Weakest Lynx

by Fiona Quinn

  But the initial fumes I had sucked in made the room watery and undulating, melting my muscles and my instincts into useless puddles. My arms dropped ineffectually to my sides. One of his hands trapped me against him as I dangled, unable to hold my weight up with my legs, while his other hand smashed the cloth tightly over my nose.

  Click. Exhale only. Click. Stay awake! Click … Click …

  Fifteen

  I blinked under bright lights. Dave leaned over me. Strain and grief etched themselves into the lines on his face. Turning my aching head to the side, I tried to get some context for this scene—industrial, green tiled walls and a crash cart. Something medical.

  “Oh, my God, Baby Girl, I am so sorry. I am so, so sorry.” Dave collapsed his head onto my bed.

  Huh? “What’s happening?” My words slurred out from behind thick lips. I fought for consciousness.

  “You screamed. We came running. He cut you with a razor. Pistol-whipped you. Lexi, you’re in the hospital.”

  My brows creased painfully together. I struggled to make sense of Dave’s muffled drumbeat words. Coming up with words of my own proved even harder. “I’m okay?” I managed.

  “You’ll be fine, Baby Girl. We’re gonna get the guy who did this to you. All this will be over soon.”

  I sunk beneath the darkness and slept like Rip Van Winkle for days. I was only minutely aware of Dave and the medical staff. Consciousness was ephemeral, though I grabbed at awareness every time it swirled within my grasp. Lying still with my lids closed tightly against the sunlight, I remembered swatches—the white cloth, searing pain, sirens, a doctor explaining that I had a hairline fracture of the skull and swelling in my brain …

  When I opened my eyes, terrible vertigo looped my world like a lasso around me, leaving me panting, nauseated, and confused. So damned confused. If only I had my words, then I could form cogent thoughts. I would understand.

  Mostly I wanted to figure out what was happening to my body. When I was awake, any sudden noise or sight made adrenaline spike through me. The doctors came in to explain this had something to do with my headaches … No. With the fracture … with my brain … it would go away. Oh. Away. A word I could cling to. This feeling of imminent death would go away.

  I was in a hospital. Safe, I told myself. No, those words didn’t resonate. If I were safe, why would my body be telling me, “Run! Fight!” I struggled to get up, to move, to escape.

  “Hush, now, Lexi. You’re experiencing an adrenaline dump. The sensation will pass. Give it a minute. Breathe.”

  Who was coaching me through this pain? How did they know I’d be okay? Medication like blue velvet slid up my arm and pulled me into outer space.

  Half the time, I had Nurse Tina; she had a caring disposition and a sweet voice. The other half, I endured the hard hands of Becky Cranky-Pants. They seemed to do a twelve-hour rotation. Cranky must be done with today’s shift and gone home. Tina walked beside me, supporting me as I wobbled on Jell-O legs to the bathroom, where she helped me clean up. Tina had her hands on my back to steady me while I brushed my teeth, then untied my hospital gown so I could change. I stared into the mirror at my naked stomach. Holy crap!

  The doctors had painstakingly bonded my shredded skin back together where Stalker had razored me from clavicle to hip, but my torso looked like an Etch-a-Sketch in the hands of a five-year-old. The black lines, formed from dried blood and glue, created a city road map drawn on my fair skin. I didn’t recognize myself as the person in the mirror. I couldn’t wrap my mind around the reflection in front of me. I stood there dazed and confused, vaguely aware of Tina talking to me in soothing tones, trying to keep me calm, trying to forestall another one of those damned adrenaline dumps.

  She walked me back to my room; I climbed in bed, and lay as still as possible. The doctors had ordered me to restrict my movements. They warned me, if I pulled at my torso skin, I’d come unglued. Unglued. That was exactly how I felt.

  Outside my door, an officer stood sentinel, guarding me round the clock, limiting access to medical personnel and detectives. This had me curious. Worried. Even with Dave, Stan, and my other friends at the police department, this was over-the-top—what with the budget crunch and all. There must be more to this story. Something they hadn’t told me. No one passed me any information, which frustrated the hell out of me. Why didn’t Dave barge through my door with a victory whoop and announce they caught the guy, and it was all over?

