Читать книгу Killer Takes All - Erica Spindler, Erica Spindler - Страница 19

Friday, March 4, 2005 10:30 p.m.

The Earl K. Long Library stood at the center of the UNO campus, facing the quad. Two hundred thousand square feet and four floors, like most buildings at the university, the library had been built in the 1960s.

Stacy sat at a table on the fourth floor. The fourth housed the Multimedia Center, which included microfilm and microfiche, video and audio collections. She’d been researching RPGs since she’d left her afternoon class. Tired and hungry, she sported a splitting headache.

She was loath to go home, anyway. The information she’d uncovered about role-playing games, and White Rabbit in particular, was fascinating.

And disturbing. Article after article linked role-playing games to suicides, death pacts and even murder. Claims from gamers’ parents of dramatic behavior transformation in their children, of obsession with playing so intense they feared for their children’s mental health. A number of parent groups had formed in the attempt to alert others to the dangers of role-playing games and to force manufacturers to label the games with warnings.

The circumstantial evidence against the games had proved so impressive that several politicians had gotten involved in the fray, although to date nothing had come of it.

In all fairness, a number of other researchers discounted such findings, calling them unproved and alarmist. But they, too, acknowledged that in the wrong hands the material could be a powerful tool.

It wasn’t the game that was dangerous, but the obsession with the game.

A variation on Leo Noble’s “Guns don’t kill people, people kill people” schtick.

Stacy brought a hand to her temple and absently rubbed, longing for a cup of strong coffee or a chocolate chip cookie. Each—or both—would knock out her headache. She glanced at her watch. The library closed at eleven; she might as well stick it out until then.

She returned her attention to the material in front of her. The most written-about game was Dungeons & Dragons. It had been first on the market and had remained the most popular. But even though White Rabbit sat way outside the mainstream, Stacy had found several references to the game. One parent group labeled it “unholy,” another “deplorably violent.”

A movement from the corner of her eye caught her attention. Someone leaving, she supposed, noting the library was almost deserted. A straggler like herself. The other students had retired their pursuit of knowledge—or grades, for they were at times mutually exclusive—and headed home for TV or out for drinks with friends.

At eleven campus security would begin clearing the building, starting on the fourth floor and working their way to the first.

She had closed the library many times already in her short tenure as a grad student.

Her thoughts drifted to Spencer Malone. Their confrontation. She was lucky he hadn’t hauled her in. In the same position, she probably would have. Just on principle.

What was it about Detective Malone that caused her to lash out?

Something about him reminded her of Mac.

At thoughts of her former DPD partner and lover, her chest grew tight. With hurt? Or was it longing? Not for him, for the man she loved hadn’t even existed. But for what she thought they’d had. Love. Companionship. Commitment.

She sucked in a sharp breath. That part of her life was over. She had survived Mac’s betrayal; it had been the catalyst that forced her to take hold of her life. Change it. She was stronger for it.

She didn’t need a man, or love, to make her happy.

Doggedly, she returned to her research. Various studies provided a picture of the typical gamer: a higher-than-average IQ, creative with a vivid imagination. Otherwise, gamers crossed all social, economic and racial borders. The games, it seemed, were outlets for fantasy. They offered excitement and an opportunity for players to experience things they could never hope to in real life.

A sound came from the stacks behind her. Stacy lifted her head and turned in that direction. The sound came again, like a pent-up breath expelled.

“Hello,” she called. “Anybody there?”

Silence answered. The hair on the back of her neck prickled. She’d been a cop long enough to sense when something wasn’t right. Call it a cop’s sixth sense or heightened instinct for self-preservation, it rarely let her down.

Adrenaline pumping, Stacy got slowly to her feet, automatically reaching for her weapon.

No shoulder holster. No weapon.

Not a cop anymore.

Stacy’s gaze landed on her ballpoint pen, a lethal weapon when used accurately and without hesitation. And most effective when the blow was delivered to the base of the skull, the jugular or an eye. She picked it up and curled her right hand around it.

“Anyone there?” she called again, forcefully.

She heard the rumble of the elevator, on its way to the fourth floor. Campus security, she realized. Clearing the building. Good. Backup, in case she needed it.

She started toward the stacks, heart pounding, pen ready. A sound came from the opposite direction. She whirled. The lights went off. The stairwell door flew open and light spilled out as a figure darted through.

Before she could shout for him to stop, she was grabbed from behind and dragged against a broad chest. With one arm he held her tightly against him, arms pinned. With the other, he covered her mouth and immobilized her head.

