Weakest Lynx Read online

  Antiques filled the space; a TV droned somewhere upstairs. I gently shook hands with the woman, barely clasping her fingers for fear I would break her. She reminded me of my mom’s eggshell porcelain teacups that used to sit on our mantle back at the apartment.

  “Mrs. Nelson, Lexi’s interested in seeing the house you have for sale next door.” Dave spoke loudly using staccato, overenunciated words.

  “Oh wonderful, dear,” Mrs. Nelson said as she turned to retrieve a keychain from a basket on her upright piano. A book of hymns lay open to “Nothing but the Blood.” Could this be an omen? A warning? I wondered as anxiety zipped through me. Paranoia, I concluded, taking in a deep, steadying breath. Mrs. Nelson reached for her coat on the hall tree, and Dave helped her put it on.

  “I didn’t like the couple who lived there last,” Mrs. Nelson said, pushing the screen closed behind us and stepping cautiously down the steps with Dave’s protective hand under her elbow. “They left their trash on the porch for the neighborhood dogs to get in to. What a mess. And it smelled gosh awful. I was relieved when they moved.” In a moment, we stood in front of the fixer-upper making up the other side of the duplex. Mrs. Nelson unlocked the door then turned bright blue eyes on me. “You’re awfully young.” She flipped the switch, flooding the room with light. “Are you married?”

  “I am.” It felt like a lie. I needed more time to get used to the idea. “My husband is in Afghanistan right now.”

  “Oh. How lonely for you.” Mrs. Nelson touched my arm and raised her other hand to her heart. I bristled. Pity didn’t sit well with me.

  She shook her head, making her tightly curled hair bobble. “I don’t know then—this house might need a man. The last family left the place in quite a shambles. Lots of repairs to be made. Lots.”

  The front door opened into the living room. The space would be a comfortable size with furniture; it seemed too large standing empty. Dated, cranberry wallpaper rolled at the seams and draped at the ceiling. I wrinkled my nose as the smell of wet dog rose from the heavily stained, brown, wall-to-wall carpeting.

  As I stepped farther into the room, my breath hung like a cloud in the air, not much warmer than outside. The furnace rumbled, but the temperature had been set low—just enough to keep pipes from freezing, I guessed. I shoved my hands deeper into my pockets and hunched my shoulders.

  We passed silently through an arched doorway into the dining room. The design mimicked the living room with a fireplace centered on the right wall, flanked on either side by large windows. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to have a fire crackling on a wintery night, and a table full of friends enjoying pumpkin soup with homemade bread and sage butter? I imagined the scene, warm and inviting, full of laughter and debate.

  Mrs. Nelson patted my arm. “Go ahead and look around upstairs, dear, I’ll wait down here.”

  “Sure, thanks,” I said.

  I toured the second floor, looking into the closets. As I stood beside the window, watching the cars driving down the street, I pictured myself living here, waking up to this view. I turned to take in the whole room. It was distressed for sure, but it seemed familiar somehow, comfortable—like I belonged. I’d like to paint my bedroom something warm and happy maybe buttery-yell …

  A single explosion from outside the window pulled a shriek from my throat as I crouched low, clutching at the sill with one hand and my Ruger with the other.

  “Lexi?” Dave’s feet hammered up the stairs. “Where are you?”

  “Front bedroom.” All of the blood had drained from my face and pooled in my feet.

  Dave paused in the doorway. He had his hand on his hip, where he usually wore his gun, and worked his way around the room, sliding his left shoulder along the walls. He peered past the molding of the curtainless window. I lifted my head to peek out, too. An old Ford pickup chugged down the road. Two more backfires shot out of the tailpipe before the truck disappeared in a cloud of blue smoke.

  I stood, feeling stupid. “I thought …” I waved my hand vaguely.

  “I know what you thought.” He stared down at me. “Jeezis, you must be wound tight.”

  “Shit. I …” Swiping at angry tears, I scowled.

  “It’s okay.” Dave wrapped me into a bear hug. “One step at a time. Let’s start here. How about the house?”

