Gulf Lynx

by Fiona Quinn

On those pages lay the information I needed. Until I read them, I wouldn’t let myself jump to conclusions. Instead, I planned to try a Striker technique by putting those thoughts in a box and setting the box on a shelf. Out of sight, out of mind for the moment.

  Striker had insisted on driving me to the airport. Now, he insisted on carrying my suitcase and holding my hand.

  “You’re acting like a mother hen,” I said.

  He didn’t smile. “I want to be there for you in Puerto Rico. I don’t have a choice.” He let go of my hand and wrapped me in a possessive arm. “They contracted me by name, not just our task force.”

  “Because you’re the best of the best.” I smiled up at him. “I’d ask for you by name, too.” I was quiet for a step or two before I asked, “This isn’t a woman is it?” Last time he was requested by a woman, it was Scarlet. She drugged Striker and drove him into the sunset to start their happily ever after together. “We don’t need a repeat of the Scarlet Vine scenario.”

  “Three men and a woman. All executives. It’s going to be an easy assignment.” He pushed the door wide for me to pass into the airport lobby.

  I checked in at a kiosk, then we made our way up the stairs and down the hall.

  As we approached the security line, Miriam hustled over to us. Dressed in yoga pants and a flowing tunic, her blonde hair cascaded in curls down her back. “Hola!” She grinned, sandwiching my other hand between both of hers and closed her eyes. After a moment they popped back open. “This is good.” She turned to Striker, nodding her head vigorously. “This feels right. This is the path that needs to be taken.”

  Striker’s brow drew tight as we formed a klatch by the wall. “What are you two up to?”

  “Me?” Miriam opened innocent eyes. “This is partly a working trip and partly personal. I’ll be visiting Abuela Rosa and spending time with Lexi. I’ve planned some time down by the water.” She turned to me. “Lexi, what are you up to?”

  “Miriam,” Striker was using his no-nonsense voice, “you said path. What path are you two on?”

  Her grin fell off, and she looked Striker in the eye. “The path to peace, I sincerely hope.” She squeezed my hand tight. “Maybe going to spend some time at Angel’s grave will be helpful. Abuela Rosa mentioned talking to their priest and arranging a Mass said in Angel’s name.”

  I hadn’t talked to Striker about Angel being in Hell and my needing to save his soul. I hadn’t meant to keep it from him. I’d explain when Striker and I each returned from our trips and were back in Washington D.C.

  That is if I hadn’t solved the problem by then.

  I sincerely hoped I had solved the problem by then. I wanted to cross my fingers to give that thought a little extra good juju, but Striker held one hand and Miriam was holding the other.

  Striker eased his posture a bit like he was laying his hackles back in place. I bet he’d imagined that Miriam was dragging me into a crime scene that would put me at risk. He didn’t want me to go behind the Veil to gather crime information like I had when I was training under Miriam a few years ago.

  I focused down at my tennis shoes, searching back along my timeline. I had been training with Miriam for years in doing extra sensory detective work. Everything had been going fine. Then one night, a police detective had gone to her house, photo in hand. A known predator had kidnapped a young woman from the mall parking lot. The woman was in imminent danger. The police had no leads. Could Miriam help?

  Miriam was very good at what she did, but her talent was in things that had already occurred.

  Man, I was off my game. I had forgotten to ask Prescott if there were any objects that had been collected at the spot where the body parts of Kaylie’s fellow researchers had been found. At this late date, knowing what happened there probably would have no bearing on our ability to find and save Kaylie, but who knew? Never say never.

  Tucking those thoughts to the side, I reached for the glimmer of an idea that had sparked when I thought about Miriam mentoring my psychic work. In the notes I’d read in General Elliot’s file room, there was that lab note…

  Sending a smile toward Miriam then Striker, I pulled my hands free and dug my phone from my pocket. I scrolled through the photos I’d taken until I found the lab note: My first experiment was successful. I was able to make an incision. I think I’ll watch it for a day and see what happens. I’ll call this experiment GEMINI. And perhaps I should write this part in code. Tabby Cat, you know what they say about curiosity.

