Weakest Lynx (38 page)

Striker was by my side, reaching out for me. I raised protective arms. Warded him off. I skittered into the copse of trees like a wild animal. He stopped moving.

Tipping my head to look up to the sky, shaking, I vividly remembered last night’s nightmare. The bombs seemed closer than before. A shimmer framed the scene, the kind of atmospheric oscillation that danced around the words of a “knowing.” Troubled, I had clamped down tightly on those thoughts last night, trying not to give them room to grow.

Striker sat down, leaning back against the rough bark of the pine. “There is no case for us to work on. I brought you out here because I have information.”

I nodded and slipped to the ground, resting against a tree, too. The solidity pressed against my back.

“Since I realized why you were having nightmares, I’ve been contacting my government and military friends, trying to find out more about Angel’s mission.”

I stopped breathing.

“A call came in this morning. Angel’s squad was pinned in an ambush last night. Four wounded, two KIA. Angel is
not
one of them. I thought if you were picking up something with your ESP, you might be pretty frantic. I saw it in your eyes this morning when you walked in—despite your smile.”

I shook to the point my teeth rattled. Wanted to launch myself into Striker’s arms where I knew it felt safe—but that would be the wrong thing to do. Especially knowing how close it had been for Angel last night. I needed to put distance between Striker and me before I showed him another weakness. I owed him a thank-you. A big one. But instead, I stood up and walked away.

I popped two sleeping pills at nine o’clock, ready for the day to be over, already. The respite they offered me didn’t last. I woke in the middle of the night. Couldn’t go back to sleep. Beetle and Bella whined beside my bed and stuck their noses over the mattress, trying to see me, see what was wrong. Finally, I decided to get up and give my mind something to do other than search for the reason I felt isolated from reality. I disentangled myself from the bed sheets, damp with the perspiration of my Angel nightmare. No one to chant, “You are not alone.” I was alone.

I showered, then dressed myself in black bra and panties, black stockings and garter belt, black heels, black raw silk suit. No jewelry. No makeup. No perfume. I brushed my hair back into a ponytail, pulling it only halfway through on the last turn of the elastic band to make a bun of sorts. I looked in the mirror; huge pupils in enormous eyes in an austere face stared back at me. Pale. I didn’t really recognize the reflection as my own, some vague portrait hanging on a blank wall.

Grasping my big leather bag from beneath the side table in my foyer, I scooped my keys from the bowl. The metal on glass as I lifted the fob seemed to echo through my house. The sound had a hollow feel. I activated the alarm system, and twisted to call my dogs, only to find they were already beside me. We went out the door.

When I turned to lock up, I registered the cold, damp air on my skin.
I should get my coat.
The thought didn’t produce the desired action.

I took a step out onto the porch. The neighborhood was at rest; my neighbors all snuggled warm in their beds, each with their own dreams. Every clack of my high heels on the sidewalk echoed large against the stillness. I opened the back door of my car, my dogs climbed in, and I found my place behind the wheel.

Now where?

I decided to head to Iniquus—the only place I knew where I could be both alone and surrounded by warm bodies at this time of night. I needed warm bodies right now. I had disconnected; it was like floating to the left of where I should actually be. It felt eerie.

At Iniquus, I headed straight to the Puzzle Room not wanting to talk to anyone. Shut the door. Sat down. My dogs found their places under the table. After a minute, I jumped up. Panic and claustrophobia had tightened over my chest with the door closed. I jerked it back open so I could stave off the loneliness swelling each of my cells.

I thought maybe work would help ground me—help me shake off whatever was holding me in its grip. I laid out the puzzle pieces for the newest case—clues Gater had gathered from a suspect’s house. The team wanted me to find the bad guy’s location. I sat in my black leather chair and stared at the wall in front of me.

At some point, one of the men coaxed Beetle and Bella out from under my feet, whispering, “Eat.” Good. My dogs weren’t suffering. Someone would feed and walk them. Water was poured into their bowls after they returned, moping under my table, warming my legs with their bodies. No one spoke to me. My cheeks were wet from intermittent tears dripping down past my chin and plopping on the blank piece of paper in front of me.

Striker stuck his head in, then left. Murmuring hummed outside my door—concerned voices discussing me.

