Weakest Lynx

by Fiona Quinn

  “My coping strategy is to distance myself emotionally,” I said, lacing my fingers and looking directly at Dave. “I’ve been trying to think of this as a case I’m working on, like I’m puzzling something at my old job. He’s always there though, you know? Like a pot simmering on the back of the stove that I can smell cooking. I keep sniffing the air, trying to tell if things are starting to smoke and burn. It’s hard to pretend I’m not involved.”

  “I’m sure it’s impossible. Do you need me to get Victim’s Services to give you a call? They could probably get you in to see someone.”

  “A psychiatrist? No, thanks. I’m not going to take any medications that might slow my mind or my reflexes. I can’t talk my way through this. It’s not over.” I got up and poured my coffee into the sink.

  Dave followed me over with his mug. “Nothing’s on the security tapes?”

  “I don’t have any trained on the garage. I’ll call Boomer today, get that taken care of. Run the alarm back there, too. He thinks I’m out of my mind with all this security.” I leaned a hip into the counter, arms crossed, lips pursed.

  “This sucks,” Dave acknowledged, his eyes flinty.

  I stared at him for full a minute before I responded. “You’re right it does. Okay, let’s think this through, if Stalker came nearby last night, Beetle and Bella would have known it and alerted. The dogs were calm. I didn’t get the heebie-jeebies. This guy must have watched remotely during the whole burn scene—and put the letter in the truck while I was singing at StarLight. I took my car.”

  Dave raised a questioning brow. “Do you always rely on the heebie-jeebies to signal danger?”

  My lips quirked into a lopsided grin. “Yup. I’ve found my heebie-jeebies meter to be a pretty reliable early-warning system and accurate threat sensor. It’s saved my butt on more than one occasion. When I feel the prickle flow up my spine into my scalp, and my legs want to run, I let them.” My smile dropped. “I got nothing and no one last night.”

  “Have you felt the heebie-jeebies when you found any of your letters?”

  “I wasn’t around when he delivered any of the letters. I’ve always been somewhere where I was protected. And for sure he hasn’t been caught on my cameras. He must know they got installed, or he would have slipped up by now. Come on.” I reached for my jacket. “Let’s take a look at Manny’s yard. I want to see the lines of sight for the grill. See if there’s any equipment in place.”

  Dave cast his gaze out the window toward my garage. “I’ll dust for fingerprints when we get back.”

  We trudged to Manny’s backyard and looked around.

  “This grill’s in a bad place to be seen from any kind of distance.” Dave stuck his hands on his hips.

  “What about from across the way?” A sound barrier rose up behind the houses on the south side of Silver Lake Road. It made for a private backyard, and the highway below gave off a low, rumbling white noise. Across the highway, a hill swelled above the other sound barrier wall where a little patch of woods grew. Dave and I climbed into my car with the dogs, and we headed over to the opposite side of the highway.

  When we got to the area, I held the envelope for my girls to sniff then let them out of the car. Noses on the ground, they trotted over to the tree close to Dave and barked—their signal they had a hit. Whoever touched the envelope had stood on this spot long enough to leave a scent mark. With the time lag and the wind from the highway, he must have been there for quite a while or the girls wouldn’t have been able to find that mark. I moved over next to the dogs and inhaled deeply. “Can you smell that, Dave?” I asked.

  He raised his nose in the air and sniffed. “All I get is car exhaust and pine trees. Is this the scent you mentioned ESP-wise the first day you brought me this case that you’re talking about? Do you smell it here?”

  I shrugged by way of answer—I haven’t stopped smelling Stalker’s evil since the first letter slid under my door. But, yes. Here it was worse. Here it smelled … hungry.

  Training my binoculars toward Manny’s grill, I said, “One mystery solved.”

  … And so freaking what? How did this get me any closer to answering the puzzle and getting this nutcase out of my life? We scanned the area for clues—a piece of trash that fell out of his pocket, a shoe print … My girls snuffled the ground. Nothing. Absolutely nothing but the damned putrid smell, and the creepy hair-raising, spine-chilling feeling that came with knowing someone had had me in his sights.

