Weakest Lynx

by Fiona Quinn

  “Why don’t you let Randy take care of that this morning?” he asked.

  “Thanks.” I laid my cheek on the cool surface of the polished wood. Striker glanced down at my feet with a grin. “Nice bunny slippers.”

  I lifted my foot with the huge pink ears and googly eyes. “Mmm. I think Axel was having some fun.” I wondered if Axel knew how appropriate these were. I’d use them as visual reminders that I was mindfully practicing being a fluffy, adrenaline-free bunny.

  Deep and Jack showed up at seven, everyone gathered for breakfast. Randy brought me a cup of Orange Zinger tea. There were scrambled eggs and salsa to wrap in whole-wheat tortillas. A fruit salad of berries, kiwi, and papaya filled a bowl on the table. It all tasted good, fresh, and wholesome. After the green Jell-O hospital diet, I was ravenous.

  I caught Striker’s eye. “Did the guys find the flash drive last night?”

  “Right where you said it would be.” He smiled back at me.

  “Do I win a prize?”

  That brought up a flicker of a memory. Striker stared hard at me; I could see him flipping through his mental files. How did I know how he got his call name? How did I know he was a SEAL? How did I know he drank peppermint tea after dinner? Where had he heard a voice saying a similar phrase? He was coming up with nothing. He shook his head. “Do you know me?”

  “How would I know you?” I used a Spyder technique. If you answer a question with a deflecting question or statement, you didn’t have to give an actual answer.

  “Detective Murphy said you were psychic, and I think I’m beginning to believe him. Yes, you’ve won yourself a prize.” He reached into the buffet and pulled out my laptop.

  I clapped my hands. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

  “You already know we can’t allow you to have an internet connection—I’ve disabled your computer. But I thought there might be something on here to help pass the time.”

  “Yes. I have some papers to write for school, and when I’m done with that, I’m working on a project about my Kitchen Grandmothers.”

  “Okay, I’ll bite. What’s a Kitchen Grandmother?” Striker asked, lacing his fingers behind his head.

  “These six beautiful older women lived in my apartment building during my teens. They took me under their wings at the end of my mom’s terminal illness. Each grandmother came from a different culture, and they shared their families, their talents, and their recipes with me. I was surrounded with so much kindness and so much wisdom; I really wanted to capture that somewhere. You know, my favorite recipes and their stories. Maybe I can turn it into a book someday.”

  “Now I understand what you meant yesterday when you said you cook Mediterranean on Monday.”

  “Yes, Jadda taught me on Mondays. ‘Jadda’ means grandmother in Turkish. She’s married to a Moroccan man.”

  “Then I’ll look forward to dinner tonight. Randy’s your watchdog.” Striker stood and stretched, his muscles flexing under his Iniquus compression shirt. “It can get pretty boring here in the house. Let me know if you to think of anything we can bring in to help you stay occupied. Make a list. Don’t worry about inconveniencing us. If you’re busy, the confinement is easier on everyone. Cabin fever is never pretty.”

  I nodded. “Axel brought me some nail stuff. I think I’ll give myself a manicure this morning and cook, if that’s all right.”

  “If you make a list of ingredients you want on hand, we’ll make sure to get those for you. I’ll call in before I come back to see if you need me to bring anything for dinner tonight.”

  The other men were in the kitchen cleaning up. I leaned over to Striker. “Hey,” I whispered, “last night when I hit the ground, I was only wearing the button-down shirt. Did anyone, you know, see anything?” I blushed so hard the roots of my hair prickled.

  Striker suppressed a smile. “The shirt was pretty big.”

  Well, that wasn’t an answer!

  I spent the morning giving myself a thorough and careful manicure and pedicure with Sally Hansen’s pink metallic polish. The TV played nothing in particular. I focused on not focusing, not letting my mind meander down dark alleys. So far, so good. But I was starting to get bored.

  Once Randy finished up on the computer, he sat in front of the box Axel brought in this morning. He unloaded the contents: a huge photo album, mail, a checkbook, a passport, and a cell phone.

