by Fiona Quinn
“The cake recipe belongs to Nona Sophia. The bull’s eye decoration I’m working on, I learned from Nana Kate. She’s a Wilton cake-decorating pro.” I took a sip of iced tea. “In my neighborhood, where I’m living now, I loved to make the cakes for the kids’ birthdays. I got to design a theme cake, and go over and do a few magic tricks to entertain them.” I sounded wistful as my mind wandered homeward. Not good. I desperately searched for a safer subject where I could rest my thoughts.
“Magic? Would you show us something?” Striker asked.
“Sure.” I jumped up from the table, grateful for the distraction. Let me see, something complicated so it has my full attention. I asked the men to stand in a circle with me. I turned to Striker. “Do you carry a wallet or identification?”
“Yes.”
“May I see?”
“Yup.” He put his hand into the pocket on the right thigh of his cargo pants and pulled out a gold credit-card case and a money clip. He opened the case to show me his cards and driver’s license. From the opposite thigh, he pulled out his ID with his picture and the Iniquus emblem.
“Thank you,” I said, “you can put them back now.”
I turned to Axel, who stood to the right of Striker in our circle. Axel performed the same actions as Striker, only he had a silver card carrier. I turned to Gater on Axel’s right. He pulled out a slender camouflage wallet and his ID from the same right-hand pocket, and after I inspected them, he put them away again.
“Hmm. This doesn’t make sense to me.” I glanced around at the men, who watched me closely, trying to catch me at whatever I was about to do. I tapped my chin with my index finger as if I were thinking hard.
“Let me get this straight. We have four people in our circle. The names of the people are Lexi, Striker, Axel, and Gater. I think you men are trying to pull the wool over my eyes. You told me your names, but that doesn’t work out. I know for a fact the only one in this circle without an ID is someone named Lexi.” I held out my hand to Axel. “How do you do, Gater?” I shook his hand, then I held out my hand to Striker. “How do you do, Axel?” We shook hands. I turned to Gater on my left and said, “Hi, my name is Striker, and you must be Lexi, since you’re the only one without ID.” Gater shook my hand. They squinted at me.
“Go ahead, Lexi,” I said to Gater, “check your pockets.” Gater reached in to find nothing but empty pocket.
“And you, Gater?” I asked Axel. Axel reached in his left pocket—empty. He reached into his right pocket and found Gater’s wallet and ID.
I turned to Striker. “And you, Axel?” He reached into his left pocket and pulled out Axel’s ID. He reached into his right pocket and pulled out a silver money clip and gold credit-card holder. Striker opened the card case to show me his credit cards; they had Axel’s correct name on them. I reached into my lounge pants’ pockets. The left had an ID that read Gavin Rheas, and the right pocket had Axel’s silver cardholder; the cards inside were issued to Gavin.
“Fuckin’ A!” Gater hollered, jumping backwards like he’d been bit by a snake. He scrubbed his hands through his hair. “That’s damned freaky! Oh, man. I’m all freaked out! How’d you do that? I was watching you the whole time. You’re standing three inches from me. I didn’t see anything. I didn’t feel anything. Freaking insane, man. Oh, my gawd!”
Axel smiled broadly. “You have an amazing talent, ma’am. Truly. How did you do it?”
“Magic.” I lifted my hands and wiggled my fingers like a illusionist conjuring a rabbit from a hat, smiling broadly. I loved to freak people out.
Striker narrowed his eyes and shook his head slowly from side to side. “At some point you’ll stop surprising me—I’ll be ready for any damn thing you say or do.”
“Aw. What fun would that be?” I asked.
“None, I guess. Is that from a Kitchen Grandma? Or someone else from your apartment building?”
“Another mentor.” The stove dinged. Saved by the birthday cake. I scooted into the kitchen while the men got all of their things back in the right person’s pockets.
Striker and Axel headed out for a mission.
When the cake had cooled, I piped the decoration. Gater settled on a bar stool to watch me. “What are you fixing next?”
“I have to make the pasta for the manicotti.”
“You do that by hand? You don’t buy the stuff already made?”
“Nope—all by hand.”
