Such a Pretty Girl

by Tess Diamond

  “He wins,” Gavin finished.

  Grace sat straight up. Carthage was all about re-creating the past. That meant the game had to end where it had started. She’d been thinking it had started with Janice Wacomb, but she was wrong. This had started years ago.

  “I know where he is,” she said.

  Chapter 33

  The University of Maryland’s criminology department was housed in a large brick building with only a few windows—and only a few ways in. Paul had dispatched a team from headquarters to back them up, but as they pulled into the parking lot, Grace received a text saying they were stuck in traffic.

  “We can’t wait,” she told Gavin.

  “No way,” he agreed, getting out of the SUV and going to the rear to open up the back. “Campus police?” he suggested as he flipped open the case, removed two guns, and handed one to her.

  Grace snorted. “They’d probably end up getting hurt.”

  Gavin pulled out a pair of bulletproof vests, offering one to her. It was the standard-issue size, which was too bulky and big, but she strapped it on tight. Next, she hastily pulled her hair up in a bun, then took the extra ammunition Gavin gave her and tucked it in her pocket.

  “It’s a big building,” he said. “Where are we going to start?”

  Grace looked up at the building in front of them, assessing it like a SWAT team would, counting the entrances and exits, measuring the risks and rewards. If she came in from the north, she’d get to his office faster, and if he was keeping watch out the windows, he’d likely miss her. She’d have the element of surprise in her favor. But if she came in from the south, she had faster access to the center of the building, where the lecture halls were.

  So, was he in his office, where they had their first in-depth conversation? Or in the lecture hall where they first met?

  “Which would he choose?” she muttered. “The lecture hall,” she said. “It’s his stage. This is all a performance. He’d want to give what he considered his best performance there.”

  Gavin put his spare gun in his ankle holster and straightened, his hand settling on the gun on his hip. “Let’s go get Dorothy back safe,” he said.

  They headed to the south side of the building, staying low and using the trees to their advantage to obscure their approach. Luckily, on a weekend morning in summer, the building would be nearly empty. He’d probably brought Dorothy in the night before, totally unnoticed.

  He had the place to himself, just the way he’d want it. As much as Carthage loved grandeur and recognition, he would consider this—their confrontation, their final battle—an intimate, private thing.

  Grace drew her Glock as they headed up the stairs outside the building, Gavin tight against her back. She opened the large glass door with one hand, then led with the gun as she moved down the hall at a fast clip. As she rounded the corner, she halted. A janitor was mopping the hallway, oblivious to her presence.

  “Hey,” Gavin hissed.

  He turned, his eyes widening when he saw them, outfitted in bulletproof vests, guns drawn.

  “FBI,” Grace said, pointing to the badge at her hip. “Any other maintenance crew in here?”

  He shook his head. “Just me,” he said.

  “You see anyone come by?” Gavin asked.

  “Nope. I just started my shift ten minutes ago,” the man explained.

  “Okay, we need you out of here,” Grace said. “SWAT is on its way.”

  He nodded and pelted down the hall. Grace waited until she heard the click of the glass doors so she knew he was gone. Then she squared her shoulders and motioned for them to continue. The lecture hall was at the end of the corridor.

  He had to be there.

  If he’d already killed Dorothy . . .

  She couldn’t think about that. She couldn’t.

  She needed to stay calm. She breathed in and out, timing her breath with her footfalls. If she was going to get the better of Carthage, she needed a steady hand and a cool head. She couldn’t let herself imagine a scenario where Dorothy didn’t walk out of this alive. It wasn’t an option.

  Gavin jerked the lecture hall door open, and Grace entered in front of him, swinging the Glock in a neat arc as she cleared the alcove that led to the stairs.

  “Take the left side,” she whispered. “I’ll take the right.”

  He nodded and moved across the room toward the other set of stairs.

  The lights were off. With her back to the wall, Grace peered around the corner of the alcove, down the hall, and into the darkness. The only light was from the high-set windows at the top of the room, giving the hall a cavernous feel.

  From what she could remember, the floor was built at a deep slant, with rows of chairs set up in a semicircle like an amphitheater, the whiteboards and professor’s desk at the bottom. She squinted into the dim light, trying to make out the shadows at the very bottom of the stairs, near the desk. As her eyes adjusted to the poor light, she realized someone was sitting there, tied to a chair.

  Grace went cold. She had to lock her knees to keep herself from running down the stairs. It was hard to stop the instinct, the horror that rose in her as she realized she couldn’t see if Dorothy was breathing or not.

  She looked across the alcove at Gavin, who held up three fingers. She nodded and he started the countdown.

  Three.

  Two.

  One.

  They moved as one, down the stairs, guns raised. They were halfway down the lecture hall when light suddenly flooded the room. They both froze as a low whistle filled the room. Carthage was sitting right next to Dorothy, a gun in one hand, a knife in the other, held against her throat.

  “Hands in the air!” Grace said, rounding on him.

