support payments, and he can barely feed himself on what he has left over now.”