  I focused on the date and time. Indigo had written about his experiment, then two days later Miriam had come to my apartment with the lost girl’s photograph. I put it in my hand, and I flew out of my body to get the shit kicked out of me in the ether. I was brutalized just as the girl was. Fortunately, I had kept just enough awareness on the mundane side of the Veil to tell Miriam what I was seeing. She sent the information on to the police. The police found the girl and saved her life.

  Indigo had made an incision. Was that in me, somehow? Is that how this ability of mine to merge with a victim became a thing? Was it the reason I was so hurt as I tried to help?

  That could make sense.

  The time, it lined up.

  “Chica!” It was Striker’s voice from far away. I lifted my head and his face swam in front of me. Gripping at both of my arms, he held me up as my legs went out from under me.

  “What’s happening?” he demanded.

  Miriam took my phone from my hand and read the photograph, then held it up to Striker.

  “That’s from Indigo’s lab notes,” I muttered. “I think he did an experiment on me. And it occurred to me just now,” I regained my balance and Striker’s hold softened, “that the thing that happens to me when I go behind the Veil might be the result of Indigo’s experimentation.”

  “What?” Striker’s voice sizzled.

  My focus shifted from Miriam, to the phone, and back to Striker. “I’m going to try to figure it out. I’ll be flying up to Wyoming on Thursday. I think they might be able to help me.”

  “Indigo experimented on you?” Striker let go of me with one hand to take the phone and read the image again. “When did this all start?”

  “The crazy things that happen to Lexi when she goes behind the Veil?” Miriam asked. “That started at the beginning of November, three years ago, just after her mother died. I thought that might have been why things had changed. It was before the fire, before Angel, before the stalker. Indigo. Oh, baby.” Miriam pulled me into a hug then pushed me to arm’s length and looked me in the eye. “This is all you know?”

  “I don’t know that the lab note pertains to me. I refuse to jump to conclusions.” I leaned back into Striker’s chest. He was solid. A boulder. So stable.

  “That’s the smart thing to do” Miriam focused up on Striker. “We’ll figure it all out. Try to.” She lifted her hand to read her watch. “Right now, we’ve got to get into line. I’ll let you two say good-bye.” Off she walked, tugging her boarding pass and ID from her pocket.

  I spun in Striker’s arms, offering up a smile, so he knew everything was okay. “It was just a thought,” I said. “Nothing changed from last minute until this except a hypothesis formed.”

  “Agreed. But I feel better that you’re going to spend some time with General Coleridge.” He kissed the tip of my nose. “We’re heading in opposite directions again. I want to go with you. Figure this out with you.”

  I lifted my lips to him, and he gave me a proper, toe-curling kiss good-bye. “You’re always with me,” I whispered, laying my head on his chest. “You live in my heart.”

  As I dragged my carry-on toward security, I thought that Striker was with me in a natural, healthy, wonderful way. His living in my heart felt nothing like getting sucked toward the abyss by my connection to Angel.

  I couldn’t go on this way.

  I was going to free myself from this torment or die trying.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Abuela Rosa sat at her pink Fo
rmica table with wads of tissues bunched into her arthritic hands. She had aged since I saw her last year. She had a fragility about her that I had never seen before. How much of this was Angel? How much the effect of Hurricane Maria? Or was this just age creeping up. Abuela Rosa was in her late seventies now.

  Sitting quietly together, Miriam was sketching a forest scene on a pink paper napkin.

  Every once in a while, Abuela Rosa swiped an errant tear or dabbed under her nose. “I’m so glad you’re here.” She pressed her hands to her heart.

  “Me too.” I reached out and squeezed her arm. “I’m going to make you a coffee. Decaf since it’s almost time for bed.”

  As I bustled around the kitchen, pouring the grounds, reaching for the sugar and mugs, I knew exactly where Abuela Rosa liked to keep everything.

