Weakest Lynx

by Fiona Quinn

  “Get the lamb,” I said to Striker. “Bring it here. But warn the men, they’ll find Greg’s body on the kitchen floor.”

  I waited while Striker made the call. I sipped water from the bottle; the cold burned as it slid down my throat. I vomited into the trash can, bringing a modicum of relief from the pressure inside me. When Striker disconnected from his phone call, I began again. I put the car picture in front of the house picture. I placed the photos of the devil, Lynda, and Cammy on top and drew stick figures of three men. Two with guns.

  On an inhale, I moved further behind the Veil. My center dragged forward as I merged with Lynda. I stood at the end of a driveway. The house to my right. Woods to my left. Four men. The devil, two thugs, and Manuel. I was shrieking hysterically.

  “No, no, no—no, no, no—no, please!” Lynda’s cries burst from my mouth. I sensed Striker and Jack reacting to me. They both took a step back and away, jamming their hands deep into their pockets to keep from interfering.

  One of the thugs gripped Cammy tightly against his body as she thrashed in his arms, screaming wildly, biting at his skin, kicking her patent leather Mary Janes into his legs. The devil stood between us, preparing a syringe. Lynda struggled to get to him, to kick the vial from his hands, to tear out his eyes with her nails, but a thug held her tightly in place. The devil grinned maliciously at Lynda then gave Cammy a shot. Cammy slid to the macadam, unconscious.

  I stared down with disbelief at her crumpled child, lying at the devil’s feet. The world shifted; Lynda’s legs buckled. Before she hit on the ground, a violent push thrust her backwards into the car. Lynda peeked up from behind her cascade of hair, watching as Manuel, with a gun at his temple, was forced in beside us.

  One of the goons picked up Cammy and tossed her into the front seat; the devil and his men climbed in, and the car took off.

  As they drove down the road, I pulled myself away from Lynda, back into the safe house dining room. “I said that out loud?” I asked.

  “Confirmed,” Jack said.

  I sat silently for a long time, waiting to see where the car traveled. I sensed Lynda’s panic. The galloping rhythm of her heart. Her arms clutched around her belly, whimpering and intermittently gasping for air. Finally, the car slowed. I put my pen on the map at Lynda’s place and traced the route to a house about twenty minutes to the south.

  I breathed in, returning to Lynda’s body. The devil had clamped down on her arm with a steely grip. His fingers dug into her skin as he forced her away from the car, away from Cammy.

  Will he kill me now? Lynda wondered. Will I get to see Cammy again? Oh, God, please! Not like Greg. Quick. One bullet. Please!

  Her legs wobbled underneath us, her breath too shallow, making me light-headed. I gripped the table, back in the dining room, to keep from falling over.

  The devil spoke to someone, whom I couldn’t see because Lynda focused on the tips of her brown leather boots. His words were lost to me as Lynda slid into shock. We descended into a basement where a man lay face down, shot execution style. My world went dark as Lynda passed out.

  I woke to a pot of cold water thrown over Lynda. Drenching her and raising gooseflesh. The water only worked momentarily. When she focused on the man’s body, Lynda fainted again. This time, as she sank to the floor, I jerked away from her and found myself back at the safe house.

  I caught Striker’s eye. “You went through that house looking for your family. Not too many hours ago, confirm?” I said with gasping breath.

  “Confirmed,” Striker’s one word shot out like a bullet.

  I had no personal emotion. Just a channel. Thank God. The Shaman and her music were never far.

  “Send someone back,” I directed. “You searched the house before the meeting gathered. The men will find Juan’s father’s body in the basement.”

  Striker got on the phone and gave the command.

  I swigged more water and vomited into the trash. It came up green and bilious. It made the water taste sweet in comparison. Again, I had to wait. The time that passed was meaningless to me, but I sensed how it took a toll on Striker. Jack stood stoically in the corner of the room, arms across his chest, legs spread wide like a child’s superhero action figure waiting to be animated.

  I held a picture of the car. My pen followed its path on the map, tracing their route. I cleared my throat. “The road ends here. The team needs to find a dirt road on the left. Take the dirt road for three minutes at twenty-five miles per hour. Get out. A hiking trail on the right …”

  Striker was on his phone.