  Dave had come by earlier to tell me the FBI was working the case, and to bring me a cell phone. He said he was the only one who had the number, and he’d contracted the phone under a false name. This confused me. Did Dave think my attacker had the capacity to tap phones? Before I could ask, Dave explained how he planned to call me on this line since the main switchboard was blocking calls in and out of my room. By the time he stopped talking, I had lost my train of thought.

  I did remember his warning to me not to contact anyone but him on this phone, or I would “corrupt its covert integrity.” That was hard. I would really appreciate a friendly voice right now to help keep me calm and distract me from the flashbacks lighting my nerves on fire.

  I slid my clandestine phone under the pillow while Nurse Cranky-Pants did her thing. She seemed much inconvenienced that I fell under her care, especially when we got into a battle over my meds. I agreed to take all of the anti-inflammatories and antibiotics, but I refused anything that would make me fuzzy, sleepy, or unable to think and react. What if I had to protect myself? If somehow Stalker showed up again, I needed all of my faculties to survive. Nurse Cranky-Pants wanted me sedated. I wanted Nurse Cranky-Pants sedated. So there.

  When Cranky finished poking me with her thermometer and pumping my arm up in the pressure cuff, she put meds into a line. I read each vial and approved it, which made her whole body bristle with fury. What the hell was her problem anyway? She gave me one last glower and left. Thank God.

  The phone under my head vibrated. I glanced at the number—Dave. Who else could it be? Pressing send, I put the receiver to my ear. “Hey, there.”

  In response, I heard scraping noises like metal chair legs dragging over a terrazzo floor. Dave didn’t say anything. Maybe someone was standing too close, and he was waiting for privacy. I listened silently. Voices mumbled in the distance. Someone sneezed loudly. A man’s deep voice introduced himself to Dave. The name sounded like Gavin Something-or-other. Did Dave want me to overhear this conversation? Why didn’t he tell me beforehand?

  Dave’s voice drifted out of my phone, asking the guy for identification. “I have to be careful about this. They only told me your name and organization when they sent me down here for the meeting.” He sounded nervous. I imagined him wiping his palms on his thighs before he extended his hand for a handshake. The guy used my formal name, “India Alexis Sobado.” Definitely about me. And I definitely wanted to know what was going on. Thanks, Dave!

  “I understand you’ve got background on the situation,” the Gavin voice said.

  “Shit, yeah. I’m not only lead detective on the India Sobado case, I’m a longtime family friend. This is personal.”

  “Understood. And as a close friend, you’ve been involved from the beginning—is that accurate?” Gavin had the cadence of a man who was used to barking orders. Used to having them obeyed without question.

  “Lexi—we call India ‘Lexi’—brought me this problem two days after she got the first letter. Crap. I had no idea it would get this crazy. She’s a beautiful girl. Innocent. No family. Exactly the kind of girl who would attract unwanted attention. I’ve seen men follow her around. I knew this time she’d picked up a sicko—but … Fuck. Had I any idea we were dealing with a lunatic serial killer … shit.” I never heard Dave cuss like this before, and with a stranger no less. A few expletives itched at my lips, too.

  “She got the first poem, and she brought it right to your attention?”

  “No. The first poem showed up on her wedding day, a Wednesday. The next day
, Thursday, her husband shipped out to Afghanistan. She brought it to me the day after, on a Friday.”

  “She had no idea who sent it?”

  “We had nothing. Nada. Zip. She’s a smart girl—good at puzzling things out. She tried. Lord knows we both did. The letters kept coming in. Twenty-six. They pointed nowhere. Had the other cases been in the system, we would have seen the MO, and I would have intervened. Sealed files, my ass. I need some coffee, you want a mug?”

  “Thanks. Black.”

  The sound of a chair pushing back screeched through my receiver, and the clinking of ceramic. A siren wailed nearby. They must in the conference room up at Police Headquarters.

  “Tell me your role in this. What do you need from me?” Dave asked.

  “The FBI contracted us to provide Mrs. Sobado with a safe house and guard until the perpetrator is apprehended. We’ve also been hired to find the guy and do the capture.”