  I walked over to peek at the pile. “What’s this stuff for?” I asked nonchalantly.

  “We have a missing suspect. This is our goody trail to find him.” Randy seemed a little disheartened.

  “It’s not much.” I wanted him to feed me some more information. This puzzle was a much more enticing way to pass the time, a thousand percent better than manicures and TV shows.

  Randy rifled through the stack. “I hope it’s enough.” He picked up the photo album and flipped through while I leaned over his shoulder. It seemed like a normal family album documenting good times with friends. He put it down and started in on the mail. I wondered if he’d let me look through the stuff, too? How could I ask and just seem bored and curious? Since Randy was actively working with the contents, I decided to bide my time. I wandered into the kitchen to figure out what to do for dinner.

  I had my head stuck in the freezer and called over, “Hey, Randy, do we have a grill out back? Can we do kabobs?”

  “No, ma’am. No one can see us here, but the smell might attract attention. We like to play it low profile when possible at the safe houses.”

  I pulled my head back out with a sigh. I went to the pantry, hoping for inspiration and was surprised to find a jar of grape leaves. After hunting through the other ingredients, I decided on lentils with roasted vegetables, aromatic couscous, and grape leaves stuffed with spiced meat. I took the ground beef out to defrost in a bowl of hot water.

  After a lunch of falafels, tabbouleh, and hummus, I studied the books on the bookshelf. I stared out the windows. I considered doing my manicure again with a different color. What I really wanted to do was exercise. I sighed. If only the Stalk … NOPE. Not going there. Fluffy bunny, nonscary thoughts only. I wandered over to the table and asked Randy if he’d mind my taking a look at the photo album.

  “Help yourself.” He pushed it over to me.

  Sitting on the sofa, I did a quick scan from front to back to get a sense of the timeline, and then I started from the back to the front to try to pick up clues.

  When Mom taught me how to draw as a little girl, she would encourage me to try to reproduce images from magazines and art books. In order to train my eye to take in the line and the detail of the shape and not try to draw a whole image at once, she would turn the image upside down, and I had to try to draw it as I saw it. I could only turn it right-side up when I thought I was done.

  I applied this technique to some of the puzzles Spyder had given to me, too. Often, I’d pick up on the clue that cracked the mystery when I wasn’t looking at the situation straight on. Sort of like gazing at stars through a telescope. Sometimes, if I shifted my eye’s focus slightly to the side of a star, I could see a star’s color and form more clearly. I had a feeling if I were to glean something from these photos, the “upside down” or “soft focus” techniques were probably the ones that would work.

  That’s curious. I squinted at the last picture in the album. Moving over to the little desk, sitting near the bookshelves, I pulled out the magnifying glass I had seen earlier and reexamined the photo through the lens. Very curious.

  Flipping the pages back and forth, putting my ideas together, hours passed, though it seemed mere minutes. I was pretty darned excited about what I thought I was seeing.

  The clock on the wall behind Randy read four; I shuffled my bunny feet into the kitchen to put dinner together, making quick work of it. As soon as everything was ready and warming in the oven, I was headed back to the couch to triple-check those photos, when my peripheral vision caught a flash of color heading toward the porch. I made out a man’s g
reen windbreaker—that wasn’t an Iniquus uniform! My heartbeat took off at a sprint. I forgot all about Randy as adrenaline flash-flooded my body. The next thing I realized, I was crouched behind the kitchen counter with a gun in my hand, sweating and swearing. Peeking around the corner, I watched Randy standing at the window with his cell phone in his hand.

  “Striker, we have a situation, sir. A guy is outside on the porch trying to get in … Yes, sir. I would like to, sir, but Lexi has my gun and belt in the kitchen … Yes, sir, locked and loaded … Sir, she sounds like she’s in a lot of pain, like last night. She’s not responding to my directives. It’s probably not the best idea for me to go around and relieve her of the weapon right now.”

