Mariah Stewart - Last Breath

By the time Connor and Daria reached the front desk, Louise had already walked behind it, and into the stacks that lay beyond.

“Gloria?” she called. “Gloria, are you back there?”

Daria walked into the room to their right, where comfortable-looking chairs formed a circle and a pair of worn black leather sofas faced each other. The room was inviting and well lit and obviously designed to encourage discussion, but other than Daria, it was empty.

“You rarely see a room in a library designed for conversation,” Daria said when Louise joined her. “You always think of libraries as places where you never speak above a whisper.”

“It was designed for the occasional informal lecture,” Louise told her. “There are pocket doors that close the room off from the rest of the library. Another of Benjamin Howe’s ideas.”

“Any luck finding your librarian?” Connor asked when he joined the two women.

“No.” Louise frowned. “She could be in the basement, or on the second floor. Though on second thought, Gloria has problems with her knees. She rarely goes upstairs.”

“You said there were two students and an assistant working tonight as well?” Connor asked.

“That’s the usual arrangement.” Louise was still frowning. “I’m going to check around the desk. Maybe there’s a note or something.”

“I’ll run down to the computer lab. If the two interns are students, maybe they’re working on something for one of their courses.” Connor headed toward the stairwell.

“I’ll check the other rooms here on the first floor, then I’ll run upstairs,” Daria told Louise. “Maybe you should stay here, in case the librarian or one of the interns returns. Sooner or later, someone is going to have to come back to the front desk.”

“Good point. In the meantime, I’ll see if I can find the sign-in sheets from today.”

Daria left Louise at the desk and went through an arch to her left over which a plaque read THE ILIANA HOWE MCGOWAN READING ROOM. The room was dimly lit, and as far as she could see, as empty as the others. An oil portrait of a woman hung over the fireplace at one end of the narrow room, and she walked over to take a closer look.

The subject was a small woman with gray hair pulled back from her face to display her delicate features, a small heart-shaped mouth and wide blue eyes. She wore a black dress and sat demurely, her hands in her lap, a small, sad smile on her lips.

The nameplate below the painting read ILIANA HOWE MCGOWAN, 1930.

Daria stepped forward to take a closer look.

So that’s what you looked like. I’d been wondering. You were lovely, even in your later years. I imagine life was a bit lonely for you by 1930, with your husband already gone for twenty years, your father for ten, and your children all grown and gone.

Why did you stay on all that time, after everyone you loved had died or left you? And whose idea was the portrait? Was it yours? A small vanity on your part, lest your name be forgotten?

Daria stood in front of the painting, her arms folded over her chest, studying the face of her great-grandmother. She wasn’t sure, but thought she might have seen a different portrait of her at one of those long-ago visits to her grandfather’s home, or perhaps at one of those infrequent family reunions when she was a child. She hadn’t known the woman’s name, but she’d known she was a relative from long ago. In that painting, the woman had been younger, and wore a gown of light blue, the color set off by a gold necklace set with blue stones. To Daria and her sister, the woman had appeared regal, and both she and Iona had coveted that necklace.

Daria was so absorbed in the painting and the memories it stirred that by the time she heard the swift footsteps, it was already too late to react.

From out of nowhere, something struck her from behind with such force and speed that she was propelled forward. The last thing she remembered was raising her hands to cover her face as she flew toward the marble fireplace. The side of her head struck the mantel, and the world went dark.

“Son of a bitch.” Connor stood in front of the bank of computers in the library basement, his hands on his hips. There wasn’t much doubt as to which of the computers the killer had used. It would be the third from the left, the one that now lay shattered and in pieces.

He banged his hand on the low wall of the nearest cubicle.

“Anyone down here? Mrs. Weathers? Hello?” he called out before running back up the steps.

“Did you see anyone downstairs?” Louise asked when Connor approached the desk.

“No. But we won’t need an FBI team to figure out which computer the e-mails were sent from.” He told her what he’d found.

“Should I call 911?” Louise asked.

“The Bureau is going to be handling the vandalism of the computer, since it’s part of an ongoing case, but give campus security a call and have them track down the guard who’s supposed to be on duty here tonight.”

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“I’m going to check upstairs. You said Mrs. Weathers didn’t like the steps because of her knees, but if she’s not downstairs, and she’s not here, there’s only one place left.”

He was halfway up to the second floor when he turned back and called down, “Where’s Daria?”

“She was in there.” Louise pointed toward the room into which Daria had disappeared.

“Would you ask her to wait with you here until I come down? I’m not getting a good feeling.”

Louise dialed the number for campus security. On the third ring, it was picked up.

“This is President Burnette. Was a guard assigned to the library tonight? Did he check in? Has he been in touch since? I’m over at the library and there’s no one here…yes, I’m positive. There’s no one at the guard’s post, and the building appears to be empty. Yes, please, page him. I’ll hold.”

She looked up to see Connor running down the steps.

“I found your Mrs. Weathers. At least, I’m assuming that’s who she is.” He grabbed the other phone from the desk and dialed 911. “I’m afraid we’re going to need the police here after all.”

“You don’t mean Gloria…” Louise went pale. “Is she…?”

“Someone is.” He looked around. “Louise, where’s Daria?”

“She was in there. I was going to check after I called security-”

He shoved the phone into her hands. “Tell the police we need them now. Probable homicide.”

He hurried to the doorway where Louise had last seen Daria.

“Oh, sweet Jesus…”

Seconds later he was bending over Daria, checking for a pulse, his own heart all but stopping at the sight of the blood that puddled under her head.

“Please be alive…please, please be alive.”

He located a pulse and began to breath again. “Come on, baby, hang in there. Hang in there…”

“The Howeville police are on their way…” Louise stopped three steps into the room. “Oh my God, is that-?”

“Call 911 back. Tell them to send an ambulance immediately,” he said without looking up.

All of Connor’s instincts told him to seek, to find, to break the attacker. But he continued to kneel at Daria’s side, wanting to touch her, afraid to touch her, until he heard the sirens stop in front of the building. When the EMTs appeared in the doorway, he waved them over and stepped back, and watched while her vital signs were checked and she was gently lifted onto a stretcher.

Then he left the room without a sound and disappeared into the night. For Connor, the game had just become personal. The killer had no idea just how dangerous a move that had been.

“How are you feeling?”

The unfamiliar voice was soft and melodious, with a slight accent Daria could not readily identify. She opened her eyes but could not get them to focus.