Killer Takes All

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?”