10:07 a.m. — Clinic break room
Martin Flores is wedged into a plastic chair like a beach ball in a vise, licking powdered‑sugar crumbs off a fourth donut.
“Budget’s tight, Akerman,” he wheezes. “Group therapy can’t be your private detective agency.”
I smile, elegant and lethal in my black suit. If he knew about the pair of ceramic daggers sewn into the lining he’d choke on confectioners’ dust.
“Relax, Martin. Therapy notes stay in the file cabinet.” And the details I need stay in my head.
Ruby, my white alley cat, slinks in through the half‑open window, hops onto the table, and gives Flores a look that says heart disease’ll get you before I do.
Flores screams like a piccolo. I leave before he finishes his aria.
* * * * * *
11:22 a.m. — Group Room C
Today’s lineup: Earl the art‑forger, Tasha the safe‑cracker, and Pogo, the ex‑circus aerialist with deltoids like braided steel cable. I open my notebook.
“Let’s talk coping strategies,” I begin.
Pogo’s eyes glitter. “I used to cope by tying knots. Still do, sometimes in my dreams. Some folks… dangle.”
Tasha snorts. “Bet their insurance premiums soared.”
Humor is progress. I coax. “Dream knots? Marionette style?”
“Yeah,” Pogo whispers. “Marionettes.”
I jot the word. Three nights, three victims found strung from lampposts like broken puppets. The new Marionettist copying the old serial I helped put away years ago. Pogo was his cellmate, motive and mastery in the same muscular package.
* * * * * *
4:03 p.m. — My underground garage
Jaguar XJ220 purrs like a jungle cat that swallowed a symphony. Ruby occupies the passenger seat, tail flicking.
“Feel like chasing yarn, partner?” I ask.
Mrrrp.
Translation: Hit the gas.
* * * * * *
7:46 p.m. — Abandoned amusement park
The moon hangs like a rotten peach over rusting rides. Third crime scene tape flaps in the wind. I’ve out‑badge‑bluffed the local uniforms before; tonight I skipped the formality and climbed the fence.
A lone carousel horse points east, toward the Big Top ruins. Strings glitter in my flashlight beam. At the center: a fresh corpse, arms splayed, wrists cinched to tent poles.
“Too slow, Yoofi,” a voice twangs above.
Pogo clings to the trapeze rigging, fingers dancing with nylon lines. He grins. “You profiled the first Marionettist, but you never understood us carnies. It’s all about the drop.”
My hand slides beneath my lapel, dagger ready. “Step down and we’ll talk knots, Pogo.”
He releases a cord. The body jerks upright like a macabre curtain call. I suppress a flinch; he notices anyway.
“Show’s sold out,” he laughs, and drops a second line, snagging my ankle. I’m yanked off my feet, dangling upside‑down, skirt flipping over my face. Very undignified. Even Ruby would smirk.
I slice the line with the dagger, land in a crouch, ankle screaming. He’s already sprinting along the high wire.
Two options: chase on foot, slow. Or…
I sprint to the Ducati Panigale stashed outside the tent. Black on black; nobody notices a missing superbike in a ghost park. The engine howls, drowning my foot pain.
Pogo bails from the rig, sprints for the midway. I gun it, neon blur slicing dark. He vaults a popcorn stand; I skid, fishtail, and clip the booth, scattering stale kernels like confetti.
He dives behind the Ferris wheel hub. I’m off the bike, SIG tucked in a thigh holster that matches the daggers. He hurls a throwing knife; it nicks my sleeve and embeds in a cotton‑candy barrel with insulting thwip.
“Nice grouping,” I call. “FBI still wins quals, though.”
We trade steel and lead. His last knife whistles past; my final round takes out the wheel’s motor. Sparks rain, lighting the midway in strobes. Pogo laughs manically, until a snapped cable lashes down and impales him through the shoulder, pinning him to the axle like a butterfly.
He gurgles. “Wasn’t… supposed to end… like a cheap carnival trick.”
I kneel. “The ends justify the means, remember?”
He coughs blood. “Then… so will yours.” His eyes flick behind me.
Too late, I pivot—Flores stands there, sweat‑slick, handgun trembling. “You think I didn’t know you used my clinic as a snitch farm? State board’s on me, Akerman. You’re liability alive.”
I lunge, but his finger moves first. Thunder, heat, nothing.
* * * * * *
??? — Somewhere deeper
I’m horizontal, strings biting my wrists. Flores’ pudgy face looms. Pogo lies dead a few yards away, still tacked in place. Flores ties knots with surprising skill, maybe fat hides talent.
“You’re exhibit four,” he says. “Blame the copycat.”
Ruby appears on a beam above, eyes phosphorescent. The cat leaps, claws out, straight at Flores’ face. He shrieks, drops the line. I swing, catch a post with bound feet, wrap the rope, and snap it. Adrenaline buries the bullet burn.
Daggers gone, gun gone, teeth it is. I tackle, bite his ear like licensed Hannibal. He howls, I wrench his own pistol free.
He freezes at muzzle‑kiss range. “Yoofi, we can negotiate.”
“I’m off the clock.”
I fire. His body slumps, strings tangling as he falls, last marionette in his own twisted theater.
Ruby lands softly, licking a paw like a job well done. I scratch her chin with shaking fingers.
“Guess I still owe you tuna,” I whisper, taste of copper in my mouth.
Sirens wail outside the park. I holster the borrowed weapon, limp toward the exit, cat in tow.
Tomorrow morning, group therapy starts at ten. New topic: “How to cut your own strings before someone else does.”
End of entry.
The Sphinx 