“She’s been like that since three this morning—the dogs, too,” someone said.

“She didn’t say anything at all, to anyone, when she came in?” Striker asked.

“Not a word, sir. She hasn’t moved,” came the reply.

I guessed Striker wasn’t sure if he was welcome, since I walked away from him yesterday. He didn’t get in my face. He let me be. I just sat, muffled by my body, buffered from the pedestrian comings and goings—the human motions of Iniquus.

A cup of tea was set beside me, and grew cold.

By two in the afternoon, my tears flowed in earnest. Striker came back in and rifled through the puzzle pieces of the case laid out before me. They didn’t seem to answer his questions. He looked at my still-blank, damp paper and the untouched pen. He stood solid and calm. His concern was tangible, and I knew he struggled to do the right thing here; to find the right words for whatever was happening. I was sure I looked like I was in the middle of a mental collapse. Maybe I was.

Striker’s cell phone vibrated. He stepped out of my room into the hall. He answered, “Striker.” Silence stretched like a rubber band while he listened to the caller, then snapped back as he said, “Send them up.” He disconnected.

Striker came silently back into the room, pulled out a side chair, and placed it near mine. Sitting down, he swiveled me to face him. He took my hands from my lap and enfolded them in his. He looked me in the eyes and waited for me to focus on him. This took a minute—I cowered deep within myself.

When I finally met his gaze, he spoke slowly and gently. “Two military officers are on their way up to speak to you.” I nodded comprehension. Reality still seemed pretty far away. I felt nothing but numbness. I wanted to stay numb. Deaf, dumb, blind, and numb. I wanted to cast a spell that would relieve me of my senses. Dread’s bony claws had clutched at my throat from the moment I woke up this morning. And now, everything I feared since Angel deployed was riding up the elevator to confront me.

As the two uniformed men came into my room, my body rose like a marionette’s, manipulated by unseen strings. I observed, as if an optical illusion, a right hand extend from my body and clasp the men’s hands in handshakes. My fingers were stiff from the ice in my veins. My disembodied voice said, “I am Mrs. Angel Miguel Sobado. Thank you gentlemen for your service. This must be a hard task.”

Their hats twisted back and forth between nervous fingers, contradicting their calm countenance. Someone suggested we sit. Striker reached out and guided my body back down into the chair. Striker pulled his seat even closer. His body pressed to my side, giving me stability and sharing his warmth.

I watched their mouths move. I knew they were giving me information about Angel’s death—my Angel’s …

I stood. “Wouldn’t you gentlemen like a cup of coffee? I need to excuse myself for a moment.” It came out stiff and formal. I walked on rigid legs from the room. Bella and Beetle whined under the table. I heard Striker soothing them and telling them to stay.

I found the hall and stumbled along with my shoulder to the wall. I ran into someone—I have no idea whom. I desperately needed privacy.

“Please help me. I need a soundproof room—there must be something here somewhere,” I said. I saw a face look at me and blink, confused. Then the face went military flat.

“Yes, ma’am, this way.”

We took the elevator down, past the garage, into a subbasement where cell-like rooms lined the corridor. I stumbled in and closed the door behind me. The man stood outside; before the door closed all the way, I heard him punching numbers into his cell phone.

He’s telling Striker where I’m hiding.

I took off my shoes and laid them on the unmade cot. I disengaged my stockings from the clasps on my garter belt and laid them alongside the belt. Then my suit coat. I walked to the far corner of the room and pushed my face up against the smooth, cool cell wall. I opened my mouth. I was beyond crying. I howled. Like a wild thing, I howled. Like a storm brought in by the ocean, I howled. I howled through tree limbs and uprooted great oaks with my despair. I howled to my husband—that the winds would carry my voice to the heavens, and he would hear my grief.

At one point, the door opened and closed—Striker. I kept up my lament. When Striker returned, he brought in a trash bin, bottles of water, boxes of Kleenex, and a white king-sized sheet. He laid the items near me—but didn’t interrupt me as I worked hard at my grief. He opened the sheet and worked a portion of the cloth into my right fist and then my left. “Rip it to shreds,” he whispered in my ear, and he left.