  Standing in Manny’s yard, swathed by the soft air left by the May shower, I took in my little house’s slow transformation from ugly duckling to swan. In the beautiful spring weather, Mrs. Nelson came out to sit on our newly rebuilt porch with her dog, Barney, and wave to the kids on their bikes. She seemed happier when she got out of her house and around other people. Knowing the home repairs were helping Mrs. Nelson gave me a sense of satisfaction—like I was doing something good for her as well as for Angel and me.

  Little by little, I was making real friends in the neighborhood. A few days ago, on their sixth birthday, I made Colin and Fletcher each their own cake: Colin chose an army theme, and Fletcher wanted a fire-breathing-dragon cake. I helped Cathy out at the party by doing some magic tricks for the kids. Balls appeared and disappeared, treats showed up in the kids’ pockets—little yoyos and whistles. The kids were great. They begged for “one more” like my friends in my apartment building had when I was a teen.

  Spyder McGraw taught me to do magic. I learned sleight-of-hand tricks—simple at first then really cool stuff that made mouths gape and my audience yammer for an explanation. I practiced in front of Mom all the time. Magic took her mind off her pain. Dad had me do tricks for his friends at work. They’d slap me on the back and tell me I freaked them out. That made me proud. I got a kick out of freaking people out.

  As I left the birthday party, Colin threw his little arms around my legs. “Thank you so much, Aunt Lexi.” Fletcher followed suit, and soon all the neighborhood kids had glommed on, and were thanking “Aunt Lexi.” So, Aunt Lexi I became. Each child went home with the promise that, yes, I would make them a cake on their birthday, and, yes, I would do magic for them, too.

  I scuffed a foot into the sidewalk and glanced around with a half smile. My new neighborhood was getting more comfortable. I sorely missed the sense of community and belonging I had before the apartment fire. I was miserable as a lone wolf; finding a new place where I fit in and served a purpose was important to me.

  Dave walked down the street; I raised my hand to wave.

  “Huh,” Dave said when he reached me.

  My hair was dyed auburn, ratted for volume, and styled at the ends into long loose curls I let hang over my breasts and down my back. I was spray tanned, wearing my emerald-green contact lenses, and tons of mascara. I was a GI Barbie doll trussed up in a Victoria’s Secret push-up bra under a sparkly moss-colored tank top. Girly-cut camo fatigues showcased my long legs.

  “Well? You recognized me?” I asked.

  “Only by your smile. What’s with this getup? You think you can fool your nut-job?”

  “Ha. I wish. If I thought changing my appearance kept me safer, I would have done this months ago. No, I’m heading to the Millers’ for a few days, and you know how Spyder drummed in his mantra about being incognito and all.”

  “What’s going on at the farm?”

  “Paintball war—Iniquus against Omega.”

  Dave let a low whistle slide between his teeth. “That’ll be a hell of a competition. I wouldn’t mind heading up with you. Too bad I’m on the clock.” Dave’s hands moved to his hips, his eyes travelling down to my boots. He pursed his lips like he’d swallowed rotten milk. “At least that explains this outfit.”

  Uncle Dave was displeased. Oh, well.

  I was going up to the farm to make a point for Mr. Miller. He wanted his potential clients to think I was fluff? Well, here was my bunny-goes-to-war getup. I meant to earn Beetle and Bella’s scent training by making those Ini
quus boys think that obstacle course was a cakewalk, then I’d sit back and watch them try. It was wrong of me to feel so satisfied with myself. What the hell—this was going to be fun.

  Sadly, the fun and games would have to wait. “Speaking of nut-jobs, I found a new poem to go in my file.” We moved toward my house.

  “This one happened while you were at the movies?” he asked, holding the screen while I unlocked the door.

  I went in and plopped on the couch. “Just more of the same.” I reached behind me to shift my 9mm so it didn’t stab me in the back. “I think getting out of here for a few days might be good for me. Breathe a little.” I pulled my legs up and hugged my knees while Dave read the poem. He held the letter under the light with his arm straight out—he didn’t have his reading glasses with him.

  “I tried hiding in New York,” I said. “That was a failure, but I can’t imagine being any safer than hanging out at the Millers’ surrounded by the Iniquus men.”