By the time I popped the pan in the oven, the rhythm in my head was beating so hard my temples throbbed under my fingers. I needed to go lay down. I washed my hands and reached for a towel, when the world tilted. Next thing I knew, Gater was carrying me to the sofa where he lay me gently down.
“Sorry,” I murmured, eyes shut.
“You’re okay, ma’am, I get a hundred points, now I’m in the lead.”
“What?” I peeked at Gater from under my hands. He was squatting by my side, unfolding a blanket.
“We have a little contest going. Different points for different saves when you get vertigo. The most points go to a full catch.” He covered me up.
“Does Striker know about this?”
Gater shrugged. “I’m not sure, ma’am.”
“Doesn’t this game encourage people to wait ’til I’m about to hit the floor?”
Gater shot me a good-ol’-boy grin. “Nah, we wouldn’t let no harm come to you. We like you too much.” He waggled a finger at me. “Now, that might not be true if you turned out to be a pain in the rear or your cooking weren’t so good.”
“Mmm, I’ll try to keep that in mind.” I shut my eyes and fell asleep.
The whisper of a hushed conversation tickled me awake. All seven of the Save-Lexi Team had assembled in the dining room. Someone had set the table, and they were deep in conversation about Iniquus business. I went upstairs to change my clothes and pull a brush through my hair. Coming back down, I gave a smile and a wave to everyone. I went into the kitchen and removed the antipasto and a platter of melon wedges wrapped in prosciutto from the fridge. Gater came up behind me and lifted the dishes from my hands to take them over to the table.
“Gater, are you helping me with those trays because you’re a gentleman? Or are you afraid I’ll pass out and your dinner will roll across the floor?” I teased.
Gater grinned down at me. “Little bit of both, ma’am.”
Deep came over to me. “Che bello! Sembra deilicous!” He kissed me on each cheek.
“Buon compleano, Deep.”
Deep leaned his head back and sniffed the air. “It smells like Mama’s kitchen. Grazie.”
As we all sat down, the men talked excitedly about a case they’d just finished. I knew Deep had been following up on the Stalker leads pouring in from all the news attention. But I didn’t ask for details, and he didn’t tell me anything, thank God.
Gater, a natural-born storyteller, regaled us with some outrageously tall tales about missions he and Deep had been on together over the years. My eyes were streaming from laughing so hard. I gripped at the stitch in my side. When Gater finished telling a particularly amazing tale of do-or-die, he told the other men, “That weren’t nothing compared to what I done seen today.”
Everyone grew quiet, attention focused. And Gater told the story of my magic trick. It sounded incredible in the retelling—even I was impressed. The guys loudly demanded that I perform the trick again.
I held my hands up. “Sorry. I only do my tricks once. If you can’t figure it out the first time, I’m not going to give you a second shot.”
“Okay then,” Deep said. “How about a different trick?”
I tipped my head and considered him. I didn’t have a set up, so the options at my disposal were pretty slim. Hmm, hmm, hmm. “To celebrate your birthday, I guess I will do a little magic.” I went over to the buffet and pulled out a plain white envelope. I went to the bookshelf and pulled out a book then moved back to my seat. I passed the envelope around the table.
“Plain white envelop
e. Would everyone agree?”
All the heads nodded.
“Someone please hand it to the birthday boy. Deep, I’d like you to inspect the envelope one more time, and make sure there’s nothing in it and nothing unusual about it. If you agree, I want you to lick the tab and seal it, then put it under your bottom.”
Deep followed my instructions.
“Don’t let anyone touch the envelope, Deep,” I warned.
“You have my word, ma’am.”
“Now, I think we should read something to Deep. Sometimes, when I need direction, I like to open a random book, turn to a page haphazardly, and let the mystic unknown direct me to a passage that will give me good counsel. Why don’t I give this book to you, Jack, you can do the honors of opening it up and reading a paragraph so we can all hear some words of wisdom directed toward Deep’s upcoming year.”
Jack opened the book and read, “The storm rose wildly and pulled from the garden all of the beautifully petaled flowers. Seeing the devastation, strangers, from their goodness, entered the garden, removed the debris, and planted the seeds of a new harvest.”
