Erica Spindler - Killer Takes All

“You have a class,” he said. “And so do I.” He smiled, something about his expression wistful. “Perhaps we can discuss the Romantics sometime.”

As they parted, she had the distinct feeling he wanted something more from her than a discussion of literature.

But what?

Tuesday, March 8, 2005

9:30 p.m.

Stacy sat at a table on the second floor of the UNO library, surrounded by books. One of them an edition of Alice in Wonderland. She’d read the story-a mere 224 pages-then begun picking through a half-dozen critical essays on the author and his most famous work.

She had discovered that Lewis Carroll was considered by some to be the Leonardo da Vinci of his time. She found that interesting, as her new boss called himself a modern-day da Vinci. She tucked that away, and returned her attention to sifting through the things she had learned about the nineteenth-century author. Although simply a tale he’d made up to amuse a young girl during a park outing and only written down later, the story had become a classic.

Not just a classic, but one that had been analyzed damn near to death. According to the essays, Alice in Wonderland was far from a childish fantasy about a girl who tumbles down a rabbit hole and into a bizarre world, and was rife with themes of death, abandonment, the nature of justice, loneliness, nature and nurture.

So much for a lighthearted romp.

Stacy wondered if critics and academics made up these things to justify their own existence. She frowned at her thoughts. Ones like that wouldn’t sit well with her professors.

She had already managed to get herself on Professor Grant’s shit list. She’d been late for class and he’d been pissed. To top it off, she hadn’t been prepared, a fact the man had quickly ascertained and pounced on.

He had made it clear that the department expected better from their grad students.

Stacy tossed down her pen and rubbed the bridge of her nose, tired, hungry and disappointed in herself. Grad school was her chance to change her life. If she blew it, what would she do? Go back to police work?

No. Never.

But she had to nail the bastard who killed Cassie. Her friend deserved that from her. If it cost her brownie points-or grade points-so be it.

She returned her attention to the essay in front of her. The underlying notion of a world where the sane was insane and the rules of-

The print blurred. Her eyes burned. She fought the tears, the urge to cry. She hadn’t since that first night, when she found the bodies. And she wouldn’t. She was tougher than that.

She suddenly became aware of how quiet the library was. A prickle of déjà vu tickling the back of her neck, she closed her fingers around her ballpoint.

Stacy waited. Listened. As if in a replay of the previous Thursday night, a sound came from behind her. A footfall, a rustling.

She leaped to her feet and spun around, pen out.

Malone. Grinning at her like Carroll’s damned Cheshire Cat.

He lifted his hands in surrender. He held a copy of Cliff’s Notes on Alice in Wonderland.

Just great, the two of them were thinking alike. Now she would cry.

Spencer motioned to the ballpoint. “Whoa. Back down. I’m unarmed.”

“You startled me,” she said, annoyed.

“Sorry.”

He didn’t look sorry at all. She tossed the pen on the table. “What’re you doing creeping around the library?”

He arched his eyebrows at her word choice. “Same as you, it seems.”

“God help me.”

He laughed, pulled out a chair, swung it around and straddled it, facing her. “I like you, too.”

She felt herself flush. “But I never said I liked you, Malone.”

Before he could respond, her stomach growled. He smiled. “Hungry?”

She pressed a hand to her middle. “And tired with a killer headache.”

“Low blood sugar, no doubt.” He reached into his windbreaker pocket and pulled out a Snickers bar. He held it out. “You need to take better care of yourself.”

She accepted the candy. Opening it, she took a bite and made a sound of pleasure. “Thanks for your concern, Malone, but I’m doing just fine.”

She took another bite. The effect of the sugar on her headache was nearly immediate. “You always carry Snickers bars in your pocket?”

“Always,” he said solemnly. “Payola for snitches.”

“Or to coax information out of hungry, headachy women.”

He leaned forward. “Rumor has it you’re spending a lot of time with Leo Noble. Mind telling me why?”

“Who are you following?” she countered. “Me? Or Leo?”

“So why has Noble hired a former homicide detective? Protection? From whom?”

She didn’t deny she was working for the man. It wouldn’t do any good, anyway; Malone knew the truth. “Technical advice. He’s writing a novel.”

“Bullshit.”

She changed the subject, glancing at the book Malone was holding. “I’m impressed. It looks like you’re doing your homework. Even if it is Research Lite.”

One corner of his mouth lifted in a smirk. “Don’t be too impressed. I haven’t read it yet.”

“Above your head?”

“Biting the hand that fed you isn’t nice. And there’s chocolate on your teeth.”

“Where?” She ran her tongue over her teeth.

“Do that again.” He rested his chin on his fist. “It’s turning me on.”

She laughed despite herself. “You want something from me-” she held a hand up to hold off the smart-ass answer she felt certain was coming “-what is it?”

“How does the game White Rabbit relate to the story of Alice in Wonderland? ”

Stacy thought of the cards Leo had received. “Simply, Noble used Carroll’s story as inspiration for his game. The White Rabbit controls play. The characters from the story are the game characters, though it’s all been morphed into something violent and disturbing.”

He motioned to the material on the table in front of her. “If it’s so simple, why all this?”

He had her there. Damn it. “From other gamers, I’ve learned White Rabbit’s a renegade scenario. Outside the gaming mainstream. Its enthusiasts are more cultish than other gamers. More secretive. It seems that’s part of the game’s allure.”

“What about its structure?”

“More violent, to be sure.” She paused, thinking of what she had learned. “The major difference in structure is in the role of game master. Most game masters are absolutely impartial. White Rabbit’s is not. He’s a character, playing to win. The objective for all the players,” she finished, “is kill or be killed.”

“Or to survive by any means, depending on your perspective.”

She opened her mouth to reply; his cell phone rang, cutting her off.

“Malone.”

She watched his face as he listened, noted the slight tightening of his mouth. The way his eyebrows drew together in a scowl.

The call was business.

“Got it,” he said. “Be right there.”

He had to go, she knew. Somewhere, somebody was dead. Murdered.

He reholstered the phone, met her eyes. “Sorry,” he said. “Duty calls.”

She nodded. “Go.”

He did, without a backward glance. Everything about his posture and stride shouted purpose, determination.

She watched him. For ten years she had gotten calls like that. She had hated them. Dreaded them. They had always come at the worst times.

Then why did she feel this biting sense of loss now? This feeling of being on the outside looking in?

She turned to collect her things. And saw Bobby Gautreaux, striding toward the stairs. She called his name, loudly enough, she knew, to be heard.