Weakest Lynx

by Fiona Quinn

  “Right.” I felt hollow now. Weirdly, like a piecrust with no filling. I wondered vaguely why I didn’t collapse in on myself.

  “I’d like to go through your life story a little bit. Your background is unconventional, and I want to figure out how you got caught on this guy’s radar, okay?”

  “Okay.” I brushed my sweat-dampened hair from my face. Striker reached around, picked up an elastic band off the buffet, and held it out to me. I made a haphazard ponytail, grateful to get the heat off my neck.

  “Let me start with a part that’s been bothering me. Do you know how Wilson got to you?”

  “I have a theory—there’s only way I can piece this together. I hate my idea. It makes the guy not only a psychiatric case, but damned professional—someone with trained skills.”

  “Interesting. Do you want to run your ideas by me?” Striker stood up and took me by the elbow. He steered me toward the couch.

  I sat down and hugged a blue pillow into my stomach, ignoring my wounds. I had been working on this theory piecemeal, as I could—tiny, safe snippets here and there ever since the attack. I thought I had puzzled everything out correctly.

  “It goes like this,” I said. “I secured my house meticulously—state-of-the-art locks, triple-paned windows, outdoor motion-sensor lights in front and back, a two-way communication alarm system monitoring doors and windows, and motion detection on the bottom floor.” I ticked these off on my fingers. “I trained Beetle and Bella to bark whenever someone put their foot on my property.”

  “The dogs weren’t around the night Travis got to you.”

  “Right. The first lapse in my security system was their absence. I had plans to leave the country, to go to Puerto Rico with Angel’s family on the day after I was attacked. Sunday morning, the day of my attack, I had boarded the pups with their trainer. Later that night, I went across the street to bring the guys some food for their game. I stayed for a while, but I was wound-for-sound, and finally just went home.”

  “Because you were nervous from the last poem?”

  “I suspected Stalker was hiding nearby. I had goose bumps and the hair on the back of my neck stood up. I was thoroughly creeped out. When Justin and Dave walked me home, the outdoor motion-sensor lights were off—nothing to indicate someone hiding on my property. The locks were in place. The alarm set.”

  “How did he get in?” Striker leaned forward, his forearm resting on his knee, his focus intent.

  “I think he went into my backyard—while I watched the game across the street—tumbled the lock on my back door with a burglar’s pick, and waited for me to come home.”

  Striker nodded. “The light would automatically turn off.”

  “Yup. They’re on fifteen-minute timers. Once in place, he waited for the sound of my alarm beeping off. I figured he quickly slipped inside while I shut and locked the door, and reengaged the alarm without the indoor motion sensor.”

  “And he’d be able to hear the beeps from outside—letting him know he could safely go in.” Striker said.

  “Exactly.” Okay, being professional helped. I was cooling back down. “I think Stalker slipped in, reengaged the lock, and hid in the downstairs bathroom. I think this because when I came in, I made a thorough search—including windows—for signs of entry. I looked through my living room, dining room, and kitchen. When they were all clear, I went down to check out my basement.”

  “You were armed?”

  “I had my Springfield 9mm out, and my Ruger tucked in my waistband. I think Wilson went upstairs and got into my shower while I searched the basement. Before I went up, I checked in the coat closet and the downstairs guest bathroom. Obviously, they were empty.”

  “Did you reengage the motion detectors?”

  “I did. Right after I checked out the downstairs. There are two levels of sensors. The first has a pet corridor so my dogs can walk around without setting off the alarm; a human would trip the infrared beam if they walked into the room. The second, I can engage to cover the rooms from floor to ceiling. I used the full-coverage setting that night.”

  “Only on the first floor, right? What about getting in on the second level?”

  “Other than by parachuting in, there is no way to get to the second level without a ladder. Not only would a ladder be evident, but I can tell you from the experience of my contractors, the slopes don’t lend well to ladders under the best of circumstances.”

  “Then what did you do?”

