Weakest Lynx (19 page)

Jack handed me the remote for the TV. He laid a cold, damp cloth over my forehead. It offered me some relief.

I rolled my eyes up to get Jack in view. “Thank you so much.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Then they left. And I lay there. Alone in the safe house.

The wide sofa cushions were comfortable, but I still flopped like a fish in the sun as I tried to find a position to fall asleep. I always slept on my belly, curled around a pillow, one knee folded up jack-knife style—obviously not a possibility right now. After a few minutes, I gave it up, picked up the remote, and flipped through the television channels a few times. I hoped something would catch my attention. I desperately needed a distraction.

I flung my covers off and clambered to my feet. Okay. I needed to keep my hands busy. Lying here listening to my mind whir around the details of my mess was making me go nuts.

I went to the kitchen, searching for something to make for dinner. The fridge stood completely empty except for various opened condiment bottles, two cans of beer, and some wilted vegetables. On the other hand, someone had stocked the freezer with all kinds of meats, frozen vegetables, fruits, some phyllo dough, and an empty Breyers ice cream box. Huh. I pulled the box out to throw in the trash.

The pantry housed a treasure trove of spices and canned goods. Nori sheets, Vegemite, shortbread, sauerkraut, dried ancho chilies. It seemed that whoever put together the cupboard was thinking United Nations. The wine rack in the space above held various reds and whites.

If I wanted to get something together for dinner, I needed to get the meat defrosting. The deli sandwiches or fast food I imagined would come in with the crew didn’t seem at all appetizing. Cooking would be therapeutic; I needed to sense my grandmothers were close. This seclusion wasn’t going to be as easy as it sounded when Dave told me the plan.

I rifled through the freezer to see if I could find ingredients for a stew, maybe even a boeuf bourguignon if I was lucky. Focus on cooking. Focus on something wholesome.

I had my head in the freezer; the cold air swirled around my face. It felt soothing and seemed to help me solidify some of my wobbly thoughts. Okay, my problem—a freaking serial killer was on the loose and on my trail. I needed to think, to systematically go through the information, to work with Iniquus to come up with a plan, and get Stalker chucked into prison.

My other problem—when I thought about that night, when I tried to think and puzzle through everything, I had an adrenaline dump. Even the fear of an adrenaline dump was punitive enough to make me want to cringe, hide, throw up my hands in surrender. I couldn’t … I just couldn’t deal with the physical and emotional pain.

I needed a strategy. How would I deal with my situation? Nothing like this ever came up in my training. I blew out through pursed lips, trying to slow my breathing and contain my anxiety as I dug around in the freezer and came up with some bacon.

Come on, Lexi. Take a step back, don’t think specifically about the case. What if you were dealing with someone else—a victim? How would you advise her?
What would Spyder do?
Well, he’d say trust the experts. Trust your team. I pulled out a bag of pearl onions and put them on the counter. If I were down for the count with medical issues, my Save-Lexi team members would have their eye on me and not on the ball. If I got medically worse, I’d end up back in a hospital and in more danger. Logically, the best way to move forward was to allow my team to do their job.

And for me to focus on healing as quickly as possible. What did that mean? Well, it meant focusing everywhere but on that ball. Take my head
out
of the proverbial game. Act counter to my intuition and training, and be that damned damsel in distress. I needed to let those knights ride after my dragon … while I sang a song with my fingers stuck in my ears and my eyes squeezed tightly together, focused on everything but
him
.

Could I do it? Hell, I didn’t know. Fluffy was my exterior disguise. I had never tried to disguise my interior thoughts before. It was going to be a challenge, for sure. Just like every other damn piece to this whole puzzling situation.

I
located stew meat. From what I had seen with the first four Iniquus men, these guys were massive; I’d wager they had appetites to match. We were eight in total. I’d better triple the recipe, which meant nine pounds of meat. I set the beef on the counter in a giant pile.