  Time passed. Striker called from the garage. “Lexi, we’ve secured the perimeter. We’re coming into the house. When the door opens, it will be Jack and me. We’re coming to help you.” By this point, the sweating had passed, and I was on to the shivering part of the cycle. Striker needn’t worry that I’d shoot him; I couldn’t hold the gun steady enough to aim.

  Striker came into the kitchen crouched low and slow. He stared at me until I held his eye contact. Gradually, he reached out his hand, took the gun from me, and passed it back to Jack.

  Striker laid me down on the floor and replayed last night’s ministrations. He used warm water to dab away the salt.

  “Thank you, so much.” My voice sounded like a jackhammer as my words stuttered past my chattering teeth. Randy held a blanket open to wrap around me. He helped Striker lift me over to the couch, where, once again, I shook and sobbed against Striker’s broad shoulder. His arms wrapped supportively around me. I blew my nose and wiped my eyes on the tissues Striker handed me. My eyelids sank shut, as I listened to the murmur of conversation between Randy and Striker.

  “Who’s got the guy?” Randy asked.

  “Gater and Axel,” Striker said.

  “What he want?”

  “Drunk and lost. He thought this might’ve been his house, but the key wasn’t working for him.” Jack snorted.

  “And now?” Randy asked.

  “Gater and Axel are tucking him into his bed—they have an address from his wallet. They wanted to make sure his vehicle ended up in the right driveway. Now, more interesting, how did Lexi get hold of your gun?” Striker reached over to pull the blanket up around my shoulders.

  “Shit, sir, I’m not sure. My gun belt sat beside me on the table. Lexi was on the other side of the living room, standing over there, and then something moved near me. I turned to see what was happening, and Lexi dove for the kitchen and pulled the gun from the holster lightning fast. She crouched down there.” Randy pointed over to the kitchen. “Peeking around at the front door. I slid around the outside of the room to stay out of her range. When I got to the window, I saw the guy in the green jacket. At that point, I guessed Lexi was dumping adrenaline. That’s when I called you.”

  “Sorry.” I yawned. “Instinct.”

  “No. Training. I can’t imagine anyone ever getting a gun away from Randy. You must have had a pretty good teacher,” Striker said.

  “Stan, my dad’s friend at the police department, Master Wang from the dry cleaner.” I’d just keep mum about Spyder McGraw.

  Twenty-One

  Striker crouched beside me, carefully picking up a strand of hair caught in my stitches. I blinked my eyes open. Banging and clattering in the kitchen punctuated the low conversation between the men.

  “Hey, are you up to dinner?” Striker asked.

  I pulled myself to sitting. “It’s all in the oven. I need to get the fruit and tea together.” I felt like I’d been performing in the center ring of a circus all day. It took just that one misstep to tumble me down from my high-wire act. Thankfully, I had an Iniquus safety net under me; I watched my team moving easily around.

  “The guys will take care of everything. Come on, let’s get some food in you.” Striker placed a steadying hand under my arm, walked me to the dining room, pulled out my chair, and tucked me under the table. Two chairs sat empty when everyone had gathered round; I did a quick inventory.

  “Where are Deep and Blaze?” I asked.

  “They’re finishing up a capture. We’re working overtime to get our cases cleared up so we can concentrate on you.” Striker wiped his mouth.

  Focus on capturing Stalker. I blinked as I struggled to push away the horrific thoughts bombarding my brain space. I shoved them back into the recesses of my gray matter and slammed a barricade into place. I would not think about my case. Not yet. One adrenaline dump was enough for the day. I concentrated on chewing and swallowing. Mundane. Banal. Pedestrian thoughts. What was on TV? What should I cook tomorrow? Was I ready for another manicure?

  We ate with little conversation, until Striker considered Randy speculatively. “It was a quiet day until the excitement?”

  “Nothing to report, sir,” Randy replied.

  “Did you make progress on our man?”

  “I don’t have anything taking me in any one direction, sir. I have a list of leads that need some eyes on. I’ll show it to you after dinner.”

  “He can’t have left the country, we have his passport. Did the phone records indicate anything?”

  “Nada,” Randy said.

  I sat at the end of the table pinching my lower lip to keep from smiling. The conversation stopped, and I lifted my head.