  Somehow, I hung upside down. I lifted my head and saw one of the thugs in the car with Cammy and Manuel. The big one—the one who reminded me of a grizzly bear—had Lynda slung over his shoulder as he tramped through the autumn leaves to a hunting shack. Lynda—slack and in shock—hung across his shoulder, blood rushing to her head, thrumming in her ears.

  Inside the shack, the devil moved to the corner and lifted something heavy; I couldn’t tell what. Thug set Lynda on her feet and took a step backward. Lynda turned toward the devil just as his fist, wrapped in brass knuckles, slammed into her face.

  A bright, blinding light lit my vision; my head snapped back as blood poured from my nose. I buried my face in the throw pillow and screamed for mercy.

  Fists and boots slammed into Lynda’s body. And pummeled mine.

  This was exactly what happened when I tried to save the woman back when Miriam needed me. The pain and injury the woman sustained in the alley battered me as well, though thankfully to a lesser degree. I swore I’d never to try remote work again. But this was life-or-death for Striker’s family. I made my decision earlier in the day. No turning back now. I tumbled down the damned Hero’s Path, the “Road of Trials.”

  Channeling Lynda’s voice, her Hispanic accent came through my mouth. Striker and Jack could hear her begging, screaming. They braced themselves beside me, frantic to intercede. Bruises and gashes graffitied my bare arms and face. Blood streamed from my nostrils. It soaked into the pillow, pooled on the table.

  I drank from the bottle and vomited up blood and water, missing the trash can and covering the floor. I pulled my stunned head from the pillow and whispered, “They had a transmitter. The devil beat Lynda so Juan could hear and be terrified. She is bleeding to death. They left her in the cabin to die alone. Hurry.”

  Striker held the phone to his ear, giving directives. As he pressed the button to disconnect, it rang again. He listened for a minute. Striker studied me with a face of stone, his full combat mask in place.

  “Confirmation of the assassination in the basement.”

  Again, the phone rang. “Confirmation of the purple lamb—they’re bringing it in. Confirmation of Greg’s body in the kitchen.”

  I drank water. I used my arm to wipe blood from my face. My nose continued to trickle. I lifted my shirt and swiped at my lips with it. Blood drip, drip, dripped into my lap. It made me sticky. I shivered uncontrollably, but the Shaman had her hands on my shoulders and blew lightly over my face. I stilled. I could breathe again. I gained enough focus to continue.

  I picked up the picture of the car and asked it where it was driving. I put pen to map and followed the car to a spot where it stopped. I circled the location on the map.

  Since Cammy lay unconscious, I needed a resource for information other than her thoughts and senses. I decided to attach to Manuel. He was stepping away from the car. The hard metal of the devil’s gun barrel pressed between his shoulder blades, forcing me to arch backwards. Manuel looked back at the car, trying to figure out how to make his escape. The two thugs relaxed in the backseat. Cammy lay crumpled in the front—half on the seat, half on the floor.

  With a shove from behind, Manuel walked forward robotically; his knees locked in place to hold himself up. We moved toward an elevator. Manuel peered hopefully around, thinking that someone might show up and pull an alarm, and then he’d have a chance. But there was no one.

  On the ninth f
loor, the doors slid open to the sound of men’s deep-throated laughter. A light shone from a doorway. When we walked into their office and Manuel saw the other men, he knew he was going to die. That was the strangest emotion. Nothing to do but wait and die.

  The devil made the men kneel. Manuel giggled maniacally. The sound as I reproduced it from my own mouth had Striker and Jack shifting on the balls of their feet. Run, flee, their limbic systems were probably warning them. I certainly wanted to—Manuel, too. But instead we knelt on the office floor, hands bound behind his back, listening to the devil argue with the other men.

  Suddenly a blast jarred the air, an explosion, followed by a second one. The devil had shot the men in their thighs. I watched them thrashing on the floor, screaming, Manuel thought about the animals he used to light on fire; they sounded the same. The devil yelled at the injured men, asking questions they couldn’t answer.

  “The devil is transmitting this to Juan, so he’ll feel more terror,” I said. “Oh! Oh! The devil shot the two men in their heads.”

