by Fiona Quinn
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.”
Striker shepherded me to an armchair he’d pulled up to the fireplace. Logs crackled softly, and the smell of the wood and smoke warmed me as much as the heat from the flames. Striker tucked a blanket around me and put my cup on a table next to me like I was physically frail, overcoming an illness.
Jack had gone by my house to ask Alice to pack a bag for me; he brought me my address book. I flipped open to the envelope Angel had taped inside. “In case I don’t make it back” was penned in Angel’s angular scrawl. I opened the envelope and found four pieces of paper. One had a list of people and phone numbers to call. One had a list of instructions for his funeral. A letter to me that I set aside until I was less fragile. And a letter to his mom. I took a deep breath and started calling.
Hard. Hard. I had never done anything so hard as being death’s herald, delivering the news to his friends and family. I needed to comfort their shrieks and pain. These were people who had known Angel, and loved him, all of his life. I felt jealous of the time they got with him, gypped by my short time, so grateful I had any time at all.
I made it through the list and went to Striker’s room to collapse. He let me sleep until lunch, and then insisted I eat.
He had the funeral arrangements in his hand. “Iniquus will handle this and make sure everything is followed to the letter. We have a plane at Dover. Angel’s remains come in tomorrow morning. We can make the transfer and leave for Puerto Rico immediately
.” He paused and stroked his rough hand up and down my arm. It reminded me I had substance. “Your team has all requested and been granted leave so they can escort you. Your friends are welcome on the plane, but your neighbors want you to know they’d like to have a memorial service when you get back.”
“Thank you.”
I looked through the suitcase Striker had brought in. Alice had picked out comfortable black clothing for several days of travel, modest black dresses for the days in Puerto Rico, a simple silk suit for the funeral. That was new—she must have called Celia. On top, she had laid my favorite photo of Angel and me, and a note—it simply said, “We love you.”
My team filed in throughout the day to sit with me. We didn’t talk much, but their presence helped. They hadn’t known Angel. I barely knew Angel. My heart knew him, but I didn’t have stores of memories to pull out and relive. I mostly had broken dreams, and they were of no comfort.
Time passed. I sat on an airplane. I was wrapped in Abuela Rosa’s arms. I walked down an aisle supported by Jack and Striker. I received a flag and a Purple Heart. People talked to me. I hugged. I nodded my head. I got back on a plane. Manny brought my dogs to me. I shut the door. I climbed under my covers. Alone.
Thirty-Three
There were days when I woke up and drove to Iniquus to work. And days when I rolled over and went back to sleep. My team made sure I was eating. They cared for my girls, paid my bills on time, and shoveled the early snowfall off my walk.
Sometimes Sarah would come over and let me hold Ruby. Sometimes Fletcher and Colin showed up with burned cookies they made for me. Sometimes life seemed almost normal.
Today started out as a good day. A better day. They were coming more frequently now. I could think, and reason, and puzzle again. I had just put the finishing touches on a case report and hit print, when Bruce Morrison, an Iniquus lawyer, walked in. I flinched when I saw him. “What’s the news?” I asked, hugging a file to my chest.
“Wilson is off his traction and machines. The doctors are going ahead and releasing him to prison.” He sat on my table.
“What will that mean?”
“He’ll be arraigned today.” Morrison glanced down at his watch. I took this to mean that the transfer was in progress as we spoke.
“That’s taking longer than usual. I thought arraignments happened in the first seventy-two hours.”
“The doctors had to confirm Wilson’s ability to understand proceedings. We were able to get them to hold off until now.”
“You did this because …”
“The DA understands this is more than what lays on the surface. This isn’t a breaking and entering, or even a possession crime. Everyone is scrambling to get the murder charges in place. The DA’s communicating this—as much as he’s legally able to—to the judge. We don’t think there will be a problem setting Wilson’s bail sky-high, especially with his history of mental instability.”
“So he goes straight to prison from the courthouse, right?”
“Yup.” Morrison pushed to standing. “Thought you’d like to know. I’ll give you a call when Wilson’s locked in his cell.”
I decided to go back to my house, get my girls, and go for a run. Run away from images of Wilson. Run away from thoughts of screaming pain, from fear, from the ghosts of the six other women who haunted me—why did I survive when they didn’t?
When I opened my front door, Bella and Beetle waited for me, prancing in place. I told them to get their leashes and went to change into sweats and cross-trainers. I snapped the leads to their collars for form’s sake, pulled on a thick hat and mittens, and we took off for the park. I sprinted about four miles. Both the cold air and my weeks of recovery left me winded, but not as bad as I’d feared.
As we headed back, I noticed a piece of notebook paper stapled to a telephone pole. I bent down to inspect the child’s crayoned drawing of a black cat with a pink collar and bell. “Pleez help me find Sam,” the sign said. An adult had printed the address at the bottom.
I cast my mind around—a sixth-sense game I used to play when I was a child and helped find the missing cats and dogs from my apartment complex. Sam wasn’t far. I decided to take the girls home and come back to find her. I was sure the poor cat wasn’t interested in hanging out with my Dobermans.
