Weakest Lynx (6 page)

Mrs. Miller clucked and fussed as she pulled me into the kitchen and over to a chair at the table. “Perfect timing for an early lunch. I cooked up a nice Brunswick stew, and I’m putting some in this here Tupperware for you to take home with you.”

The three of us sat down at the round table. Big white pottery bowls steamed with Mrs. Miller’s hearty stew. Fresh bread and apple butter rested on the cobalt-blue tablecloth.

“So, sweetie, I want you to tell me everything. Who are you partnered with while Spyder’s off-grid?” Mrs. Miller unfolded her napkin and laid it in her lap.

“No one, ma’am. I’m out of the business.” I ladled some stew into my bowl.

The Millers looked at each other for a minute then back to me “Out altogether?” Mr. Miller pulled at his ear lobe as he locked disbelieving eyes on me. “You’re not on anyone’s payroll?”

“You have to remember,” I said, taking a sip of water. “I worked directly for Spyder. He’s the one who made the contacts. With him gone, I don’t have anyone handing me cases.”

“Surely someone else wants to put your skills to good use.” Mrs. Miller clunked her spoon down.

“No, ma’am. I’m not in the market for a new partner. I decided to focus on school. There’s only one more semester left before I finish at the community college then I’ll apply to a four-year and see where that takes me. Maybe I’ll stay home and be a mom.”

“Hard to believe, Lexi. What made you come to that decision?” Mrs. Miller considered me through squinty eyes, like she couldn’t quite make me out.

“I thought choosing a normal kind of life would be better for me in the long run. You know, hearth and home, raising children—no, I’m not pregnant.” Both of the Millers had settled their gaze on my stomach.

“Average?” Mr. Miller asked. Then, they burst out laughing.

“
What
? WHAT? Why are you making fun of me?”

“Because water will always find level, sweet girl.” Mr. Miller spooned up more stew.

I blushed. “I don’t understand.”

Mrs. Miller smiled, “Oh, honey, you’ve never led a typical life, you don’t know how to lead a typical life. Your life was cut out of a more colorful fabric.”

I twisted my fingers fretfully in my lap.

“Why, Lexi, look at what happens when you try to be average,” she continued. “You marry a man you’ve known for three weeks—met him when your apartment caught fire, didn’t you? Come on now, who does that?”

She meant it kindly, but as tightly wound as I was, it felt like an attack. My eyes hardened, and I puckered my lips to keep defensive words from jumping out of my mouth.

“You get one night of honeymoon, and he’s off to war for a year or more. You buy a house, but it’s not an average house. It’s going to take above-average work to even make it livable.”

She wasn’t stopping, was she? Couldn’t she tell she was ticking me off? That this hurt? Besides this was absolutely none of her business.

“You’re just not an average person, Lexi.” Mrs. Miller reached over and patted my hand.

“Maybe not, but I’m going to give it a shot anyway.” I’d made my decision. I wanted to get on with my life. My new life. I didn’t want Iniquus and crime puzzles to take up any of my brain space—at least not until Spyder got back home.

“Okay,” Mr. Miller joggled his spoon at me. “Even though you say you’re out of the business …”

“I am!” I punctuated my conviction by pounding a fist into my thigh.

Mr. Miller raised a single brow at me—I couldn’t tell if it was from surprise or a warning to watch my manners. “You’re still going to keep the pups’ training up, right?” He tilted a questioning head to the side. “And you’ll help out from time to time on the adventure side of our business?”

I glanced down at Beetle and Bella lying at my feet. They seemed so peaceful with their heads resting on their paws and their lids drooping half-mast. “I’ll barter with you,” I said. “I want to teach Beetle and Bella some cadaver scent skills for my Search and Rescue team at the Rescue Squad.”

“Deal. Now if you’re done with your lunch, let’s get the dogs out. Run them through some trials.” At the door, he looked around at me. “You have your gun loaded?”

I took my dogs to the starting line. Mr. Miller held his binoculars and a pad of paper, ready to take notes on where I could improve my run-through times.

When the whistle sounded, I raced forward and dove under a bush, waiting for my next signal to move. A bright pink paintball pellet caught my eye. I reached out my hand, and wondered if this was mine from two years ago when I fought my first paintball war here on the Millers’ farm.