  “That’s big money. They’re going out of agency to contract on this?” Dave sounded surprised. I was surprised—did the FBI do that for stalkers like mine? Seemed improbable.

  “As you now know, there are six similar cases still unresolved. All of those other victims had connections to various agencies. FBI doesn’t want to feed this guy anything, if he happens to be in-house. We’ve checked your story and alibis, read the witness reports. You’ve been cleared. It’s our task to have limited communication with law and no contact with media until this is wrapped up.”

  “The other women, you said they all had law connections? What do you mean exactly?”

  “The other victims were either the daughters or the wives of law officials. Seems each victim represented a different agency—CIA, FBI, Treasury, and so on.”

  “Lexi isn’t law, so how does she fit the pattern?”

  “Undetermined. Her husband is a Special Forces operator—maybe this guy’s branching out to military now. The last girl was the twenty-eight-year-old daughter of Secret Service leadership.”

  “That’s what happened to Arnold Pauly’s girl? Shit. No wonder there’s plenty of money behind this capture.”

  Keep going, Dave. I wanted this information. Ask him why they sealed the files. Why wasn’t this on the news? A story this big? Surely if Pauly’s daughter had been a target, some journalist would have pounced on it.

  “I guess it makes sense why they’re taking this away from the usual players and bringing you guys in,” Dave mused. “Before the attack, I never heard of the other cases. Six, huh? All East Coast stuff? And no major media? No heads up at the station? Even if the files were sealed.”

  Thank you, Dave.

  “They’re trying to keep these cases quiet for a number of reasons … It wouldn’t help to get a copycat going out there.”

  Dave blew out his breath. “That’s the damn truth.”

  “Let’s start at the beginning. When did Mrs. Sobado get the first poem?”

  “When she was living at the motel, after the apartment fire. February twenty-third, her wedding day,” Dave said.

  “Besides showing the letter to you, what else did she do? How did she react?”

  “She acted normal. She didn’t tell anyone but me she had this going on. I knew all of this wore at her nerves, but she kept going with her life. She took precautions, kept her dogs with her most of the time. Had a good alarm system put in place, you know?” He paused. “She was pragmatic. Didn’t take it lightly. She didn’t let it ruin her life, either.”

  “The alarm was engaged when Mrs. Sobado went out that night?” Gavin asked.

  “Yeah, and reengaged the minute she got home. When we broke in, we set off the alarm system.”

  “That’s curious.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “And besides that, did she take any self-defense courses? Pick up a gun?”

  Dave laughed softly. “Lexi is five-foot-six, hundred and twenty-five pounds, but man, she can take anyone down.”

  “How’s that?” Curiosity laced Gavin’s voice.

  “She studied martial arts with Master Wang, a former officer in the Chinese People’s Liberation Army. She’s damned good.”

  “I understand she trained for the police? Was she thinking about joining the force?”

  “She shoots at the range with Stan and me or one of her other friends. Comes down every once in a while at Christophe’s request. They like to spring her on the new recruits. She reminds them to be humble and respectful—never judge a book by its cover.”

  A machine by my bed beeped, startling me; I steadied my thoughts to try to avert the adrenaline.

  “Lexi’s friendly with lots of the area cops. She’s got a good reputation. Friendly. Kind. She acts real young, soft, girly—it’s like a costume she wears. You’d never guess she’s skilled. My captain tried real hard to recruit her once she reached the age requirement. Command thought she’d be good at undercover.”

  Dave was being uncharacteristically loquacious. He didn’t usually open his kimono like this. Who was this guy chatting Dave up? And what did he have to do with my case?

  “This gets curiouser and curiouser. Do you think her connections with police training helped make her a target?” Gavin asked.

  “Not many people know she has any link with the department other than cop friends, and firing-range staff. The men who’ve gone up against her on the mat aren’t gonna share those stories around. They’re gonna try to live them down.”

  “I understand you two were together at your house prior to the crime,” Gavin said.

  “No,” Dave said, “we were all over at Justin Fowler’s, across the street from Lexi’s. Redskins played Steelers. Lexi brought over a pot of chili. Then she watched the game for a while.”