  “Yes.” I nodded against his shoulder.

  He released me and pulled back so he could study my face.

  “Well, inspections first, obviously,” I said, adjusting my shirt and smoothing over the bulge from my belly holster.

  “And the bank. Is Angel as young as you are?”

  “A couple of months older. I don’t think we can get a loan, though. We don’t have much credit history.”

  “So?” Dave leaned into the wall. “What’s plan B?”

  “Money from Dad’s life insurance. I have almost all my inheritance still in the bank, so I can write a check. I have enough to cover the house and some minor repairs.”

  “Would you be okay? We’re talking about a big chunk to hand over all at once. What about college?”

  “I still have Mom’s life insurance for that.”

  Dave’s face slacked. A frown draped the corners of his mouth toward his chin. When he reached out and stroked a hand down my arm, I breathed in sharply and pulled away. The pain of Mom’s death still stabbed at me, but if Dave treated me like I was fragile, I’d fall apart. I couldn’t crumble now. I needed to act as bravely as Angel did when he got on the bus with the other Army Rangers.

  I moved toward the door. “So I guess everything depends on how bad things are here structurally—especially the roof.”

  I turned to find Dave’s self-satisfied smile. One problem solved, I could almost hear him thinking. Maybe. But where I laid my head at night wasn’t nearly as important to me as the fact that my head was still attached and functional. Dave couldn’t smell the putrid scent filling my nostrils ever since I read the poem. He didn’t wear it, as cloying as ambergris, on his skin like I did. And he wasn’t living with this unrelenting anxiety.

  Three

  By three o’clock, I was back at my motel. Circling the parking lot twice, I vigilantly scanned for anything out of place—someone lurking in the line of trees separating the building from the road or scrunched down in one of the cars. Nothing. But still … I couldn’t force myself to pull into a parking spot.

  It isn’t safe.

  That thought took up almost all of my mental space, growing rigid and unyielding, pushing me until I aimed back toward the street. I steered onto I-395 North. My foot steady on the pedal, I kept a watchful eye on the highway in my rearview mirror, changing lanes frequently, taking off-ramps, then turning to head back south. No one was following me, and I had no idea where I was heading. Away seemed good enough.

  The muscles in my jaw and neck tensed as a car zoomed up behind me, inches from my bumper. Flicking on my signal, I slid to the right hand lane and let out a rush of air as the Audi blew on by.

  Panic will kill you, Lexi. It makes you unable in mind and body. I heard the voice of my mentor, Spyder McGraw, in my head.

  Yeah, yeah, Spyder, I know that intellectually, but it’s hard not to panic when my whole damned world is falling apart, piece by piece.

  I thought back to the hug Dave gave me as I’d left his house this afternoon. He volunteered to get his buddy to handle the building inspection then pulled a promise from me that I’d be careful. I patted my pocket where I stuck the business card of the lawyer he and Cathy used. Dave’s myriad contacts—very helpful. I could manage all of the new house stuff by phone and fax—no real pressing need for me to hang out in DC.

  Out of town might be good. I tapped nervous fingers on my steering wheel and looked down at my backpack. Along with my purse, I had a laptop and a banana. I wouldn’t get very far without supplies. Should I go pack up my things and check out? No, that would be a big waving flag saying, “I’m leaving—you should follow me.”

  I held the slim hop
e that out of sight would put me out of mind. Maybe the unknown poet would find something else to do with his time. Dave was right, though—getting caught up in someone’s instability was like stepping into quicksand. Once it sucked you in, it was hell to get out. And the very worst possible response was to flail around. I needed to lay still, get my bearings, get a plan together … Hard for me to do that looking over my shoulder in DC.

  I hit the steering wheel with the heel of my hand. “What a freaking waste of money,” I yelled toward the man singing about his broken heart on the radio. Reaching out, I fiddled with the knob until I scrolled past a talk-radio channel. The newscaster’s words “Strike Force” caught my ears. They were reporting that an Iniquus team had rescued Graham Chasm, President of CBN Oil, along with his wife and children from a Mexican drug cartel. The team was now en route from Texas to New York to deliver the family safely home.