I was eighteen, and Spyder had arranged for me to take his place on the Iniquus team. Iniquus was pretty secretive. At the time, I only had a vague understanding of what his job actually entailed.
I still only have a vague idea,
I thought, tossing the paintball back under the bush

Mr. Miller blew his whistle, telling me to move to my next target. I signaled a shift to the right, and my dogs inched forward soundlessly, I aimed my Springfield 9mm and shot a bulls-eye on the practice dummy.

The dogs and I ran full-out up the hill and rolled into place at the next sniper’s nest.

In the first paintball war, I’d been showing Master Wang’s stealth technique called “shadow walking” to Spyder. It was a much more graceful and skillful method than the one I was using now.

That day, I found myself out in the woods, prowling in my soft-soled shoes like a tiger in the jungle, Master Wang style. I became a shadow. Keeping the sun behind me, I concentrated on being one with my environment. When the enemy appeared, I nailed him full-torso with my hot pink paintball, slipping silently, seamlessly, into the brush so they couldn’t track me.

Back then, I dressed in gray—baggy cargo pants, loose T-shirt, knit cap, sunglasses, and an enormous sweatshirt with the hood up, hiding the sides of my face—no one knew I had girly curves. Laying here in the mud with Beetle panting by my ear, I remembered how the Iniquus men had looked me over and discounted me right away. Took me for a little twerp. Didn’t even make room for me in their huddle as they discussed strategy. I had glanced over at Spyder, and he gave me a grin. Their disinterest wouldn’t last long.

The team had handed me the only paint color left. Hot pink. Some of the men laughed and slapped me on the back, making sardonic remarks. Not Striker, the team lead. He seemed concerned that not having Spyder running would leave them one man down and put them at a disadvantage, but he didn’t give me shit like the others.

Maybe Striker would be in command again at the May war, and I’d get to see him. The blush that rose up my face felt like a sunburn as I recalled my huge case of hero-worship and the mad crush I had on Striker. Who wouldn’t? Striker was movie-star handsome with the build and brainpower required to be in Special Ops Forces. He also had the solid unflappability of a Zen master, I remembered as I waited for Mr. Miller’s signal.

Sometimes Mr. Miller liked to test my patience and ability to lay low by leaving me in the mud for long, cold stretches. I tried to channel a little of Striker’s Zen quietude. I was out of practice with my field skills—I bet Mr. Miller was marking my scorecard with all the times I gave away my position.

I slowed my breath and forced my thoughts away from Striker to the itch on my right thigh and poor Bella’s terrible case of gas. The whistle blew. I shot three bullets and ran for the next station—my knees stiff with mud; twigs and debris clinging to my hair—and threw myself under the rocky ledge. My girls wedged in beside me.

On signal, I shot the target with the requisite three bullets and reloaded. I ran up the hill, then down the streambed. My dogs’ little tails waggled furiously. This was pretty great. I grinned broadly as I carefully jumped from rock to rock. As fun as speed trials were, I’d prefer to be practicing Master Wang style. Bummer I couldn’t reveal my technique to Mr. Miller, or he’d know Alex and I were the same person. Boy would that piss Spyder off.

I finished the two-mile sprint to the next nest. Beetle and Bella were in a down-stay behind a pile of rocks while I climbed the rope to the top of the wall, shot, and slid my way back down. Mr. Miller was waiting for me at the bottom with a grin and my scorecard. He handed me a canteen, and I bent to pour the cool water over my neck. Any Stalker stress I drove in with today had worn clean away.

Mr. Miller and I walked toward the house where I sat on the edge of my trunk, pulled off my combat boots and socks, and replaced them with sparkly flip-flops that matched the hot-pink polish on my toenails—back in my fluff-mode disguise. I signaled to Beetle and Bella, and they scrambled into my backseat. I turned to give the Millers a final hug.

With a beep of my horn and a wave out the window, I steered toward our little house. I couldn’t wait to get home.
Home.
Where I’d be secure with my new, state-of-the-art alarm system. At least that was what I was telling myself.

Besides, how could anyone possibly get at me with Beetle and Bella by my side? With that thought, my skin went inexplicably cold and clammy. Gooseflesh made the little hairs on my arm stand straight up. Any sense of “safe” flew out my open window.