A man, she determined, tabling her terror. Tall. Several inches taller than she, which would put him at better than six feet. One who knew what he was doing; the angle he held her head made breaking her neck relatively easy. He had size and strength on his side; struggling would be both futile and a waste of precious energy.

Stacy tightened her fingers on the pen, waiting for the right moment. Knowing it would come. He had used the element of surprise to trap her; she would return the favor.

“Stay out of it,” he whispered, voice thick, muffled by design, she was certain. He pressed his mouth closer, then speared his tongue in and out of her ear. Bile rose in her throat, threatening to gag her.

“Or I won’t,” he finished. “Understand?”

She did. He was threatening to rape her.

The bastard would regret that threat.

Her moment came. Reassured by what he no doubt thought her immobilizing fear, he shifted. He intended to shove her, she realized. Then run. As the realization registered, she reacted. Shifting her own weight, then spinning around, she grasped hold of him with her left hand and plunged the ballpoint into his stomach with her right. She felt his blood on her fingers.

He howled in pain and stumbled backward. She did, too, falling into a cart of books. The cart tipped, the books crashed to the floor.

A flashlight beam sliced through the dark. “Who’s there?”

“Here!” she called, fighting to right herself. “Help!”

Her attacker got to his feet and ran. He reached the stairwell door a moment before the campus cop found her.

“Miss, are you all ri—”

“The stairs,” she managed to say, pointing. “He ran that way.”

The man didn’t waste time on words. He darted in that direction, radio out, calling for backup.

Stacy stood, legs wobbly. She heard the cop’s feet pounding on the stairs, though she doubted he would catch the man. Even wounded, he’d had too great a head start.

The lights came on. Stacy blinked at the sudden change. As her eyes adjusted, she saw the books and toppled cart, the trail of blood leading to the stairwell.

A woman rushed toward her, expression alarmed. “Are you all—My God, you’re bleeding!”

Stacy looked down at herself. Her shirt and right hand were bloody. “It’s his blood. I stabbed him with my ballpoint.”

The woman went white. Afraid she might faint, Stacy led her to a chair. “Put your head between your knees. It’ll help.”

When the woman did as she instructed, she added, “Now breathe. Deeply, through your nose.”

After several moments, the woman lifted her head. “I feel so silly. You’re the one who should be—”

“Never mind that. Are you okay now?”

“Yes, you—” she breathed deeply several times “—you were really lucky.”

“Lucky?” she repeated.

“You could have been raped. Those other girls—” “Weren’t so lucky.”

Stacy turned. The campus cop who had come to her aid was back. He was young, she saw. Probably twenty-five. “You didn’t catch him, did you?”

He looked frustrated. “No. I’m sorry.” His motioned to her hand and bloodstained shirt. “Are you hurt?”

“She stabbed him with her pen,” the librarian supplied.

The campus cop looked at her, his expression a combination of admiration and disbelief. “You did?”

“I was a cop for ten years,” she said. “I know how to defend myself.”

“It’s a good thing you do,” he said. “There’ve been three rapes on campus this year, all during the fall term. We thought maybe he’d moved on.”

Stacy had heard about the rapes, had been warned by her adviser to be careful. Especially at night. She didn’t believe the man who’d attacked her was this rapist. If his intention had been rape, why the warning “To stay out of it”? Why had he been prepared to let her go? He would have dragged her to the floor, tried to get at her clothing.

No. It didn’t add up.

Stacy told him so.

“The MO’s the same. He’s attacked women alone at night on campus. All three have occurred between 10:00 and 11:00 p.m. The first right here in the library.”

“This wasn’t that guy. His intention wasn’t rape.” She relayed the sequence of events. How he whispered in her ear to stay out of it. “He was about to let me go. That’s when I made my move.”

“Are you certain of what you heard?”

“Yes. Absolutely.”

The cop didn’t look convinced. “That fits the rapist’s MO as well. He whispered into each one of his victims’ ears.”

Stacy frowned. “Then why let me go with a warning?”

The cop and librarian exchanged glances. “You’re upset. Understandably. You’ve had a shock—”

“And I’m not thinking clearly?” she finished for him. “I worked Homicide for ten years. I’ve been through shit a lot more shocking than this. I’m not mistaken about what I heard.”

The young officer’s face reddened; he took a step back from her. She supposed using the S word had put him off, but damn it, she’d been making a point.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said coolly. “I’ve got to call the NOPD. Get someone over here to collect evidence. Tell your story to them.”

“Ask for Detective Spencer Malone,” she said. “ISD. Tell him it’s about the Finch case.”