  New York. Perhaps heading up to New York City was a good idea—find a high-security hotel where I could hole up. And Strike Force would be there. Which meant Striker, their team leader would be there. Striker was Spyder McGraw’s golden boy. If anyone would know how to contact Spyder, it would be him. Should I try to reach Spyder—just to run this stalker situation past him and get some ideas? That wouldn’t hurt anything, would it?

  As I drove north, my head filled with Striker thoughts—all of the wonderful stories I knew about him. He was legendary. When Striker was still Special Operations Forces, Spyderman—as Spyder McGraw was known on the job—had lent Iniquus contacts and regional expertise to Striker’s SEAL team on various operations. They were together in Iraq when Striker earned a Bronze Star for valor, and in Africa with the UN, when he received a Silver Star for heroism and a Purple Heart.

  Spyder loved to recount their exploits. As a teen, I ate those Striker stories like manna. Hungrily. Greedily. I was starving for a hero to come and fight the dragons in my life. Mainly to help me fend off my depression when Dad died in the car accident, especially knowing my mom’s illness meant she’d soon follow, and I’d be left with no family. I remembered how desperate I was for Striker to be mine; though at that point, he was just a fairy tale. Like Arthur or Prince Charming.

  Then I met Striker in person, after he left the military and signed on to an Iniquus Team here in DC. The introduction made everything worse. I was so dreadfully lonely and scared, and Striker was so damned perfect. So unattainable and accomplished.

  I shook my head to clear away those ideas. I hadn’t thought about Striker since the second I laid eyes on Angel. And that was how I wanted it. But still … New York.

  My stomach growled, and I realized all I had had to eat in the last twenty-four hours was a few bites of doughnut and my coffee. I pulled in at the next truck stop and took my laptop into the restaurant.

  I bit into a chicken-salad sandwich as I booted up my computer to search for somewhere to stay. A plop of mayonnaise fell on my shirt, and I reached for a napkin from the holder. With all of my things still back at the motel, I’d have to run by Target or somewhere, pick up necessities—clothes and some food. Looked like PB&J until I could get back home. I scrubbed at the oil stain the mayonnaise left on my chest while I scrolled down the computer screen.

  Score! A secure hotel—right in the middle of the city for a great price.

  “More than I have to spend, though,” I grumbled under my breath and hit “Enter.” It seemed a little cowardly, doing a vanishing act. Cowardly wasn’t how I normally viewed myself. Well, a hidden enemy was a dangerous enemy; even Spyder would probably agree this was a smart tactical move.

  A few hours later, I found myself pulling into a parking space at LaGuardia Airport where the Chasm family was expected to land. I checked my watch—only twenty-five minutes. I still hadn’t made up my mind about approaching Striker. I walked around to my trunk and took out a baseball cap. Pulling the bill low over my brows, I dashed up to the news team from Channel 11 and followed behind like I belonged—they would know where to go. As the doors to the terminal slid open automatically, my heart quickened. What was I thinking? I couldn’t talk to Striker privately here, especially in front of all of these reporters. Even if I got close enough to him, I’d come off like some groupie—what did Dave call them? Badge Bunnies. Geesh. And it would be wrong for me to mention Spyder McGraw in public.

  Striker would be suspicious of my approach—why would he tell me, a stranger, where a fellow Iniquus agent went when that agent disappeared from my life in September? Would Striker even have contact? Iniquus only meted out information on a need-to-know basis. Shit. What was I doing?

  No one questioned me as I scrambled behind News 11 into the bay that was set aside for the news conference. The excitement was palpable. The extended Chasm family huddled in front of the dais, with tear-stained faces, while various report teams claimed turf and filmed teasers. I worked my way over to where I thought Strike Force would exit, figuring I would wing it based on how Striker reacted to my approach. Once I had Spyder’s contact information, I could make other decisions about if I would burden Spyder with my problem.