  “Ah, ah, ah,” Carthage tutted, pointing his own gun. But he didn’t point it at Grace or Gavin.

  He pointed it at the large glass jar that Dorothy’s hands were duct taped to.

  “Careful,” Carthage said. “That’s hydrofluoric acid in sweet little Dorothy’s hands. One shot, and the jar will explode and it’ll eat through her flesh. Chemistry really is a marvel. You can find any recipe on the Internet these days.”

  “God, you’re a sick bastard,” Gavin said.

  “Grace,” Dorothy whimpered. “Please.”

  “It’s okay,” Grace told her. “I’m getting you out of this.”

  “Don’t listen to her, Dorothy,” Carthage said, staring at Grace like he couldn’t bear to tear his eyes from her even for a second. “She never keeps her promises.”

  He was sweating, his eyes lit with a manic fervor.

  “You’re going to need to put your gun down, Agent Walker,” Carthage said.

  Gavin glanced at Grace questioningly.

  “look at me, not her!” Carthage bellowed, the knife in his hand pressing into Dorothy’s throat. She stiffened, the jar of acid in her hands sloshing at the movement.

  Grace flinched at the abrupt rise in volume and to her relief, Gavin slowly lowered his gun, holstered it, and raised his hands. “You’re the one in charge,” he said. “I know how important it is that you talk with Grace about your history.”

  The mention of her name caused Carthage’s attention to snap back to her, much to her relief. She needed him focused totally on her. It was the only way Gavin would be able to get close enough to act.

  “Here we are,” Carthage said, smiling viciously. “Finally.”

  Grace held her ground. She had no other choice. “What’s the plan here, Carthage?” she asked. “You think we came here without backup?”

  “I know you did,” Carthage replied. “Your little lapdog will follow you wherever you ask. But that boss of yours is not too happy with you right now, is he?”

  “He still has my back,” Grace said. “SWAT’s on their way.”

  “They’re not here yet,” Carthage said. “So in the meantime, unless you want Dorothy scarred for life, I propose that you do what I want.”

  “And what’s that?” Grace as
ked.

  “It’s time to play a game,” Carthage said, stepping forward.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Gavin move when Carthage did, getting closer to Dorothy as Carthage got a little farther.

  “Maybe I don’t want to play,” she said, scared he’d notice Gavin’s movement.

  He tutted like a disappointed teacher. “Silly girl, what you want doesn’t matter.”

  “I don’t like your kind of games,” Grace spat out.

  “You’ll like this one,” he insisted. “It’s very simple. I ask you a question. And you tell the truth.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  “Then I shoot your paramour,” he said, turning his gun abruptly on Gavin. Grace tensed, worried Gavin would react, pulling his holstered gun or one of his hidden ones. But he stood stock-still, his hands still raised, his eyes on Carthage.

  “I mean, really, Grace,” Carthage said. “A cop? Your standards have sunk to the bottom.”

  “Is this where I’m supposed to get offended and insist I’m ten times the man you are?” Gavin asked.

  Grace glared at him. He needed to be quiet. She tried to communicate this with her eyes, but if he was cracking macho jokes, Gavin was clearly rattled.

  Carthage laughed; it startled her because it was such a genuine sound. She adjusted her grip on the pistol just a fraction of an inch, unsure of the reaction. Was he offended? Or amused?

  “Such a debased profession,” Carthage said. “Why don’t you stay quiet, Detective Walker? This is between Grace and me.” He turned back to Grace, his eyes narrowing. “Maybe his life isn’t worth much to you. But hers?” He stroked the knife down Dorothy’s cheekbone, a thin line of blood trickling down in its wake. “You’d do anything for her.”

  Tears slipped down Dorothy’s face, mingling with the blood. Grace tried to look at her reassuringly, but she knew there was no reassuring in this situation.

  “I think it’s time to stop wasting precious minutes and get back to our game, my pretty girl.”

  Grace gritted her teeth, tightening her muscles so she wouldn’t shudder at the endearment. It sounded so wrong. So repulsive.

  “What’s the first question?” she asked. Dammit, where the hell was SWAT? Or campus police? They needed backup now!

  Gavin stepped forward just a little, and Carthage’s attention was so locked on Grace he didn’t even notice. Just a few more steps, and he might be close enough. But the acid in Dorothy’s hands . . . Grace had no doubt in her mind it really was acid. Carthage wouldn’t leave that to chance. He wouldn’t bluff.

  He didn’t need to.

  “Now, remember, you can’t lie,” Carthage told her. “And I’ll know if you do. I know you better than anyone, Grace. I made you.”

  “So you keep saying,” Grace said coldly. “Just ask the damn questions.”

  “So impatient, always,” Carthage said, reverting to his professor voice. It made her feel sick. She tightened her hands around her .45, steadying her stance.

  “Who was the first person I ever killed?” Carthage asked.