  Manuel looked at the dark holes in the men’s foreheads. Felt the silence. Dead. Yes, must be dead. They were dead. Manuel’s mind tried to grasp this simple fact. Darkness closed around him, and I swiftly moved to the devil before Manuel passed out.

  The devil kicked Manuel in the gut. Manuel didn’t move, and with great indifference, the devil shot him and left, whistling.

  I was the sportscaster in this deadly game, offering the listeners a blow-by-blow. No commentary. I had no opinions—only sensation, vision, sound. Well, that wasn’t true. I had desire. Desire to keep one foot on this plane to offer my perceptions. Desire to get back to Cammy and get help to her. Desire to walk the Labyrinth, face the monsters, and perform the ordeal, so I could get the fuck home and make this a distant nightmare.

  I swallowed water and vomited, waiting to see where the devil went next. I struggled to be in a victim’s body, to face their fear and pain. But I found it so much harder to be in the perpetrator’s body—one with the monster. Evil hungrily sucked at me, trying to attach itself parasitically and live in me. This felt dangerous to my soul. If only Cammy would regain consciousness … But as it was, I’d have to fight the fight here, connected to the devil, in order to save her.

  Strands of coagulated blood slid down my throat and choked me. I pulled them from my mouth with my fingers. The bruising on my face made my eyes swell. Tears rolled down my cheeks, mixing with the blood flowing from my nose.

  The phone rang. They were bringing the lamb in.

  “No,” Striker commanded. “I’ll meet you in the drive. I need you back out.” Striker wrote down the address of the office building and jogged to the door. When he came in, he placed the stuffed toy gingerly on the counter. I rested with my head on the table.

  The phone rang; Striker answered, and listened. Striker’s mood shifted to intense emotion, and then back to combat. He lost his composure for a half breath.

  “Lynda is confirmed. She’s alive, en route to the hospital.”

  In the car, the devil looked down. Cammy stirred on the seat, coming around. He shook his head and pulled the vial of medicine and a hypodermic needle from the pocket of his navy sport coat.

  “No! No! No! Cammy, stay asleep!” I shrieked, as if she could hear me, as if that would help. As if I could stay the devil’s hand by force of will.

  I was becoming useless as panic sprung from nowhere and overwhelmed me. A song drifted through the air, washed me in the rhythm of its chanting. It floated me until I recovered myself enough to continue, then the song wafted away.

  “The devil has the medication out again. He gave Cammy another dose. It’s too big of a dose. Too soon,” I croaked.

  I slipped into Cammy. Her heart beat with a slow thud. Her breath came in shallow, distressed gasps. Not enough oxygen. Not nearly enough. Her cells screamed for more. She needed help, and she needed it now.

  I slid into the devil to try and figure out the direction they traveled and how to get someone in position to save Cammy. His indifference to her distress stunned me. He couldn’t be human and look down at this beautiful child, watch her turn blue, and only think what good bait she would make to get her Uncle Juan to talk. And I knew, from what the Shaman said at the first house, that Juan wouldn’t be able to talk. He didn’t know anything about the lamb. Only Manuel knew, and Manuel was dead.

  I slipped back toward my own body to track the car. I wasn’t doing much better than Cammy. Broken and exhausted, blood continued to drip from my nose and seep from my wounds. Again, I touched my pen to the map and drew the route, then circled the place where they stopped.

  Striker had his cell phone up to his ear, whispering into it.

  In semidarkness, Cammy lay at my feet. I was in the body of a man I didn’t know. He shoved Cammy out of the way with his foot and stalked over to Juan. I flitted from person to person, gathering information. The phrase that glared the brightest was, “Maybe we should open her artery so you can watch her blood drain, eh? Maybe that will help your recall.” I couldn’t take in anything more.

  The Shaman snapped her fingers, and I found myself panting in the safe house dining room.

  I searched for Striker’s eyes. They shone black and unfathomable. I gulped at the air. Striker jerked forward to grasp at me as I slid from my chair, but Jack made a lunging grab, and kept him from touching me. My head clunked with a resounding thud against the wood before I caught myself. Striker spun, his fist balled and chambered for a punch. But quickly, Striker seemed to remember Jack wasn’t the enemy. The enemy wasn’t here. There was no one to fight. With rigid control, Striker knelt beside me. “Tell me what to do.”