While the makings defrosted in the oven, I piddled away some time looking through magazines, pacing at the windows, and startling with every little sound. When the ingredients reached the point that they were usable, I sautéed my beef cubes and followed the inner voice of Nana Kate, adding the components to the stew pot, methodically going through Julia Child’s exacting steps.

Yes. Focus on Nana Kate. If she were here, she’d have me knitting. “Idle hands are the tools of the Devil,” she’d say. My hands weren’t the problem, Nana Kate! It was my mind. My idle mind was devilish for sure, dragging me toward my hellish thoughts of pain, and fear of pain … and fear of death.

“Lexi!” I admonished myself out loud. Okay—Nana Kate. Nana Kate, my Kitchen Grandmother from Nebraska, had a good, steady, no-nonsense attitude and a steel-colored bun on the top of her head. On most days, Nana Kate fed her family from the four food groups—good old-fashioned, tried-and-true, patriotic menus. But every once in a while, she got a touch of the mischief in her, and she’d pull out her Julia Child’s
Mastering the Art of French Cooking
cookbook. Then we’d revel in cassoulet and chocolate mousse, baguette, and tart tatin. And tonight boeuf bourguignon. Thank you, Nana Kate.

Soon, the glorious aromas from the oven replaced the safe house’s stale, unused smell. It would take three hours in a slow oven to realize the wonderful, fall-apart-in-your-mouth tenderness of the meat. I was starting to wear down. The anxiety, and the predawn start, were showing up in heavy arms and sagging shoulders.

In the laundry, I found a man’s button-down cotton shirt big enough for a giant. Jack’s? I didn’t think he’d mind me substituting this for my hospital gowns. I took two towels and the shirt into the bathroom with me. I untied the cotton strings, let the cover-ups fall to the ground, lifted off the communications necklace, and set it on the toilet tank for safekeeping.

Kneeling on the floor, I washed my hair under the bathtub faucet with tiny bottles of shampoo and conditioner—leftovers from someone’s hotel stay. I climbed into the tub with a little hot water. What I really wanted was a deep, hot bubble bath. Already this was better than the hospital where I had been sponge bathed. How embarrassing was that? I did my best to clean myself off and shave without getting my torso wet.

Suddenly, a bright, metallic clatter sounded downstairs. I froze. My heart hammered. I glanced wild-eyed around the room for a weapon. My gaze landed on my alert necklace. How far away was help? I didn’t expect my team until four. I strained for any telltale sounds. To locate their point of origin and determine what they could mean. To echo-discriminate. My blood drummed so loudly in my ears, the thrumming drowned out any other noise. Shit, Spyder was right.
Panic will kill you, Lexicon. It makes you unable in mind and body.
I pinched my nose at the bridge to stop my hyperventilation and steeled myself for action.

Holy hell! Crouching low, I crawled out of the tub. I stayed tightly tucked, squatting beside the sink—hyperprotective of my oh-so-vulnerable torso. I didn’t know if the doctors could put me as Humpty Dumpty back together again, since they had already managed the impossible once, barely. My thoughts sped through my brain, tripping and tumbling over each other. The last time I had been alone, naked, and vulnerable in a bathroom …

No. Do not! Do not go there.

I shut my eyes and tried desperately to suck oxygen into my lungs, and transfer it to my veins so my body and mind would respond appropriately.

Reaching out a shaking hand, I pulled the communicator back over my head. My thumb hovered, ready to press the button. I checked the lock on the bathroom door and shoved the doorstop tightly under the crack. Bracing the wedge in place with my heel, I reached for a towel to cover myself.

Ack! The bang sounded again—a sharp metallic clatter. This time, I recognized the clang of pots hitting against each other in the dishwasher. My breath came out in a whoosh. I moved to sit on the toilet seat, and waited for the swirling vertigo to still, and calm to return.

If I didn’t understand before, I certainly realized now that my brain could be my worst enemy. FDR, you weren’t perfectly right—there truly was more for me to fear than fear itself. But in this case, Stalker didn’t need to get to me; I was going to scare myself to death anticipating him.