I was dumbstruck. Surely this passage was meant for me. These men were the strangers come to help. Hope tingled through me. I considered the book title. Chinese Fortunes. My thoughts went to Snow Bird Wang and how she cast the I Ching for direction. That I had picked this particular book from the shelf seemed like a good omen. Jack’s voice jostled me back from my reverie. “Ma’am, are you okay? Do you need to lie down for a minute?”
“No, no.” I shook myself back to the present. “Excuse me. Jack, would you read it one more time for me?”
Jack did.
“Will you tell me the page number, please?”
“109, ma’am.”
I reached my hand out for the book. “109, 109.” I shut the cover and laid it back on the table. “Deep, what a beautiful birthday fortune. I would guess you’ll either be the recipient of a good deed, or you will be performing an act of kindness, in the near future. Lovely.” I wandered around the table toward Deep as I spoke. Once I finished making a circle, I tapped at my chin. “What else could this mean? Perhaps the garden is a fair maiden for you, Deep. Do you have a girlfriend?”
Laughter bubbled up. “Not any one in particular, ma’am,” Deep said.
“Maybe this has nothing to do with girls. I thought of girls because usually it’s a female who’s represented with the flower metaphor. Hmm. Did it say flower, Jack? Should we be thinking in the direction of a girl? Hey, Randy, grab the book, turn to page 109, and remind me, again. Did it say flower or garden?”
Randy reached over the table and took the book. He sat back in his seat, opened the cover, and flipped through the pages. He rifled the pages more slowly, then glanced around the table, and back at me. “There is no page 109, ma’am.”
“What? Impossible. Jack read to us from 109. Pass the book to Blaze. Blaze, would you please read the passage at the top of page 109?” I walked around the table again to get over behind Blaze.
“Page 109 has been torn out, ma’am.”
“Jack, did you rip the page out when you were reading?”
“No ma’am. I read it then handed it to you the way you asked.” A smile came over his lips. I could tell he was having fun.
“Hmm. Well, the birthday message was meant for Deep. Deep, did you tear the passage out?”
“No, ma’am, I didn’t.”
“I don’t believe you, Deep.” I waggled an accusatory finger. “I think you did, and what’s more, I bet you put it in your secret envelope under your bottom so no one else could share in your birthday oracle.”
“No, ma’am, I’ve been sitting on this envelope, and I made sure no one touched it.”
“Show me,” I said.
“What?”
“I want you to take that envelope out from under you and open it up to prove you don’t have anything hidden there.”
Deep reached under him and pulled out the envelope, slightly crumpled and creased from his weight. He checked the seal—still intact. He tore the envelope open, reached inside and pulled out the torn page with the number 109. All eyes and mouths opened wide.
“Deep,” I said, “why don’t you hand that back to Jack, so he can make sure we have the right page?”
Deep held the paper out to Jack who opened the book and matched up the edges.
“It’s the correct page, alright!”
Applause was punctuated with some hooting and whooping. I dropped a little curtsey. “Thank you. Thank you, gentlemen, for your kind attention.” I glanced around at the men’s faces, and my breath caught. I saw acceptance written there, and belonging. I wasn’t a lone wolf facing Stalker on my own. These men weren’t just coldly doing their jobs. Gater had said as much when he caught me. “We like you too much,” he had said. And right now I truly felt it. They had accepted me into their pack, and that made me feel … Happy. Honored … Safe.
Striker sat at the head of the table. He leaned back in his chair with his hands laced behind his neck; a little smile played across his lips. “When we met, you asked me for a call name. I think we need to call you ‘Surprise Party.’”
“Too many syllables,” I quipped, and went to light the candles on Deep’s birthday cake.
Twenty-Four
Thursday, my fourth day at the safe house. I made my way downstairs to find out who pulled the watchdog straw.
Striker sat at the table tapping on his keyboard. When I slid onto my seat, he saved his work and moved his computer over to the buffet. He looked at his watch. “Good morning.”
“It is. I slept better than I have in a long time. How are you?”
“Just fine.”