Rip it. Rip it—sounded good. I used my teeth to gnaw through the hem and then tore at it. Anger blazed hot and red. Pele anger. Fire anger. I wanted to be the Hindu goddess Kali Ma—the Destroyer. Kali of the wild eyes and bloody sword. I worked at annihilating the sheet—screaming and bellowing out my battle cry of rage against fate—against the self-pity consuming me. I ripped until I found myself kneeling in a nest of shredded linen and thread.

I collapsed onto the rags weak and spent, my nose encrusted with mucus, my eyes swollen shut from salty tears. Exhausted beyond measure, I fell asleep.

After some time, I became aware of hands: gentle, confident, and respectful. Two men untangled me from the fabric that had worked its way around my arms and legs. They pulled my skirt and blouse into place. A cool cloth wiped my face. Striker lifted me to my feet.

He and Jack took me to the barracks and laid me on Striker’s bed. A blanket as soft as the dawn covered me. Beetle and Bella snuggled up beside me, and lent me their warmth. I lost my awareness as I fell asleep, guarded and safe. The two men took turns at my side, holding my hand—this was balm. Their vigilance and focus had a healing quality. In many faiths, a little like Shemira in Judaism, this attention at a death was sacred. Their attention felt like prayer—it felt hallowed.

I could hear Master Wang whisper in my ear the words he said as he buried his beloved wife, Snow Bird; “Love is vulnerability.”

Master Wang and Spyder had both talked to me often about the great strength it took to be vulnerable—and my vulnerability served as my best weapon in this lifetime. Vulnerable. That word defined me in that moment.

The morning light warmed my face as I blinked my eyes open. Striker sat in a chair by my side. He reached out and covered my hand with his.

“Better?” he asked.

“Yes.” My husky voice felt broken-glass sharp, painful from the strain of yesterday.

“You scared the shit out of my men.”

“Mmm, and how exactly did I do that?”

“I opened the cell door, and it sounded like I had opened the gates of hell. My men were suited up in full combat gear, lined up, waiting for orders to kill Beelzebub.”

I smiled. If Striker could tease me, then he didn’t think of me as shattered beyond repair. Somehow that made me feel stronger, capable of handling this. Though, I was sure everything about me was horrific, and none of them had ever had to contend with someone like me before.

“Good call on the soundproof room,” he said, any teasing gone from his voice. He was all concern.

“My throat’s on fire.”

“I bet. What should I get you? Some of your tea? A stiff drink?”

“Tea, please.”

Striker handed me a pair of sweats and a T-shirt that were vaguely my size. He must have had them sent up from the supply room. When he left, I disentangled myself from the blanket. My blouse and skirt had wrapped themselves around and about, straitjacketing me.

The late November winds howled outside as I made my way to the bathroom with my new clothes and adjusted the temperature on my shower. The water ran hot over my skin as I cleaned myself of the previous day’s filth. I stood and let the water sluice over my shoulders and back.

I’ve dealt with death—battled grief too many times before. I knew the extreme level of emotion I experienced yesterday, the shrieks and the tears, were not sustainable. There would be intervals when I would be fine, and stretches when I would dissolve in pain. Right now, I floated on the cushion of a respite. I needed to use this time to make plans, and phone calls, to tell people what was going on, while I could. I needed to be gentle with myself when I succumbed to my loss. I knew it would be worse in the beginning, and then my mind would find its way back to normal—or more accurately, to a new normal.

I emerged from the shower, my skin red and warm. I toweled off and dressed. In the medicine cabinet, I found a toothbrush still in its cellophane wrap. I used Striker’s comb to untangle my long hair and pulled it back into a wet ponytail. I looked in the mirror. It was still my face, still my reflection. I had seen this same reflection all my life. Experience didn’t show up for the world to witness, to know. All of my stories were my secrets to hold or to share as I wished.

A knock sounded at the bathroom door, startling me out of my reverie, back to the here and now. The door pushed slowly open; Striker stuck his head in.

“Hey, you’ve been in here a really long time. I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

I put the comb back in the medicine cabinet and looked at him through his reflection. “I’m okay. My mind wandered.”

Striker walked over to me and took my hands. “Come on. I’m going to make you another cup of tea. The last one’s cold.”