Back in the park, I sat down with the letter and willed images to appear. In my mind’s eye, a little girl with light brown hair pulled into a curly ponytail, tied with a red ribbon sat at a table scribbling. The black cat streaked passed her and out the door. I heard the child calling Sam’s name. The cat was scared and hungry. Up. I definitely sensed “up.” I saw a tree and a slide. Sam must be over near the kiddy area in the park; I moved toward the jungle gym.
Sam wasn’t hard to find. She was up a magnolia, looking sorry for herself. Hard to coax down though. I ended up having to climb to her. Snuggling Sam into my chest, I pulled debris from my hair as I walked toward the side street and Sam’s home.
When the front door opened, Sam jumped out of my arms and darted through the living room. A relieved and grateful mom was calling to her child. The little girl walked in, squeezing Sam with tears running down her face.
“Good thing you’re such an excellent artist.” I handed the little girl her drawing. “The pink bell helped me the most. As soon as this cat meowed, I knew this must be Sam.”
I started home again, happy to have helped. I walked slowly, considering how I would spend the rest of the day. Halfway through the empty park, my scalp prickled with a warning. The itsy-bitsy spider. Danger shivered the air. Panic fought for brain space. Crawled up the waterspout. I tried to push it down deep as I stopped to get my bearings. Tried to sense the direction and source of my alarm. To plan a retreat. Down came the rain, and washed the spider out. Nowhere to shadow walk and disappear—I stood exposed. Up came the sun.
I sniffed the air. Oh, holy hell. There it was again—the putrid rot from the bottom of a swamp. Wilson. And dried up all the rain. I hadn’t smelled this stench since Halloween when Gater slammed his massive fist into Wilson’s temple. The itsy-bitsy spider crawled up the spout again. Holy fuck! I had let my guard down. And I had been warned not to.
A car swerved around the curve at breakneck speed. My foot lifted as my brain commanded, “Run!” The screech of brakes. I swung my head to scan behind me as I raced forward. Wilson was in my peripheral view. Time slowed like a movie scene. Wilson sprinted beside me. Six foot two, two hundred twenty pounds of rage. His hand tourniqueted my wrist. Every action, every thought was suspended in something thick and heavy, like molten lead running through my veins.
In one motion, Wilson twisted me around. Jerked me toward him, hard. Lifted my arm to dangle me. I was on tiptoes, struggling for equilibrium as he swung me around.
As we spun, I realized that Wilson clutched a huge gutting knife. In the blink of an eye he twisted in and slashed down my right side. As I blocked, I heard the sound of cloth ripping. A sharp pain as the blade nicked my ribs, slicing down toward my hip. His arm was much longer than mine. As he suspended me, I knew that attempting a swing or hitting a pressure point would be lost energy. Though I was fearful that this would become a ground fight, I chanced a side kick to his knee. His body lurched as his leg buckled backwards. He registered nothing but venom on his face.
PCP, I thought. He won’t feel pain or fear not matter what I do.
“I’m gonna skin you alive, bitch. You think I’m going to jail for you?”
Still suspended, I hopped to keep my balance. My fingers fumbled the Ruger from my fanny holster. Left handed. Backwards.
“You should be dead. No witnesses. Just pain. You gonna know how it feels to have your skin peeled from your bones, bitch.”
His breath was putrid. Rancid in my nostrils. My neurons sucked in every single detail to process, searching for an escape. I flipped my gun up to position the grip in my palm. A bullet already chambered. I fired into Wilson’s wrist suspending my right hand. But Wilson was w
holly focused on unzipping my skin. The blade ripped into my flesh at my hip, angling down. I shot the wrist slashing me. His knife fell.
Blood dripped down his now-useless hands. He bellowed like an enraged Kodiak, nostrils flaring, eyes distended. I stumbled backwards, blood running down my side. Black swirled my vision.
Down is death flashed through my brain.
With my back against the cold cement, I aimed point-blank at Wilson’s chest, emptying my clip. Wilson lay motionless near my feet. The air eddied around me and went dim.
My last thought—He can’t survive. He’s dead … So am I.
I didn’t know how long I lay there. A buzz against my thigh roused me. Mechanically, I pulled out my phone, dragging the receiver to my ear.
“Lynx!” Striker yelled into the phone, “Thank god! Listen. Wilson’s parents posted his bail. He’s on the street. Where are you?”
“Found me,” I whispered. I felt the electricity of Striker’s emotions buzzing through the phone. “He’s dead,” I added.
“And you?”
Me? “Almost dead.”
“Tell me where you are.” Striker’s voice was forced calm.
“Park.”
“You were jogging?”
“Yes.”
“What can you see?”
“Trees, sky, blood …” my world went black.
I woke up in the hospital, again. Striker stood by my side. Jack stayed by the door on guard. “I’m alive?” I blinked away the spots dappling my vision.
“Looks that way.” Striker eyed me appraisingly.
I touched my right side tentatively.
“A hundred and fifty-two stitches,” he said.
“Wilson thought it would be fun to skin me alive.” A bag of blood hung from my IV stand. “I needed a fill-up?”
“Yeah, you were a few quarts low.” Striker leaned over the bed railing until he came into focus. His voice was husky.
“How long do I have to stay here?” I asked.