Erica Spindler - Killer Takes All

Every department had its own secretary. That person knew her department inside and out, and was familiar with every student major, knew each faculty member, complete with their peculiarities. They also tended, within their respective domains, to be more powerful than God.

Stacy had also learned that if they liked you, they would move heaven and earth to help you solve a problem. But if they didn’t, if you crossed them, you were screwed.

The woman in charge of the engineering department fiefdom, Stacy saw, had a face as round as the moon and a big broad smile.

One of the motherly ones. Good.

“Hi,” she smiled, and crossed to the woman’s desk. “I’m Stacy Killian, a grad student from the English department.”

The woman returned her smile. “How can I help you?”

“I’m looking for Bobby Gautreaux.”

The woman frowned slightly. “I haven’t seen Bobby today.”

“He doesn’t have an engineering class on Tuesdays?”

“I believe he does. Let me check.” She swung toward her computer terminal, accessed the student records, then typed in Bobby’s name.

“Let’s see. He did have a class earlier, though I didn’t see him. Maybe I can help you?”

“I’m a family friend from Monroe. I was there this past weekend, visiting my folks. Bobby’s mom asked if I would bring this to him.” She held up the card she’d just purchased at the bookstore, now marked “Bobby” on the envelope.

The woman smiled and held out a hand. “I’ll be happy to give it to him.”

Stacy held back. “I promised I’d give it directly to him. She was pretty insistent about that. He lives in Bienville Hall, doesn’t he?”

Stacy saw a wariness creep into the secretary’s expression. “I’m sure I don’t know.”

“Could you check?” Stacy leaned closer, lowering her voice. “There’s money in it. A hundred dollars. If I leave it and something happens…I’d never forgive myself.”

The woman pursed her lips. “I certainly can’t take the responsibility for cash.”

“That’s just the way I feel,” Stacy agreed. “The sooner I hand it to Bobby, the better.”

The woman hesitated a moment more, gazing at her, seeming to size her up. After a moment, she nodded. “Let’s see if I have that information.”

She returned her attention to the computer screen, tapped in some information, then turned back to Stacy. “It is Bienville Hall. Room 210.”

“Room 210,” Stacy repeated, smiling. “Thanks. You’ve been a lot of help.”

Bienville Hall, a graceless but utilitarian high-rise dormitory built in 1969, was located directly across the commons from the engineering department.

She entered the building. The days of lockdown, single-gender dorms had gone the way of the dinosaur, and none of the students she passed paid any attention to her.

She took the stairs to the second floor, then made her way to room 210. When no one responded to her first knock, she knocked again.

Still no response. She glanced around her, saw she was alone in the hall, then nonchalantly reached out and tried the door.

It swung open.

She stepped inside, quietly closing the door behind her. What she was doing was illegal, though less of an offense now that she was no longer the law. Bizarre but true.

Stacy moved her gaze quickly over the small, pin-neat room. Interesting, she decided. Single guys were not known for their tidiness. What other norms did Bobby Gautreaux defy?

She crossed to the desk. Three neat piles graced its top. She thumbed through each, then eased open the desk drawer. She poked through its contents.

Finding nothing that looked incriminating, she shut the drawer, her attention going to a photo tacked to the corkboard above the desk. Of Cassie. Wearing a bikini, smiling at the camera.

He’d drawn a bull’s-eye over her face.

Excited, she shifted her gaze. There were several other snapshots of the woman, one he’d adorned with devil’s horns and a pointed tail, another with Burn in hell, Bitch.

He was either innocent-or incredibly stupid. If he had killed her, he had to know the police were going to come calling. Leaving those photos on the bulletin board assured him a lot of heat.

“What the hell?”

She turned. The young man in the doorway looked like he’d had a very bad night. He could be a poster child for Alcoholics Anonymous.

Or a walking, talking mug shot.

“The door was open.”

“Bullshit. Get out.”

“Bobby, right?”

His hair was wet; he had a towel looped over his shoulders. He moved his gaze over her. “Who wants to know?”

“A friend.”

“Not of mine.”

“I’m a friend of Cassie’s.”

Something ugly crossed his face. He folded his arms across his chest. “Big friggin’ deal. I haven’t talked to Cassie in ages. Get the fuck out.”

Stacy closed the distance between them. She tilted her head back to meet his eyes. “Funny, I got the impression from her that the two of you had spoken quite recently.”

“Then she’s not only a bitch. But a liar, too.”

Stacy bristled, offended. She swept her gaze over him. He had dark, curly hair and dark brown eyes, a gift from his French Acadian ancestors. If not for his surliness, he would have been quite handsome.

“She said you might know something about the game White Rabbit.”

His expression altered subtly. “What about White Rabbit?”

“You know the game, right?”

“Yeah, I know it.”

“Ever played it?”

He hesitated. “No.”

“You don’t sound so sure.”

“You sound like a cop.”

She narrowed her eyes, deciding there was little to like about the young man. He was a punk, through and through. She’d dealt with them daily in her years on the Dallas force.

Busting toads like him had been the best part of the job. She wished she had a badge now; she’d like to see him pee his pants.

Imagining just that, a smile touched her mouth. “Like I said, I’m just a friend. Doing a little research. Tell me about White Rabbit.”

“What do you want to know?”

“About the game. What it’s like. How you play. Things like that.”

He curled his lip. She supposed it was his sleazy version of a smile. “It’s not an ordinary game. It’s dark. And it’s violent.”

He paused, his expression seeming to come alive. “ Think Dr. Seuss meets Lara Croft, Tomb Raider. Wonderland is the setting. It’s crazy. A bizarre world.”

Sounded like a big barrel of laughs. “You say it’s darker. What does that mean?”

“You’re not a gamer, are you?”

“No.”

“Then fuck you.”

He turned away; she caught his arm. “Humor me, Bobby.”

He looked from her hand on his arm to her eyes. The expression in them must have convinced him she meant business. “White Rabbit is a game of survival of the fittest. The smartest, most capable. Last man standing takes all.”

“Takes all?”

“Kill or be killed, doll. Game’s not over until only one character is left alive.”

“How do you know so much about the game when you’ve never played it?”

He shook off her hand. “I’ve got connections.”

“You know someone who plays?”

“Maybe.”

“Cute. Do you or don’t you?”

“I know the big man. The Supreme White Rabbit.”

Bingo. “Who is he?”

“The game inventor himself. A dude named Leonardo Noble.”

“Leonardo Noble,” she repeated, searching her memory for recognition.

“He lives in New Orleans. Heard him talk at CoastCon. He’s pretty cool but kind of manic. You want to know about the game, go to him.”

She took a step back. “I will. Thanks for your help, Bobby.”