Weakest Lynx (2 page)

“Were you assigned a different partner while he’s gone?”

“No, sir. I only ever worked for Spyder—he sort of wanted to keep me a secret.” I still couldn’t believe Mom had sat Dave down and told him all about my apprenticeship with Spyder McGraw. Under Spyder’s tutelage, I was following my dream of becoming an Intelligence Officer, learning to outthink and outmaneuver the bad guys trying to hurt American interests. Only four people—Spyder, the Millers, and Dave—knew that side of me. I would prefer Dave didn’t know.

“Still, did you consider bringing this to Spyder’s commander? Iniquus would probably give him a heads-up. Get a message to him.”

“Iniquus is my last resort. Sure, Spyder told me to talk to them if I ever found myself in trouble.” I sucked in a deep breath of air. “Bottom line? He never wanted them to know I worked for him, well, for them … Safety in anonymity and all that.” My fingers kneaded the stuffing in the pillow. “Besides, I guess I was hoping this would all just go away.”

Dave’s eyes were hard and unblinking. “You know better. Once some psycho’s caught you on his radar, you’re stuck there until someone wins.”

“So I need to make sure it’s me who wins.” I moved the pillow to the side and rubbed my palms on my thighs to dry them.

“Exactly right.” He considered me for a minute. “You’ve kept up with your martial arts training?”

“I have a sparring partner who’s pretty good. We rent time at a Dojang twice a week.”

I focused up where the ceiling and the wall made a shadowed crease while Dave read over the poem again. He put the letter and envelope back in the Ziploc and placed it on his mantle.

Pulling off his gloves with a snap, he looked down at them. “Jeez, I hate these things. They give me a rash. Look, I’m going to take this down to the station and open a file. If you get anything else, I want you to bring it to me right away. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“This is the only poem, letter, communication of any kind you’ve gotten?”

I nodded. For the first time since I came into Dave’s house, I became aware of sounds other than our conversation and the thrumming of blood behind my eardrums. A football game played on TV. I glanced over as the announcer yelled some gibberish about a first down, then back at Dave. “You must have taken graveyard shift last night,” I said.

He picked up a remote, zapped off the TV, and sent me a raised eyebrow.

“It doesn’t take a psychic. You look like an unmade bed.”

Dave ran a hand over his dark hair, thick on the sides, sparse on top. He hadn’t used a comb today or bothered to shave. He was hanging-out-at-home comfy in jeans, and beat-to-hell tennis shoes. It looked like the only thing I was interrupting was the game rerun.

“Double homicide. Turned into a long night up to my ankles in sewage.”

“Yum.” I tried on a smile, but it was plastic and contrived.

Dave narrowed his eyes. “We need to move you. Pronto. It’s priority one. You need to be someplace secure where I can keep better tabs on you.”

“I’ve been looking since the fire, but I haven’t found anything.”

“Would you consider buying?” he asked.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I’m looking for a low-cost fixer-upper I can work on to help me get through this year without Angel. Diversion and all that.” I waggled my hand in the air.

“How about here in my neighborhood? I could keep a better eye on you—and you won’t be showing up at my door with a suitcase full of surprises.”

I grimaced and followed Dave into the hallway. He grabbed his coat from the closet and shrugged it on. “I’m taking you over to meet my neighbor. She has the other half of her duplex on the market.” He looked over his shoulder at me. “You shouldn’t be running around without a jacket.” He handed me an oversized wool parka that smelled like raking leaves. He kicked a Tonka truck out of the way to shut the door.

On the front porch, I slid into the shadows and took in the length of the road. No cars, no barking dogs, everything quiet. Dave glanced back. “Coast is clear.”

I tucked the coat hood up over my ponytail. Screened by Dave’s broad back, I started across the street. Down the road, a car motor revved. I reached under my shirt and pulled out my gun.

A
rusty “For Sale by Owner” sign swung from the porch rail. Bare wood showed through the curling paint. I rocked back on my heels, as my skeptical eye took in the turn-of-the-century duplex. “A big snow storm’s heading this way in a few days. You think the roof will hold?” I asked.

Dave gazed up at the roofline. “It’s not in the best shape,” he conceded. “But of the houses for sale around here, this one might fit your budget.”

“It’s been on the market awhile?”

“Two years. So the price tag is bottom basement.”

“Okay.” I kicked at the sidewalk. “I’m keeping an open mind.”

Dave turned his gaze, following my arm to where I held the Ruger under the fold of my coat. He gripped my shoulders, pushed me toward the ancient oak standing sentinel in front of the house, and scanned up and down the street. His attention back on me, Dave wagged a stern finger. “I didn’t see that. What’s more, you’re going to make damned sure no one else sees that, or you’ll end up in a jail cell.”

I nodded my understanding.

“You’ve been up to the shooting range lately?” he asked.

“Once a week,” I said.

“Good.” He checked the neighborhood again. “Wait here.”

As Dave clomped up the rickety steps, I holstered the gun. He banged on the door, and a tiny woman with a stooped back and cane pushed open the screen. Her translucent skin, stippled with age spots, creased as she smiled up at Dave.

“Hello, David. What a lovely surprise.” She held the door wide. “Won’t you come in for a cup of tea?”

“I brought a friend to meet you.” Dave gestured toward me, and I climbed the stairs to stand beside him in her living room. She might have been all of five feet tall. At five six, I towered over her.

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
a
n 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.

B
y 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 hope 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.