  “She went home alone?” Gavin asked.

  “Lexi couldn’t sit still. Restless. Stir-crazy. She kept looking out the windows and fidgeting around. Finally, she said she had the heebie-jeebies, and asked us to watch her walk home. Beetle and Bella were at their trainer’s.”

  “These are her dogs, right?”

  My dogs. What would have happened if I hadn’t taken Beetle and Bella to the Millers? Would I be here now? Would they be hurt? Or worse? My heart squeezed. A miscalculation. A huge whopper of a mistake to take them. But damn it, I had played by Stalker’s terms for eight months. This could have gone on for years. Life had to be lived; at least I had to reach for my goal of normalcy. Huh—what was it Mrs. Miller said to me? I was cut from a more colorful cloth? Right now my cloth was colored blood-red and head-trauma blue.

  “Yeah, her dogs. Me and Justin got up and walked her home. When she unlocked the door, she turned off the alarm. We waited around while we heard her turn the locks and the beeps that told us the alarm was back on. Then we went back to Justin’s to finish watching the game.”

  “Do you know if she had a weapon?”

  “Lexi had her Ruger in her hand when she went into her house. I found both her guns on her bedside table after the ambulance left.”

  “Huh.”

  Yeah. That was my thought, too. Would it have made a difference if I had my weapons in the bathroom with me? No. I didn’t think so. Even if the Springfield had been in my hand … When the cloth came up, I would have dropped the gun to reach for the flip—I wouldn’t have shot behind my back.

  “What did your reports tell you about what happened?” Dave asked.

  “They indicate you found her naked, bound, sliced, and pistol whipped.”

  Bound? … Yes, I remembered now. My hands. My ankles. Limbs on fire from lack of blood. The gag … suffocating on my snot. Shit. Stop thinking about it. You’re going to dump adrenaline, and you won’t get this information!

  “Sliced? Shredded is more like it. From what I can figure,” Dave said. “He got to her in the bathroom, before she got into the shower. Her clothes were in the laundry hamper, and the tub felt dry when we put her in to get the vinegar off her cuts.”

  “Go on,” Gavin said.

  “We documente
d the things smashed by the sink—a drinking glass, a perfume bottle … We found a damp rag on the floor. Forensics says it had been saturated in high-grade chloroform.”

  Chloroform. Wait. Chloroform was a controlled substance—not available to the public. Could this guy be a scientist? Academician? How would he get hold of chloroform? He’d need some legitimate channel …

  “Where did you find her?” Gavin broke into my thoughts.

  “The adjoining bedroom, on the floor, bound at the ankles and wrists. No signs of struggle. She was out when he tied her.” Dave’s voice sounded hollow and tight at the recounting. “At some point, she must’ve started to come around. He had gagged her with the tape, wound it around her head a bunch of times. She worked it loose with her tongue—that’s what saved her life. From what we can tell, after he sliced her, the guy poured a bottle of vinegar over her torso, and she screamed. Fucking hell.” Dave’s voice ratcheted up. “That scream’s gonna haunt the shit out of me for the rest of my life—like a goddamned banshee call.”

  “At this point, you were still at Justin’s?” Gavin’s voice sounded counterpoint calm to Dave’s turbulence. My turbulence. Breathe, Lexi.

  “Watching the game. The time between our leaving her and her scream would have been less than forty minutes. When she screamed … I figure that’s when he must’ve hit her with the gun, because her voice ended abruptly. It wasn’t like she ran out of air, or it tapered off. It was midscream, and then nothing. We raced over. The house was locked up. I elbowed the window to break the glass, and the alarm sounded. We can’t figure out how this piece of shit got in or out.”

  Damn! I hoped Dave would have figured at least this much out and could tell me. How did Stalker get in? How did he get in? How in the hell did he get to me?

  “Two of the guys saw him running down the street,” Dave continued. “And chased after him. Mrs. Martini turned on her porch light, and the perp turned to look back, so the guys saw his face and described him to the police. They’re sure they could pick him out of a line up from the tattoo on his face. They worked with a police artist, and Lexi confirmed the rendering. Have you seen it?”