  “Unless this somehow ties back to Spyder.” Dave turned his focus to me. “I still think you need to talk to their Command.”

  I ignored him. “Any pings from the list I gave you?”

  “I’ve crossed off a bunch of names. What can you tell me about Mason Pile?”

  I played with a curl. “I can’t tell you anything about anyone on the list. You don’t have clearance. I’ve probably broken five hundred laws handing you the names in the first place. And you’ve probably broken a few by accepting the list and running searches.” I glared at him pointedly. “Don’t get in trouble because of me.”

  “I can handle myself. I have no idea where the list came from anyways. Showed up in my personal e-mail one day with the message, ‘This information might help in the India Sobado case.’” He checked the screen on his phone, sent a quick text, then stuck it back on his belt. “So one of the names, this Mason Pile guy, popped up with a long history, including domestic violence and rape.”

  “I’m aware.”

  “He didn’t raise any flags with you?” Dave asked.

  “Not really.” I slid my hands up my thighs and gripped my kneecaps. “I think he’s been a busy boy, too busy to spend time stalking me. I honestly can’t see how this poetry shit could be tied into Iniquus since no one knew about me. Not the company. Not the clients. Certainly not our tags. The people on the list? How would they link back to me?”

  Dave scratched at his neck. “So why’d you break five hundred laws to give me those names?”

  “Because no one knew me, but they knew Spyder. And there is the thin possibility someone with a grudge against Spyder followed him to me. I have no idea who could be on Spyder’s list. It’s got to be a mile long, but at least this was a start.”

  Dave nodded.

  “So nothing,” I said.

  “Nothing worth pursuing. I’ll keep working on it. In the meantime, Lexi.” Dave looked at me pointedly. “I want you to go to Iniquus.”

  I sat there soberly for a minute weighing the possibility, then shook my head. “No. I’d just be some chicklet showing up with a sob story and Spyder’s name. I’m no one to them; they don’t know me from Adam.”

  “You mean they don’t know you from Alex?”

  “Shhh!” My hand shot out, and I grabbed Dave’s arm above his latex gloves. “Don’t say that out loud—ever! And no, they don’t. I’m sorry you found out—no one should know what Spyder called me.” When Dave winced, I realized I was digging my nails into his skin. I rubbed over the spot with my palm as if to erase the injury. “The Millers will be calling me by my formal maiden name, India Rueben, while I’m up there.”

  “India—like the ink? Rueben—like the painter?” he asked. It was an old family joke, but there was no mirth in his voice.

  “No. India—like the country. Rueben—like the sandwich,” I replied.

  Dave’s face was stony. “Surely, when you’re out at the Millers’ the Iniquus team will figure it out.”

  “I’m not in the war. I’m running the obstacle course to show off what the dogs can do.”

  Dave looked back at the letter. “You know this one?” He moved to the kitchen; I heard a drawer bang shut. I waited for him to come back in the room and watched as he picked up the dead rose and dropped it in a brown paper bag.

  “Nope. I’m sure I’ll find it when I do a search tonight. It’s not very original, or very difficult, to open a book of love poems and change a few words around. The dried-up rose is sort of obligatory—predictable—lacks innovation for a stalker. It might make me wonder about the intellectual capacity of this guy.” My voice sounded reasonable and thoughtful, but my mind crackled with disdain and contempt for this loathsome fungus. “On the one hand, he acts kind of uninspired. No, not the word I want. Unimaginative? Low intelligence? Though typically stalkers have higher than normal IQs. On the other hand … He found me in New York. I still can’t figure out how he did that other than his having some kind of tracking device on my vehicles. That would explain a lot … I’ve looked, but I don’t have access to the kind of technology that could find it.” I struggled to keep my voice detached and professionally thoughtful, but I was so over this!

  I felt like my eyes could burn holes through asbestos, like I could kill Stalker with my bare hands around his throat. I itched to get my hands around his throat. I hated that anyone would make me feel this way—make me want to mirror his crazy.

  Dave edged away from me, giving my emotions enough physical space to brew. “I’ll call around—see if I can figure out someone who could look over your vehicles. My department doesn’t have the tech to do that.” Dave stilled as he deliberated. “He’s damned smart for sure. We’ve got nothing on him.”

