Erica Spindler - Killer Takes All

A smile tugged at her mouth. “And second?”

“You might not be so full of shit after all.”

Saturday, March 5, 2005

11:00 a.m.

Stacy worked to focus on the text in front of her. John Keats’s “Ode to Psyche.” She had chosen to study the Romantics because the sensibility was so foreign to today’s-and so far from the brutal reality she’d been a part of for the past ten years.

Today, however, the poem of beauty and spiritual love seemed overwrought and just plain silly.

She felt battered and punchy, though she wasn’t sure why. Beyond a couple of bruises, the man hadn’t hurt her. Truth be told, save for the adrenaline rush, she hadn’t even been frightened. She’d never felt the situation out of her control.

So why the shakes now?

Stay out of it. Or I won’t.

A warning. She had made someone very uncomfortable.

But whom? Bobby Gautreaux? It didn’t seem likely, because the police had already pinpointed him. Someone else she had spoken with about White Rabbit? Yes. But who?

The cops wouldn’t be any help. They were convinced her attacker was the same man who had raped those other coeds-that he had escalated his attacks.

She didn’t blame them; the MO of the encounter was nearly identical to that of the raped coeds. She reviewed what they’d told her about the campus rapist. A big man, he targeted women alone on campus at night, grabbed them from behind. They had nicknamed him Romeo because of the sweet nothings he murmured in his victims’ ears. Things like “I love you,” “We’ll be together forever,” and most damning, “Stay with me.”

You might not be so full of shit after all.

Did Malone believe her? Or was he simply tossing her a bone to shut her up?

I wouldn’t make a pass at you, Killian. You’d kick my ass.

The comment bothered her. Was she that intimidating? That much of a hard-ass? Somewhere along the line had she lost the ability to be approachable?

“Ball-buster Killian,” her DPD colleagues had called her. It appeared she was moving up in the world-she was an ass-kicker now. What next? Gut-crusher?

“Hello, Detective Killian.”

Stacy looked up. Leonardo Noble was headed across Café Noir for her table, in one hand a plate with a scone, in the other a cup of coffee. “I’m not a detective,” she said as he reached her. “But I suspect you already know that.”

Without asking if he could join her, he set his cup and plate on the table, pulled out a chair and sat. “But you are,” he said. “Homicide. Ten years with the Dallas force. Distinguished a number of times, including this past fall. You resigned in January to pursue a graduate degree in English literature.”

“All true,” she said. “You have a point?”

He ignored her question and took a leisurely sip of his coffee. “If not for you, your sister would be dead and her killer free. Her husband would no doubt be rotting in prison right now, and you’d be-”

She cut him off. She didn’t need to be reminded of where she would be. Or how close Jane had come to dying. “Enough with the dossier, Mr. Noble. I lived it. Once was enough.”

He sampled the scone, made a sound of pleasure, then returned his attention to her. “It’s incredible how much you can learn about someone these days with little more than a few keystrokes.”

“Now you know all about me. Bully for you.”

“Not all.” He leaned forward, eyes alight with interest. “Why, after all those years as a cop, did you resign? From what I read, seemed like you were born to do the job.”

Ever hear the old saying, You can take the cop out of the job, but you can’t take the job out of the cop?

“You shouldn’t believe everything you read. Besides, that would be my business, not yours.” She made a sound of irritation. “Look, I’m sorry you got the wrong idea the other day. I didn’t mean to-”

“Bullshit. Of course you did. You deliberately misled me. And let’s be honest, Ms. Killian, you’re not sorry. Not one damn bit.”

“All right.” She folded her arms across her chest. “I’m not. I needed information, and I did what was necessary to get it. Satisfied?”

“Nope. I want something from you.” He took another bite of the scone, waiting for her reaction. When she didn’t give him one, he went on. “I wasn’t completely honest with you the other day.”

That she didn’t expect. Surprised, she sat forward. “Your answer to my question about the potential of the game leading to violent behavior?”

“How did you know?”

“Like you said, I was a cop for ten years. I interrogated suspects on a daily basis.”

He inclined his head, as if with admiration. “You are good.” He paused. “What I said, about people killing people, I didn’t lie about that. I believe it. But even the most innocent thing in the wrong hands-”

He let the words, their meaning, hang between them a moment, then reached into his jacket pocket. He drew out two postcards and handed them to her.

The first was a pen-and-ink illustration, the image a dark, disturbing representation of Lewis Carroll’s Alice chasing the White Rabbit. Stacy turned the card over. She read the one word scrawled across the back.

Soon.

She shifted her attention to the second card. Unlike the first, it was a dime-store variety postcard depicting the French Quarter.

It read: Ready to play?

She returned her gaze to Leonardo Noble’s. “Why are you showing me these?”

Instead of answering, he said, “I received the first one about a month ago. The second last week. And this one yesterday.”

He handed her a third card. Another pen-and-ink illustration, she saw. This one depicted what appeared to be a mouse, drowning in a pool or puddle. She flipped the card over.

Ready or not, game in play.

Stacy thought of the anonymous notes her sister had received. How the police, including her, had considered them more crank than threat. Until the end. Then they had realized them a serious threat indeed.

“White Rabbit is different from other role-playing games,” the man murmured. “In those, there’s a game master, a sort of referee who controls the game. He creates obstacles for the players, hidden doors, monsters and the like. The best game masters are completely neutral.”

“And in White Rabbit?” she asked.

“The White Rabbit is the game master. But his position is far from neutral. He beckons the players to follow him, down the rabbit hole, into his world. Once there, he lies. Plays favorites. He’s a trickster and a deceiver. And only the most cunning player can best him.”

“The White Rabbit has a big advantage.”

“Always.”

“I would think playing a stacked deck wouldn’t be much fun.”

“We wanted to turn the game on its edge. Upend the players. It worked.”

“I was told your game is the most violent. That it’s a winner-take-all scenario.”

“Killer takes all,” he corrected. “He pits the players against one another. Last man standing faces him.” He leaned toward her. “And once the game’s in play, it doesn’t end until all the players are dead but one.”

Killer takes all. Unease slid up her spine. “Can the characters stand together to take him out?”

He looked surprised, as if no one had ever suggested such a thing. “That’s not the way it’s played.”

She repeated her original question. “Why are you showing me these?”

“I want to find out who sent them and why. I want you to determine if I should be afraid. I’m offering you a job, Ms. Killian.”

She stared at him a moment, momentarily nonplussed. Then she smiled, understanding. She had scammed him; he was returning the favor. “This is when you say ‘Gotcha,’ Mr. Noble.”