  A shift happened in the room. Reporters raised their microphones to their mouths as the on-air lights blinked on the video cameras. The well-dressed and highly polished reporters laid out the story line: the Chasm’s private jet had landed, and they were expected at the podium any second now. I crossed my fingers and willed that everything go exactly as it should. If I were supposed to lean on Spyder, everything would go off without a hitch, but my efforts would be thwarted if it were better to do this on my own. There. Let fate figure out my dilemma for me.

  The family burst jubilantly through the door. Their bright grins were dichotomic to the black circles under their eyes. I stared at the door. Why was the family alone? Maybe Strike Force didn’t want their images broadcast in order to preserve their anonymity. I slid along the wall to get to the door the family had entered. Hopefully, Strike Force was just on the other side, and I’d find Striker away from this circus. Just as I pushed through the door, a reporter asked about the rescue team. Graham Chasm explained that an assignment had come up, and as soon as they delivered his family safely home, the team needed to be wheels-up on another assignment.

  They were already gone.

  I spun in place. Well, thanks, fate. Looks like I’m on my own. Shit.

  Four

  The sky was a deep violet when I stepped out of my car onto the marble-paved turnabout at the hotel and tipped my head up to take in the splendor. Wow, was I out of place. This was posh beyond belief—the crystal and mahogany at the valet desk, the women prancing by draped in furs and dripping jewels. I, on the other hand, stood shivering in my pink hoody and Levis. The valet palmed the keys to my rusty Camry, and I blushed hotly as I handed him his tip. My car wheezed and coughed as she chugged away to be replaced in line by a silver Bentley.

  After signing in with the front desk, I took an elevator up to the fourth floor. My room was New York City small. I could barely inch past the little alley between the bed and the wall to get over to see outside my one-windowed view. I peered out at the traffic and pedestrians, and sighed. Nothing said anonymous like the Big Apple.

  Surely I can safely lose myself in the crowd. I moved toward the dresser where my phone was buzzing and checked the screen. Dave.

  “Hey there.” I said.

  I heard panting quickly followed by, “Holy shit!”

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  “No. I am not okay. You gave me a friggin’ heart attack, Lexi. I drove over here to your motel to talk to you, and you weren’t around. Not one of your apartment-building neighbors has seen you since this morning.”

  “I was getting ready to call you in a minute anyway,” I said. “I got spooked at the motel and drove away.”

  “Away where?” Dave asked.

  “New York City,” I clamped the phone between my ear and shoulder as I twisted my hair into a braid.

  “Spooked like a normal person gets spooked?
Or did you sense someone out there?”

  “I am a normal person, Dave. But yes, I had a sixth sense that hanging out in the DC motel was going to be bad news, so here I am.”

  “How long are you planning to stay up there?” he asked.

  “I don’t know … until the house is settled? I’m kind of winging it here.”

  He grunted, then a door slammed. “You checked your rearview mirror?”

  “I did everything Spyder would want me to do. No one followed me up here. And if they did …”

  “It would be a hell of a bad sign.” Dave finished my sentence for me. “It’s one thing to shove a letter under someone’s door and a whole different ball game to follow someone out of state.”

  “Yup,” I said, moving toward the bathroom to get a drink of water. This tiny hotel room was claustrophobic. I wanted to go out for a walk to get some air, but rain tapped against the windowpane.

  “What are your plans for up there?” Dave asked. “Are you going by your Nona Sophia’s?”

  “I planned on it. I need to sit tight and get through my assignments first.”

  “Assignments?”

  “Yeah. For my classes at the community college.” I nibbled at my fingernail.

  “Oh, for a second I thought you were attached to a new partner.”

  “I told you, I’m not playing Nancy Drew anymore.”

  “So you’re good?”

  “Locked down under high security. You should see this place. No one can get to me.”

  “Alright then. I want a phone call every day. Okay? Every single day. I’ll let you know how things are going with the house. At least the money’s in escrow, so it should move forward fast enough.”

  “Thanks. Love you.” My singsong good-bye sounded a thousand times lighter than I felt.

  After a pause, Dave said, “Love you back. Please be safe.”