  When I was a teen, as part of the Kitchen Grandmother rotation, every Friday afternoon, I’d help Abuela with her chores and in return, I learned.

  Abuela liked her house to be full of people. The family members would arrive in the evening. At these gatherings, I studied singing and guitar, I practiced swaying my hips in Latin dances and using my lashes to send flirty looks to my dance partner. From the Sobado family, I became fluid if not fluent in Spanish and learned to cook foods from all over the Caribbean. Fun. So much fun. It was an honor to marry into such a wonderful family.

  I couldn’t get over how much Abuela had changed in these last two years. Weathered. Worn. Tired. She looked as tired as I felt.

  “Are you not sleeping Abuela?” I asked as I set a mug, filled mostly with warm milk and a splash of coffee, in front of her.

  “Better to stay awake.” She patted my seat. “My dreams are not pleasant ones. You said you’re heading right back to the mainland.” Abuela hefted herself to her feet and made her way over to a stack of papers on her counter. “I would wait. But it’s getting late. I need to make phone calls if you agree.”

  I lifted my chin, then sent a glance Miriam’s way.

  Abuela Rosa shuffled back to the table, sat, and tucked the papers onto her ample lap. A lap where I would rest my head for comfort when I was younger, and she would stroke my hair and hum. Lying there, I told her all my teenaged angsty problems. So kind. So patient.

  “I have been troubled for over a week now with terrible nightmares about Angel,” she said. “They cling to me even when I’m awake.”

  My breath caught and held.

  “He tells me he is in Hell and needs help.” When she made a sign of the cross, I realized she was holding her silver rosary with the tiny silver beads. “Angel says I should please send help to him.”

  Abuela, too.

  “I have been to the priest.” She let the rosary tumble until her thumb and index finger trapped a bead, and she began to work it back and forth. “They offered up Mass in his name Sunday. Sunday night the nightmares grew worse.”

  “Yes.” I clasped my hands together. “That’s what’s been happening to me. What do you think it means?” I leaned forward.

  “That he’s in Hell.” She moved to the next bead. “He didn’t go to confession before he died.” She lifted the crucifix and kissed it.

  I pinched my lips together.

  “I prayed about what I should do. I prayed the rosary twice. That night, I had another dream that said you were coming, and I was to do this thing. I only did this thing because right after the dream, I got phone calls from Miriam and then from you that you were coming. It felt like the answer to my prayers. And I had this shown to me by my guardian angel.” She paused. “You’re going to think I’m terrible.” She snatched up another tissue. “I thought. I think...” She covered her eyes behind a shaking hand. “It has always bothered me that I never saw Angel’s body.”

  I nodded my head vigorously, posting my forearms on the table and leaning closer.

  “I understand that the Army thought his body was not viewable after the explosion. I wanted to anyway. I wanted—what do you say in English?”

  “Closure,” I whispered.

  “Yes, this. Closure. My dream told me that I was to look at Angel. I went to the government building to ask if this was possible. My guardian followed along each step.” With a frown, she lifted the papers from her lap to the table. “I have the documents here.” She slid them to me. “We can have my Angel dug up. We can look inside the coffin and see him. The priest will come. He’ll bring incense and holy water. I need Angel to be at rest.”

  I didn’t take the time to read the papers. If Abuela needed this. This would be done. I tugged a pen from my pocket and signed at each of the little sticky note arrows. “When do you want to do this, Abuela?” I asked softly as I pushed them back to her.

  “I want you with me. I arranged everything so that if you agreed, we could go to the cemetery in the morning. There’s a service that comes to help. I paid the deposit.”

  I nodded. “Make sure that I get that bill. That should be my expense.” I flicked my gaze over to Miriam. I was glad we’d talked through what had happened this last week with me and my nightmares about Angel so she could follow this new twist. “Can you come?” I asked.

  Abuela turned to Miriam, too. “I thought if you could touch him, you might be able to tell me what happened that day.” She sent a pleading eye toward Miriam and then dipped her chin. “Maybe, even, you’ll get a sense of what Angel’s soul needs to climb from Hell and go to God.”