T
he tattoo sounding at my front door could only be banged out by one person, but I pushed to my feet and peered through the peephole anyway. Precaution. After pressing the buttons to disengage the alarm, I let Dave in.

“I got your message.” He sauntered past me and dropped onto the couch, the only piece of furniture in my living room.

I returned to my place on the floor, rested my head on Bella’s belly, and stared at my wall. Beetle lolled in a little stream of sunshine on the bare wood, looking peaceful.

“You’ve been busy redecorating,” Dave said. “Interesting choice of wallpaper.”

I had lined the wall with white newsprint from a roll I bought cheap at the salvage shop. The words from each of the poems I received—penned in block letters with a Sharpie—loomed above me. Variances circled in red. The correct verse to the side in blue. I had just finished writing out today’s new addition. I found poem number three, accompanied by a wriggling glob of night crawlers, tucked into my newspaper after my run this morning. Oscar Wilde’s adulterated “Apologia.”

Is this thy will that I should wax and wane,

Barter my soul of gold for hodden gray,

And at thy pleasure weave a web of pain

Whose brightest threads are your screams?

Is this thy will,

That your Soul’s House should be a tortured spot

Wherein, like evil paramours, must dwell

The quenchless flame, and the worm which dieth not?

“Do you want to explain your system?” Dave asked.

“Sure. I circled the word changes, making lists—original words, new words, beginning letters. I was looking for anagrams.”

“And?”

“Nada. Then I thought there might be something in a foreign language, so I ran variations through Google Translator.”

“That sounds like it took some time.” Dave unbuttoned his coat and shoved his wool hat into the pocket.

“Yeah, I’m not sleeping anyway. I might as well keep my brain busy with productive thoughts.”

Dave pulled the throw pillow out from behind his back and tossed it to the other end of the sofa. “I bet you got nothing in the translation direction.”

“Wrong. Turns out Stalker spelled out ‘I am the walrus’ in Swahili.”

Dave shot me a sardonic grin. “Smart aleck.”

I waited while he read the newest poem on the wall.

“The letter was wrapped in my newspaper this morning.” I sat up and clutched my arms around my bent knees. “I asked around. No one in the neighborhood saw anything unusual. Apparently, the only ones awake at dawn were Stalker, the newspaper carrier, and me. And you, of course. How’d the case go?”

“Blood, guts, and shotgun shells. Did you check in with the delivery kid?”

I nodded. “Pete. Twelve-year-old boy from two blocks over. He brought the paper while the girls and I ran in the park. Pete said he hadn’t seen any cars drive by or anybody else up and around, no other joggers, or people heading in to work.” I chewed at my cuticle. “I hate this man coming into the neighborhood. Up to my house. If he has to stalk me, I much prefer he keep his distance, leave the letters on my vehicles while I’m out.”

“Did this one stink like a swamp to you?” Dave asked.

“To be honest, I wish I had a control knob on this psychic stuff. The smell is nauseating and doesn’t go away. I never get a break from thinking about Stalker.”

“So has your antenna picked up anything else over the psychic network?”

I rolled my eyes up in my head. This was why I didn’t like people knowing I had ESP skills. They assumed information was easily dialed up—whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted. Which it wasn’t. Or I’d be playing the lottery every week.

“Dave, you love the ocean. Look around you. Do you see waves and sand? Hear gulls? Can you smell the salt air?”

“Where are you going with this?” He crossed his arms over his chest and cocked his head to the side.

“You’ve got five perfectly good senses, but that doesn’t mean you can conjure something up when you want to.”

“True.” Dave’s voice crackled with phlegm, and he cleared his throat.

“Same here. I can’t just summon up the answers out of thin air with my sixth sense. I get what I get, when I get it. Mostly.” I pushed my hair back behind my ears.

“You located our dog easy enough when she went missing.”

“That was child’s play. Pets are simple. They want to be found. This guy doesn’t. Right now all I get is swamp gas filling my nostrils and this morning …” I pursed my lips as my stomach rolled over.

Dave scooted to the edge of the couch, his elbows on his knees, looking down at me expectantly. “What did you pick up on?”

“Nothing helpful. That’s for darned sure. When I got home, it felt like he contaminated my stairs and porch with a vile disease. I found myself holding my breath as I walked from front door to sidewalk—from sidewalk to front door. I didn’t want to be infected with his contagion.”