  Striker was thrust back in his seat, arms crossed over his chest, eyes narrowed. “Lexi, what do you know about this?”

  “Is your guy’s name Dennis Peterson?” I asked in my sweet-young-thing voice, and batted my eyelashes.

  Striker raised a questioning brow at Randy who shook his head ever so slightly at Striker—he hadn’t given me the name. Striker turned back to me and cleared his throat. “Yes, it is. And do you know where I can find Mr. Peterson?”

  “Not for sure, but I know where I’d start.”

  “Tampon box?” He smirked.

  My lips raised in a sardonic bow. “I think he’s at his boyfriend’s vacation house.”

  “Peterson has a boyfriend?” Striker leaned forward.

  “I believe so.” I nodded.

  “How do you know this guy?”

  “I don’t.” I took a bite of fruit.

  Striker balanced his elbows on the table and laced his fingers. His eyes narrowed slightly; I wondered what he was thinking. He was very closed off. Not a lot of “tells” to give me a hint.

  “How about a name and address for the boyfriend?” he asked.

  “His name is Jason Clemmons. His lake house address is 3564 North Shore Drive.” I rubbed my palms down my pants. Gah! I hoped I was right about this.

  Striker whipped out his cell phone. “It’s Striker. I need you to check an address for me. I need the owners of 3564 North Shore Drive. And a quick search on a Jason Clemmons.” He caught my eye. “Any middle name?”

  I shrugged.

  After Striker hung up, I gave him a playful smile. “If I’m right, do I get another prize?”

  The cell phone rang before he could answer me; Striker held up a finger for me to wait while he listened to the other end, and then tapped it back off.

  “A Catherine and Jason Clemmons own that address, Lexi. If this guy is in the house, you will definitely get a prize. How’d you come up with this information?”

  “Randy told me it would be okay if I peeked at the photo album—I got it from the pictures.”

  Striker reached over to the buffet, where the album jutted out from the brown box, and flipped through the photos. I shuffled back to the living room and picked up the remote to turn on Comedy Central—something ridiculous and light.

  I found if I put up the TV volume a little higher than comfortable, it helped to drown out my inner dialogue. The men must have thought I had a hearing deficit because ever since I started using this technique, they gesticulated a lot, miming stuff out for me. Maybe they thought it had something to do with my head injury. Didn’t matter. Truth be told
, it was pretty funny.

  After a few minutes, Striker came and sat beside me, album in hand. “Can I get you to go through this with me?” His voice rose over The Daily Show.

  “Sure.” I remoted the TV off, and curled up beside him, pulling half of the album into my lap. Sitting this close, I could smell Striker’s cologne, spicy and warm on his skin; the steel of his thigh muscles felt solid beside me. Somehow this seemed more intimate than sleeping with him had. I needed to make sure I wasn’t sending him the wrong signals. I twisted my wedding rings back and forth on my finger and jostled around until we weren’t touching anymore.

  “Lexi, I don’t understand how you got the names, the relationship, or the address from these photos.” He settled into the cushion and crossed an ankle over his knee to support the opened album.

  Holy crap, what had I done? Now I was going to have to walk Striker through my thought process. Would he think I was just observant? Chalk up the information I gave him to a bored, analytic mind? I cleared my throat. “Uh, maybe that’s because you’re looking at the pictures from front to back. I started with the photos from back to front. See?” I flipped the album forward and pointed at the last picture. “This is where I began to understand.”

  Striker leaned closer to the photograph of two men standing in front of a nighttime campfire, near arms around each other’s shoulders, outer arms outstretched with beers in their hands, both grinning broadly at the camera. The angle of the photo made me think the camera was propped on something low. A rock? I was pretty sure the men had set the photo timer and were alone. But I decided to keep those kinds of details to myself. Since I was diving in, I should be careful it was a surface dive—too many ways to get hurt if I went in too deep.

  Striker put his finger on Jason’s image. “… and you think these guys are boyfriends?”

  “Not at first,” I said. “But then I asked Randy.”