  “Of course, I’ll come. It’s an honor to be included in such a profoundly personal moment.” Miriam reached out to lay her hand on Abuela’s arm. “Thank you for asking me.”

  And just like that the plan was formed. I was going to go to the cemetery and dig up my husband, so Abuela and I could get some sleep.

  “It’s getting late. I should let the peoples know.”

  Abuela made phone calls to the cemetery, to the exhumation specialists, to the church. My laughing, singing, fun-filled Abuela Rosa, I had never seen such determination in her eyes.

  She was going to save her beloved Angel from the fires of Hell.

  I hope her guardian angel was right.

  I picked up the papers and read about the circumstances under which a body could be exhumed. Some of the words I didn’t recognize. Whoever had helped Abuela up at the government buildings had highlighted the parts that pertained to her and that’s where I focused my attention.

  It had been less than five years.

  His widow had agreed.

  The body hadn’t been embalmed. It was all good.

  Well, not good.

  It was legal.

  Leaving the papers on the table, I walked quietly, so as not to interrupt Abuela’s conversation, to the living room where I snagged my suitcase. I took it into Abuela’s bathroom to get ready for bed.

  After wiping off my makeup, I changed into a night dress, then hunkered over the sink, brushing my teeth.

  I was a widow. That was on the paperwork I signed. Angel’s widow.

  For two years I’d been trying to figure that out.

  Trying to develop a concept of widowhood.

  Trying to integrate my beliefs about life and death into what I experienced in my daily world.

  I was a widow. And yet, I’ve never accepted that label.

  That was probably because I never saw Angel’s body. I completely understood Abuela’s distress.

  From the moment when those two officers had shown up at Iniquus with their hats in their hands to tell me that Angel had died in an IED explosion of his vehicle, I had divorced myself from the idea that Angel had been reduced to a portion of a body.

  Now, I was going to see his remains. This could very well make everything worse for both me and Abuela.

  I spit into the sink and rinsed the foam of toothpaste down the drain.

  Pulling the elastic from my ponytail, I reached for my brush.

  Angel had gone away on a mission. He was supposed to come back.

  They gave me a flag-draped box and said, “Here he is.”

>   But I didn’t see him.

  And part of me didn’t believe them, because I felt Angel in my daily life. I felt him near me every day since we met.

  That horrible day when I pushed myself against the walls of the sound-proof room and howled with pain at the news of his death changed nothing for me.

  The spirit of Angel had never left me.

  At night, I slept in Striker’s arms. I wore Striker’s engagement ring. I promised my future to him. It was time to plan the wedding.

  And I couldn’t.

  Now that Zoe was planning her ceremony and asked me to be part of it, it was going to be harder for me to ignore the fact that something in me would not let me think about flowers and dresses and a cake with all the trimmings.

  I made promises to Angel, standing before God. To have and to hold until death do us part. And to me, Angel was.

  He just was.

  Or maybe this just was the unfortunate results of a madman’s science experiment not going to plan.

  The brush caught on a tangle and I yanked it free, glad for the brief bright ache.

  Until I could move myself forward. Until I could accept that Angel was dead and gone, how could I possibly consider making vows to Striker?

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  I had planned today differently.

  I was going to wear a black sundress with sandals and carry the little pink plastic rosary that I’d been given when I was in prison in Honduras. I imagined cleaning Angel’s grave, reciting that rosary and decorating the tombstone with the spray of flowers I’d ordered.

  Instead, I was dressed in a pair of shorts and tennis shoes. I’d never been present when a body was exhumed before. I imagined it would be dirty work.

  Miriam was present when a body was exhumed from time to time with her job. She was describing the process as she drove our rental car through the traffic out to the countryside where Angel was buried in the cemetery that held generations of the Sobado family.

  The grounds workers had started their work ahead of us. As we approached, I saw that they had placed a tent over the area with two flaps down, guarding the view from anyone who happened to be visiting their kin that day. There were some chairs set up too.