Weakest Lynx (15 page)

Dave moved to my porch to take a look. I followed behind.

“I went ahead and opened the poem. Nothing new. It’s curious that no visual aids showed up with this one. It actually has me worried.” I rubbed a hand over my eyes. “Dave, I think he’s done playing.” Would he wait until Monday—when I had my plane ticket for Abuela Rosa’s? Maybe he figured out my plans. How was that possible? I had arranged everything through a fake e-mail address on the library computers. How could that be traced?

I checked in with Miriam. Updated her and asked if she picked up anything else for me to work with, any clue at all. She got nothing new. Same level of crazy. Same joy in the gamesmanship.

But this sounded … A shiver raked down my spine.

Farewell to Love

Since there’s no help, to come to your aid, let us kiss and part;

Nay, I am done, you get no more of me;

And I am glad, yea, glad with all my heart,

That thus so cleanly I myself can free;

Now, at your last gasp of love’s last breath,

When your pulse failing, passion speechless lies,

When faith is kneeling by your bed of death,

And innocence is closing up your eyes,

From life to death Thou shall not recover.

“You playing at StarLight tonight?”

“From nine to ten fifteen. Why don’t you get a baby sitter and bring Cathy up? I’ll buy you guys a drink.”

“And then I can make sure you get home safely?”

“Yes, please. I don’t want any surprises. I think if I have someone around, or the pups, I’d be safe. Only a couple more days, and then …” I stared hard at him, passing the information with my eyes—I’d be gone.

Dave nodded his understanding. “I hear you.” He squeezed my arm. “I’ll show up for your last set and walk you home.”

I stretched up to plant a kiss on his cheek. “Thanks, Dave.”

My girls and I headed toward Maryland. I tried to figure out how to take them with me to Puerto Rico. Logistically, it was complicated, especially since Abuela Rosa’s apartment had an animal-free policy. I thought Beetle and Bella would be happy living with the Millers, again. This wouldn’t be forever, I kept reminding myself. Just until Angel got home, and we got a plan together. Less than four months with any luck.

I meant to take them up tomorrow, stay the night, and drive to the airport from Maryland. But Mr. Miller had asked if he could use my girls in a demo for a security firm. I couldn’t say no since he was doing me such a huge favor. It was only one extra night—Justin could sleep at my place like he’d offered. If not, I’d go over to Dave’s. I wouldn’t be alone. It would be fine. I chewed the inside of my cheek.

“Should I stay with you?” I looked back at Beetle and Bella. They lifted their heads and then dropped them noncommittally. “I did promise Justin I’d cook for him tonight. He’s having a house full of people for the game.” I reached back to rub Bella’s head.

I’d wing it. See how I felt as I went. What if Stalker had more hands to play? And this was really just one more letter in my ever-growing pile of letters. Twenty-six freaking letters. It had been eight months of this, after all. Maybe he was growing bored and was offering me his final good-bye. Wishful thinking, and I knew it. Every cell in my body crowded and bumped around, getting ready for the fight of my life.

Monday. Forty-eight short hours. This would all be over. I blew out a huff of air.

Over at Justin’s, his friends piled up in the living room. Good thing I had made major amounts of food. I tried to relax and settle in, but I couldn’t keep still. I was a distraction—was getting on people’s nerves.

Dave moved toward me with a bowl full of chili. “This is good stuff, Baby Girl,” he said. His tone was light, but he had his detective face on, scrutinizing me. “You okay?” he asked under his breath.

“Not really.” I pulled my shirt away from my chest, fluffing air over my heated skin. “I’m claustrophobic. Probably anxious about my next step. I think being in a room full of people is making my nerves worse.”

“What do you want to do?” he asked, setting his food on the counter.

“Honestly? I need to go home and try to relax.”

“You think that’s a good idea? Being alone over there?”

“I’ll have the alarm on. You’re close enough to hear it if there is a problem. Justin said he’d come over after everyone left. The game’s almost over.”

Justin ambled over as Dave and I grabbed our coats. “You’re going home?”

“Yeah, I’ll see you when you’re done here,” I said.

Justin pulled on his coat and walked out the door with us, across the street, and up to my porch. Dave scanned the area. So did I.

“Are you okay being alone here right now?” Justin asked nervously, picking up on the stress Dave and I exuded. “You’re sure you don’t want to hang out and watch the rest of the game?”

“Thanks. It should be fine. I have some schoolwork to get done.” And all those people were plucking at my last nerve. I needed to be still and calm, so I could focus. I wanted silence, so I could hear. My nerves sizzled and snapped. My breathing was shallow and irregular.

“You’re sure?” Justin asked, again.

I pulled my gun from its holster.

Justin jumped back. “Jeezus!”

Nodding at Dave, I opened my door, went in, and reactivated the alarm.

Inside, I picked up my Springfield 9mm; it was heavier—I’d have a better shot if I needed it. My Ruger nestled back in my belly holster. I went through the house and checked my security. Clear. Locked up tight. Absolute silence. Everything as it should have been.

Panic will kill you, Lexicon. It makes you unable in mind and body,
Spyder’s whispered mantra tickled the far edge of my awareness. I needed to get hold of my nerves. Stress was making me nauseous, and I decided to take a hot shower to calm myself down.

I undressed in the bathroom. Lifting the hamper lid, my peripheral vision caught a dark face reflected in the mirror. I gasped, my brain processing like a camera with an open shutter. Click. Tribal tattoos. Click. Gas mask. Click. Sink on right. Click. White cloth. Click. Sweet odor. Click. No alarm. Click. No help.

While my mind snapped perceptions, my body acted from training. I lowered my hips to drop my weight for better balance and leverage. My left leg swung behind his. I bent my knee in a swift, sharp move as I reached over my head, grasping his shirt to put him on the floor.

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 …

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?