  “This house holds secrets. You can’t go in and rescue your child. It’s fortified, and there are too many of the devil’s soldiers inside.” I took in a jagged breath. Having gathered what intel I could and puzzling through the scene to the best of my ability, I offered a plan.

  Picking up the picture of Juan, I said, “You can’t save this man. He’ll die momentarily. Go and negotiate. Trade the lamb for the girl. The lamb is stuffed with diamonds and packets of heroine, the cause of all the death and misery. They’ll trade. They realize the child’s in danger, and won’t survive the medication much longer. They’ll think they’ve traded the lamb for the child’s body, and that will make them laugh.” Striker’s energy spiked to razor-sharp points. It hurt to be near him.

  “I’ll do what I can from here to help her.” I struggled within myself; the words tangled my tongue. Enunciating through swollen lips made me sound infantile. I gasped and spat blood.

  “After you rescue Cammy, and she’s heading to the hospital, come back. Remove her photo from my hands without touching me. Wash it in water, picturing Cammy in my arms and us moving away from each other.” I was glad the Shaman sat beside me telling me what to do; I had no clue on my own.

  “After that, I can be touched. I need help.” I looked from one man to the other; my focus was fogged and almost unseeing. Even still, I caught fear and apprehension flicker and disappear behind the men’s eyes. Then Striker picked up the lamb and ran from the house.

  Time passed. I swayed in my chair. Sometimes I vomited. Bile and blood covered me. My nose continued to bleed. At some point, I slipped onto the floor beneath the table. I laid on my side, never releasing the photo. Jack knelt beside me, desperate to help. Blood coagulated and covered my nostrils. I breathed through my mouth, my face down in the bloody vomit water. In the ether, I felt Striker lifting Cammy. Felt her receiving help, oxygen flowing in her veins. Thank God.

  Striker crashed the door open and carefully extracted the picture from my hands. Water ran in the sink as Striker washed away the connection. “Done!” When he yelled, the action began.

  Jack lifted the table and threw it out of the way. He pulled the strands of congealed blood from my nostrils. He used his fingers to scoop out my mouth and throat, clearing the blood and mucus that choked me.

  Striker check
ed for a pulse. “Medic!”

  Twenty-Nine

  I sunk into a recuperative trance that held me still and unknowing for a week. Then, one morning, I woke up like nothing had happened. I pulled myself upright and glanced over at the medic. “Good morning.”

  He nodded. “Good morning, ma’am.”

  “Where are Striker and Jack?” I was surprised to be alone with this stranger.

  “Jack’s eating breakfast, ma’am, and Striker is taking a phone call in his room. He said he’d be right back. The call concerned his sister.”

  “Okay.” I picked up a fresh set of clothes and went to shower and change.

  In the bathroom mirror, I traced a finger over the thin, red line where someone removed the stitches from my head. A two-inch scar ran along the side of my forehead; I arranged my hair to hide the mark. The Wilson bruising had faded away. I pulled the man-sized T-shirt I was wearing over my head. Yes, my stomach had healed as well. All of the crusty scabs and glue were gone. In the light, pink scars traced their design like the path of a figure skater over me.

  When I was cleaned and ready, I opened the door to find Striker standing, hands on hips, waiting for me. He gave me one of his long, assessing looks, then gathered me into his arms.

  “Oh, thank God,” he whispered into my hair. “Thank God.”

  My cheek pressed against the soft fabric of his shirt. I listened to his heart beating an accelerated tattoo. He was warm, steady, dependable. I breathed him in and felt my solidity returning to me. He held me tightly for a few minutes, then released me, and reached for my hand.

  “Someone else needs to see you’re okay as much as I did.”

  We went down the stairs together. The team sat at the table eating breakfast.

  Jack leaned a hip into the kitchen counter, coffee mug in hand. He stood when I came in, his face lined with concern.

  The men’s moods instantly shifted as tension stirred the air. The team watched Jack closely, focusing angry eyes on him. I immediately understood that they held Jack responsible for my injuries. I figured no one had offered them an explanation; neither Jack nor Striker had confided what had happened the night Lynda and Cammy were rescued. How could they? The men must think Jack allowed me to be hurt somehow.