I smiled shyly and glanced around. We seemed to be alone. “Who’s on today?”
“Me. I need to talk to you. Blaze left you breakfast.”
I wandered into the kitchen. A bowl of fruit covered with plastic wrap and a basket of muffins sat on the counter. From the oven, I pulled out a casserole and sniffed—sausage, cheese, eggs, and vegetables. Yummy.
Sitting down at the end of the table, across from Striker, I said a little prayer of thanksgiving to myself. I breathed in the aromas. I still worked hard at the full-time job of controlling my thoughts. Keeping a tight grip. Almost thirty-six hours had gone by since the last adrenaline spike, and I meant to keep this streak going. So right now, I’d focus on breakfast. Everything looked fresh and wholesome, creating a colorful plate.
Striker studied me. “I like the way you eat.”
I peeked up. Striker’s green eyes were soft this morning, warmed with affection. I smiled back at him. “How do you mean?” I spooned a cube of melon into my mouth self-consciously.
“It’s sensuous. You never eat much, but you really seem to enjoy what you’re eating, to take it all in. You look at it, smell it, roll it around your tongue like you’re puzzling out each ingredient.”
“My Buddhist training with Snow Bird Wang and yogic training with Biji in action. Mindful eating is supposed to be meditative and nourishing to the soul and the body. Mostly it means I can enjoy my food and still fit into size two without running a marathon.”
He gave me a nod of understanding.
As I popped in my last bite, Striker took my plate to the kitchen. When he came back, he set a mug on the table in front of me. I sniffed, Tension Tamer tea, uh-oh. I stiffened.
Striker moved to the chair beside me. “I need to update you on your case.”
Oh shit! Oh shit! My breathing came in shallow staccato puffs.
“We’ve got a name. Travis Wilson. That do anything for you?”
I shook my head no. My heart rate escalated.
“Thirty-four years old, from New York City. The information came in on a tip Deep followed up after the police distributed the sketch to the news.”
Striker talked to me in a professional, detached tone. These were just facts. Things we knew. They couldn’t hurt me. I rubbed my thumb into my sweaty pa
lm; my stomach heated like a furnace.
“Seems Mr. Wilson has spent time in mental hospitals throughout his life—delusional, paranoid, psychopathic tendencies, high IQ. His parents took custody of him when his medications seemed to be working. That was three years ago. Wilson stayed at their house for two nights and left without his meds.”
Saliva pooled in my mouth. Miriam was right; he was mentally unstable. I gulped before I could speak. “And in those three years … ?”
“We believe he attacked six women using the same MO. He stalked them with love poems, which he’d rewritten in a threatening tone, broke into their homes, sliced their torso with a razor, and poured either vinegar or salt on them. He killed them with blunt force to the head, then he disappeared. He has never left any usable clues. No one was able to describe him before.”
“I’m his first mistake.” I shifted uncomfortably in my chair, not sure what to do with my hands. They fidgeted with my clothes and my rings.
“In your case, not only was he seen, but he left physical evidence. Not enough time to clean up, I’m guessing, especially since he didn’t finish the kill. You got a look at him during the attack, and two eyewitnesses saw the escape. We’re further along than we’ve been in three years. Iniquus got your file because I was already assigned to a task force investigating these crimes.”
Shit! Dave was right. I should’ve gone to Iniquus from the beginning—they would have recognized the MO and protected me. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
Striker stopped to assess me. “You doing okay? Can you handle this?”
I nodded as I white-knuckled the table.
“Chica, take a few deep breaths, take a sip of tea.”
I tried to do as he said, but my body wouldn’t cooperate. My hands and feet were tingling and numb. I worked to keep my mind solely focused on Striker’s words, not allowing my thoughts to stray to the left or right because that’s where the heebie-jeebies lay waiting for me.
“Lexi, all of the other women fit a pattern. They were either the wives or daughters of law enforcement officers. They were all twenty-four to thirty years old. You break the mold. You’re twenty. Your dad owned a mechanic shop; your husband serves as an Army Ranger. You got your first letter the day you got married, so you weren’t even married to Angel when you became a target.”