  “Went upstairs and tried to calm myself; being paralyzed with fear seemed like a dangerous way to face this guy. I thought I should be safe in my house with plenty of warning and plenty of support if someone did to try to get in. The guys were right across the street—Dave and Justin.” This conversation was giving me an onion-cutting reaction. My eyes stung, and tears dripped down my cheeks; I just wanted to wash off in cold water and be done with this. I swiped absently at the snot dripping from my nose. And yet, my voice sounded like I was passing heart-rate information to an EMT partner. “If the neighbors heard the alarm go off, the guys had a thirty-second response time.”

  “The alarm didn’t go off because Wilson was already inside.”

  “It’s the only way this works out. Like I said, I decided to take a long, hot shower to relax. I put my weapons down, and went to the bathroom to get undressed. I turned to put my clothes into the hamper and …” I took a few jagged breaths before I continued. “I saw a glimpse of his face in the reflection of my bathroom mirror. He caught me completely off guard. I couldn’t believe someone had gotten in. His hand came up with a white cloth. He locked the rag over my nose and mouth. I reached to flip him off me. Guess that didn’t happen. I came to, lying on my bedroom floor, my hands and feet bound tightly. I’d lost circulation. My body burned and tingled all over. Tape covered my mouth, suffocated me.”

  “And his face?”

  “I only got the quickest second, in the mirror. My room was pitch-black.”

  “He had the tape wrapping your head securely. How did you get the gag off your mouth?”

  “I had been told in training that under such circumstances, it is imperative to get an airway into your tape because it’s a suffocation hazard.” I said, as if reading from an instruction manual.

  Striker nodded. “You shouldn’t depend on your nose alone for air.”

  “I gathered saliva in my mouth and used my tongue to work the moisture between the tape and my skin. I loosened the gag to the point where I could breathe easily, but I tried to leave the tape adhered enough that Stalker wouldn’t realize what I’d done.”

  Striker pulled his brows together. “You were doing this while he assaulted you?”

  “I was in shock. I never felt the razor slicing into my skin. When he poured the vinegar on me.” I sucked a noisy breath in. “That was like walking through a wall of fire, like living hell. I screamed. I guess he shut me up by hitting me in the head. Thank God he did.” I realized I had a death grip on Striker’s arm. Holding on for dear life. I tried to get my fingers to release, but they didn’t seem to be listening to my brain anymore. Striker didn’t even wince. He sat stoically, ignoring the bite of my nails.

  “Dave and your neighbors heard you and came running.”

  “That’s what I’m told. When I came to the second time, I was in the hospital, with my head on ice and my skin glued in place like a Kurt Schwitters collage. My brain had been scrambled.”

  Striker had moved closer to me and soothed over my hands until they released from his right arm. My nails had made deep indentations in his skin. He flipped my hand over and rubbed his index finger up and down my pulse point. It was hypnotically soothing. I wondered vaguely where he learned to do that. I hoped he wouldn’t stop. My galloping heartbeat slowed. My breathing deepened, and the vibrations in my limbs calmed.

  “Do you need to take a break?” he asked.

  I shook my head. “After I woke up in the hospital, Dave told me he had broken a front window, and climbed in to op
en the door for the other guys. He said the alarm sounded when the window broke.”

  “So how did Wilson get back out?”

  “I think he got out the same way he got in. He had to be on the stairs, waiting for the window to break. With the alarm sounding and all of the confusion, I think he went out the kitchen door, out the garden gate, up the alley, and that’s when the guys spotted him, and he took off running.”

  “This all makes good sense.”

  “There are a lot of suppositions in my theory that call for some pretty big leaps. He had to understand my house floor plan and my security system. He had to know I was taking my dogs out of the picture.”

  “Who knew the dogs would be gone?”

  “No one. I asked the trainers to keep it to themselves. They’re trustworthy; they wouldn’t tell anyone once I asked them not to.” I contemplated for a few minutes. Striker sat silently.

