Weakest Lynx by Fiona Quinn

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.”
    “So you Lysoled