Once I felt sure I had avoided an adrenaline dump, I pulled on the shirt—and pulled myself together, more or less. Finally, I braved a glance in the mirror. If nothing else, at least now I was more modest than in the hospital gowns. I was cleaner, too. I dragged my fingers through my wet hair like a comb then put the elastic band back around my ponytail. I’d love to have a hairdryer and flatiron.

There. Not my usual standards. Still, I was clean and warm and much calmer. Coping.  

I went down the stairs cajoling myself to focus on the mundane.

I can do this.

I cracked the oven door and peeked in at the bread. A craggy peasant crust had formed; I lifted the loaves out and set them on a broiler pan that served as my make-do cooling rack.

Breathe.

After turning off the oven and all of the lights, I slogged back to the sofa.

Good. I’m okay.

I realized I was counting my breaths. Four counts in, five counts out, four counts in … I raised my shirt and smoothed the antibiotic ointment over my torso and pulled the sheet and blankets up. I lay back comfortably against the pillow. Zapping on a cooking show with the TV remote to keep me company, I gratefully fell asleep.

At four on the dot, according to the wall clock, the telephone rang in the kitchen. The unexpected noise sprang me from my dreams, like a Jack-in-the-box, all wound up then
BOING!
I gripped my covers and stared at the phone. Supposedly, no one knew I was here, so I decided not to answer. After about ten rings, the caller gave up. Seconds later, the garage door ground open, and a car motored in. My hand wrapped around the Springfield, and I slid behind the back of the sofa, crouching down for the second time today—but I was pretty sure this was my team coming in. A knock sounded at the door that separates the house from the garage.

A voice called out, “Mrs. Sobado? It’s Axel and Deep from this morning, ma’am. May we come in?”

“Yes, hello,” I shouted back. I laid the gun down on the table in front of me and stood facing the door, which swung slowly open. The men paused before they moved cautiously into the room. Eyes on me.

I raised empty hands and gave them a reassuring smile. “I’m unarmed.”

My attention moved to the TV, which droned on about steaming fish in parchment. I pushed the “Off” button on the remote. I had real humans with me now; I didn’t need the background noise to give me a pretend sense of safety. Axel came over and checked my water, medicine, and food.

“You haven’t eaten anything we left you—did you take your meds on time?” Axel’s mouth stretched into a thin, displeased line.

“I had nervous stomach and couldn’t eat.” I gestured lamely at the sofa. “I fell asleep before I was due for my next dose.”

Axel looked closely at me—hard, scrutinizing eyes. My hands fumbled nervously at my shirt. He reached out for the prescriptions, opened the bottles, and put the pills on my open palm.

Deep’s voice came from the kitchen. “Oh, my God! Did you make this?” I looked around. Deep was standing in front of the stew pot, lid in one hand, empty spoon in the other, grin across his face.

“Don’t taste anything yet. Dinner’s not finished. I need to skim and reheat,” I called over to him. “I thought we all might enjoy something homemade. I didn’t know what Striker meant when he said he’d bring food in tonight.”

“He didn’t mean anything like this, that’s for sure.” Deep replaced the lid.

Axel made his way into the kitchen, opened the cutlery drawer, and pulled out his own spoon.

“Now come on,” I complained. “You can’t taste until it’s ready.”

“Ma’am, we’re charged with your safety. I need to make sure the ingredients are okay before I can allow you to eat this.” Axel spooned a large bite into his mouth and chewed slowly, looking over at me. “Mrs. Sobado, if you weren’t already married, I’d be driving you to the church right now. What is that?” A grin spread over my face—these guys were too easy if I could get them to fall in love with me over beef stew. Standing over the pot with his spoon in the air, Axel was a little less intimidating—a little.

“French stew,” I said.

“And the bread?” Axel asked.

“Beer bread. You didn’t have any yeast for a regular loaf.” I sat on the sofa with my back pressed against the arm and my feet stretching out under the covers. I tried to keep my stomach as straight as I could and still see the men.