  “Wilson had to know I’d be gone over to Justin’s for the game …” My voice trailed off. I looked out the window at the gray, cloudy sky. “I’ve thought all of this through, and I’ve come to the conclusion that he stuck a tracking device on my car, bugged my house, and my landline phone.” I studied Striker’s eyes. Smart. Caring. Warrior mode.

  “How do you figure he got in to your house to plant surveillance? Detective Murphy told me you had the alarm from day one.”

  “I was restoring my house, so there was lots of activity. Lots of coming and going. All Wilson had to do was show up in a uniform and make up some job he was supposed to be doing. I’m sure the other workers would let him in. I parked my car on the street—easy access.”

  “If that’s the case, the bugs are probably still in place.”

  “Inside, yes. The alarm’s been on. I bet he came back and got the one off my car. I’m parked curbside. You might be able to pick something up if you do a sweep.”

  Striker pulled out his phone and called Jack. While he spoke, Striker had his eyes narrowed, assessing me, his head cocked slightly to the side.

  “How are you doing?” he asked as he replaced the phone on his belt.

  “Honestly? I don’t know up from down these days.”

  Striker looked at my hands; I was convulsively twisting my rings. “Does your husband know about all of this?” he asked.

  “He’s on a mission. He went off-grid, and they said he’d be gone a minimum of a month and possibly three before he would be back in contact with me. ‘No news is good news,’ they said.”

  “Did he know about the letters before he left?”

  “He has enough to worry about. I didn’t want to be a distraction to him. He can’t help me, anyway, halfway around the world. I had my cop friends, and I thought I had a handle on this. I wanted Angel’s mind to be on his target, not wishing he was home hunting my stalker.” I rubbed my thumb across my wedding ring.

  “Good call.” He nodded his approval. “You’re a good wife.”

  “I’m trying.”

  By then, my temples pounded fiercely. I needed to lie down. Striker handed me two ibuprofen, covered me with a warm blanket, and turned off the overhead light. I let the sound of rain pattering against the window lull me to sleep.

  I woke myself up, screaming from a hellish nightmare.

  Striker gathered me in his arms and hugged me to his chest. He rested his cheek against my hair protectively; I clung to him, feeling safe in his arms.

  He waited for the better part of my sobs to calm, then he whispered into my ear, “I’m so sorry, Lexi. I’m so sorry I had to have you go through all of that. Please believe me. I’m going to protect you from this guy. We’re going to get him. He’ll spend the rest of his life in prison and never hurt anyone again. Do you trust me?” I nodded into his shoulder, hiccuping, and trying to catch my breath. Striker held me until I fell back to sleep.

  Twenty-Five

  “Hey,” Striker whispered. “You’ve been out for a long time. I think you should probably wake up now.”

  I groggily pulled myself to sitting, flipped my hair back out of my face. “No adrenaline dump, just a nightmare,” I said, adjusting my shirt. And I’d take a nightmare any day over the pain of my raging hormonal spikes. I looked up into his green eyes. “I’d say I’m making progress.”

  “I thought so, too. I have a present for you.” Striker reached out his hand and dropped three small gizmos onto my palm. I inspected them. One phone bug and two wall-socket remote transmitters.

  “Huh. Well, this explains a lot—did Jack find fingerprints?” I handed the bugs back.

  Striker shook his head. “Nope, clean. So random nut-job is off the table. We’re working with a crazy pro. I hate to do this to you, but I still want to get some information from you. I need to find the link from your case to the other victims.”

  “Let’s do it.” I swung my legs around and patted the seat beside me.

  “Lexi, all you’ve had to eat today is breakfast. I’m going to make you a sandwich. Do you want one like yesterday with the olive paste stuff and cold cuts?”

  I laughed. “You mean tapenade? That’s fine. What time is it? I should get dinner started.” I checked the clock—one twenty.

  “It’s fine if you want to cook later, Lexi, but you’re going to sit and eat something first, or I’ll be picking you up off the floor, and your food will burn.”

  “If you catch me before I hit the ground, you’ll get a hundred points.” I grinned.