  “Nothing,” I repeated, defeat inching into my voice. “Ten letters. Three months. No leads. And nothing else is happening, except the addition of the flowers and those worms from back before I had my cameras. I guess the most concerning thing so far is that he broke into the garage and the truck without any signs of forced entry.”

  “I’m glad you’ve got the alarm system in place.” Dave scrubbed a hand over his face and leaned into the doorjamb.

  “Miriam Laugherty says this is his idea of foreplay.”

  “You know her?” Dave pulled his brows together, his voice bright with surprise. After a pause, “Foreplay, huh? When did you go talk to her?” He worked his jaw back and forth.

  “Right after New York. She didn’t have anything concrete to tell me, or I would have shared it with you.”

  “And you? You haven’t picked up on any vibes?” Dave asked with an expression I couldn’t make out.

  “Only what I’ve told you.”

  Dave yanked off his gloves and threw them in the bin. Holding up the two bags, he said, “I’m going to go run these through forensics. Maybe we’ll get lucky, and we’ll pull his prints or DNA, some kind of trail to follow. Lexi, even if there is—to be honest? Getting someone prosecuted for this is gonna be tough. I’m not saying I won’t try my best. I’m saying it’ll be a tricky job.”

  I bit the inside of my cheek. Yeah well, I had my own plans once the guy was IDed.

  Dave left. As he thumped down my front stairs, he called back, “Give me a holler as soon as you get back. Show ’em what you’re made of, Baby Girl.”

  “Always.”

  I drove north toward the Millers’. My girls hung their heads out the back windows, tongues lolling in the wind. I had borrowed my friend Mike’s car since he was going to Florida on vacation. At the mall, I parked at one entrance, walked through the stores—the dogs wore their Search and Rescue vests to give them access—and out another entrance to where Mike had parked his car. So, unless Stalker had some mad Miriamlike skills, he shouldn’t be able to find me.

  Twelve

  A heavy, brooding sky hung above me. I hoped for a big, old-fashioned, booming thunderstorm. Manny stood in the middle of the road, stroking his thumb over his chin, staring at my house.

  “Hey,” I called from my p
orch. “What’s up? You look upset.” I slept in this morning, loathe to plunk myself squarely back into my reality. I had stayed late at the Millers’, well past the last man leaving the obstacle-course run. My weekend adventure had been awesome not only because of the freedom from Stalker worries, but also because the Millers’ home was clean and neat and had nothing to do with renovations and rotting mouse carcasses hidden in Hoarder House boxes.

  “I need a stripper,” Manny called back. “I thought they’d have a stripper last night, but no. You know how hard it is to find a stripper? Hard. I’ve had everyone trying to find one for months now, and finally we have a live one, and she don’t show.”

  I walked down my steps to stand near him. “Manny, perhaps you shouldn’t yell about strippers in the middle of the neighborhood. The children aren’t on the bus yet.”

  “What?” He threw back his head with a full-throated laugh. “No,” he sputtered. “Not the girl who takes off her clothes. The girl who comes to get your crappola wallpaper off your walls.”

  “Oh! A paper stripper. Yeah, we really need that kind. So what happened when she didn’t show? Did you just go home?”

  “I played anyway. Some nerd from the suburbs showed up dressed like a mob wannabe. I couldn’t walk away from such an easy mark.”

  “And?”

  “We finally threw him out. Stupid crybaby. But I got a job off him first.”

  “Doing what?” I asked.

  “Chimneys. He owes a lot of money, too. He’s gonna come in and clean the chimneys, repoint them, reline them, and put in gas logs with blowers. He’s gonna do you, Mrs. Nelson, Justin, and me.”

  “You?” My voice squeaked out two octaves too high.

  “Yeah.” He quirked a confused brow, picking up a piece of my hair and staring at the ends.

  “Manny!” I smacked his hand away. I needed to go back to my natural blond. I couldn’t pull off being redheaded with my pale skin. “I spent a whole day steam cleaning your carpets and furniture. The curtains are done!” Messing up my rags-to-riches house didn’t upset me. My living room and dining room were still in the trashed stages, and I could easily get them straightened up. But I didn’t want to do Manny’s downstairs again.