  “What?” As Striker stood, I had to crane my neck to keep my eyes on his.

  “Apparently the guys are playing some sort of game. Something to do with not letting me hit the floor when I’m falling over with vertigo.”

  “Should I talk to them?” His lips pressed together sternly, but his eyes glittered. He was laughing at me!

  I narrowed my lids in response. “I wouldn’t, so far it seems to be working.”

  “Which Kitchen Grandma are we enjoying today?”

  Banalities, good. Maybe he’d give me a little break from the stalker crap. I was still emotionally exhausted—even after my sleep. “Normally, Thursday belongs to Nona Sophia. I switched her with Nana Kate because of the birthday thingy. Tonight, I planned Nana Kate’s pot roast. That is, if the normal kitchen magic happened and all of the groceries from my list appeared during the night.” I plopped down at the table.

  “I can pretty much guarantee they did. Sit tight. I’ll get you some food.”

  I sipped my tea and ate the sandwich Striker brought me. It tasted good. As soon as I took my first bite, I realized I was starving. I swallowed the last of it, then licked my fingers and wiped them on my napkin.

  Striker showed up with a note pad. “Ready?” he asked.

  “As I’ll ever be.” The food had fortified me, and the sooner we got through this, the sooner they could piece things together, get the guy, and I’d go home. Finally, safe and sound.

  “Let’s go over your education. My take on your life is that you woke up in the morning and went from adventure to adventure, mentor to mentor, all day until you went to sleep at night, usually with someone’s children under your wing. Is that fair?”

  “Pretty darned close.” I swiveled on the cushion so we were face-to-face, and slid my heel underneath me.

  “So from the stories you’ve told us, I know about the Kitchen Grandmas, the hair stylist, the florist, the dry cleaners, the lock smith, someone with a bar, a hooker, a Mrs. Drinkwater, your dad the mechanic, your mom the artist, and a cop named Stan. How many others?”

  “Lots.”

  “Okay, since this started for you at the apartments …”

  I shook my head. “It started at the motel. I lived in a motel for five weeks after my apartment building burned down. After three weeks, I got married to Angel, whom I met the night of the fire. The morning of my wedding, I discovered the first note.”

  “And after Angel left, you moved to Detective Murphy’s neighborhood.” The point of his pen rested on the paper without taking notes.

 
“I found my house the day after Angel deployed. It took two weeks for the sale to go through. During which time, I moved from place to place each night, trying to elude Stalker.”

  “Were you working?”

  “I’m an online student at the community college.”

  “Okay. Before you motel hopped, at the first place, do you remember any unusual events happening during your stay? Do you think you might have seen Wilson?”

  “I’m sure I didn’t.” I pulled a knee up and hugged it to me. Sharp pain screamed from my cuts, protesting my protective posture, making me grimace.

  “How are you sure?” He moved the unused pad aside, set his heel onto the chair spoke, and wrapped his knee with his hands, somewhat mirroring my position. I wondered if he did that on purpose to make me more comfortable. Body language 101. It wouldn’t matter if he did; there was nothing comfortable about this conversation.

  “I’ve got an excellent memory for faces. If I had seen him once, I would remember him.”

  “He could have been disguised.”

  I played with the hem of my shirt. “His face is too marked—the scars and tattoo. I’m not saying he didn’t see me at the motel. I’m saying I didn’t spot him.”

  “Let’s go a different direction—you have some law enforcement connections, though they’re not familial, right?”

  “Well Dave Murphy, of course. My friend Stan—he taught me how to drive and shoot. I use the police range for practice.”

  “They tried to recruit you?”

  I shrugged. “It’s not the right environment for me.”

  “Anything else?”

  “I flew Civil Air Patrol—I started as a cadet around twelve. We did high-adventure stuff together as well as aviation, sort of like scouting.” I found myself chewing on my thumbnail, and I pulled it from my mouth. “I got my pilot’s license and did practice missions quite a bit. More so when Dad was alive. Every couple of months or so now.”