  Grace didn’t even hesitate. “Martha Lee,” she answered. “My mentor. What did you do, Carthage? Drive her off the road?” She stared hard at his face. His left eye twitched. “No, you don’t have the guts for that. You might’ve got hurt. You messed with her car, didn’t you? Did something that they didn’t catch in the investigation.”

  “The police are woefully incompetent,” Carthage sighed. “So, why do you think I killed dear Martha?” Carthage asked.

  “You were jealous of her,” Grace replied.

  “She stole you from me,” Carthage hissed, and there it was: the first crack she’d seen in his smooth, controlled exterior.

  “She did nothing of the sort,” Grace said. “She was a wonderful woman and a talented academic and a loving wife. She had a brilliant, creative mind. She was truly dedicated to her students. Selflessly dedicated. She gave and gave and didn’t want anything in return, because she knew we were going to go out and do great things. She saw her students as her contribution to the world—not as an extension of her own ego, like you.”

  She stared at Carthage, daring him with her eyes to declare any of it false.

  “She took what I had, what I’d created, all my hard work—and she got the credit,” Carthage complained, sweat trickling down his forehead. The knife in his hand was back at Dorothy’s throat. Grace wanted to shoot him in the head so badly, but she couldn’t risk Dorothy. “You gave her all the credit, in black and white. She needed to be taught a lesson.”

  “You and your lessons,” Grace sneered as Gavin took that moment to inch forward again. So close.

  “I said stay where you are.” Carthage rounded on Gavin, the knife digging into Dorothy’s flesh at the movement. “Another move and I will kill her and you.”

  Grace moved; she had no other choice. Four swift steps, and she was on the platform, just a few feet away from Dorothy.

  Carthage turned to her, his eyes gleaming in the light. “You shouldn’t have done that,” he said.

  “You did this,” she said. “You did all of this.”

  “For you,” he replied. “Another question, Grace,” he added as blood streaked down Dorothy’s neck. “Are you ready?”

  She needed to get close to Dorothy. Yanking her out of the way seemed like the best option here. The jar in her hands was closed with a lid—she just had to pray it was shut tightly.

  “This man.” He gestured toward Gavin with his gun. Grace had to lock her knees not to fling herself forward.

  And then Carthage asked a question that made her blood run cold.

  “Do you love him?”

  Grace froze, her eyes widening. What was the right answer?

  Her mind raced, trying to sort through everything she knew about Carthage. Would he fly into a jealous rage if she said yes? Would that make Gavin more of a target?

  If she said no, would it please him—or would he see through it?

  Would he know it was a lie?

  Was it a lie?

  “Answer the question, Grace,” Carthage ordered.

  Grace licked her lips. “No,” she said, but even she could hear the question in her voice.

  “I told you not to lie,” Carthage snarled, thrusting the gun at her.

  Yes. The gun was back in play, but on her, not on Dorothy. That was progress.

  “I . . .” She stepped forward, just one step. Carthage was so focused on her answer he didn’t notice. “I don’t know,” she confessed.

  It was the truth. Terrifying and exhilarating to contemplate on the surface. She’d save the deeper examination for a time when she didn’t have a gun in her face and a teenager holding a jar of acid.

  Carthage’s shoulders visibly relaxed. Grace’s eyes narrowed, noting it. “That’s better,” he said, almost sighing it. “I want you to be able to tell me the truth, Grace. It’s very important.”

  “Are there any more questions?” Grace asked. She thought about taking another step in his direction but decided she couldn’t risk it yet. She needed to get him more involved in the guessing game.

  “Yes,” Carthage said. “Why haven’t you been able to stop me?”

  “You’ve gotten lucky,” Grace replied brusquely.

  “Luck has nothing to do with it!” Carthage shouted, enraged. “I outsmarted you!”

  Grace’s trigger finger tensed.

  “If I have to hand over my truths, Carthage, then you do too,” she said, stepping forward again. She was so close. “This has never been a fair game. Just like ten years ago, we didn’t have a fair relationship. You can’t stand to be on equal footing with anyone—you always have to be the one in power. The one in charge. The smarter one. The older one. The admired one. I hung on your every word—and you loved it.”

  All his attention was on her now. Dorothy was forgotten between them.

  She almost had him. If only she could edge just a little closer . . .

  “Were yo
u surprised at how easy it was?” she asked quietly, almost soothingly.

  “How easy what was?” His shoulders, which had gone rigid again when he’d insisted on his superiority, started to relax.

  “Killing someone,” Grace answered.

  Something in his eyes flickered—and Grace was disgusted to realize that it was lust.

  “It was a relief, wasn’t it?” Grace asked, risking another step forward. She was only three feet away now. She couldn’t tackle Dorothy to the ground, but she could pull her away, as soon as she got rid of Carthage’s knife. Gavin would jump in the second he saw the opportunity. She knew it.

  It was a crazy plan, but it was the only one she had.

  “You had something building inside you for so long,” Grace said. “You watched Martha’s car go off the road, didn’t you? You needed to see it.”

  He smiled slightly. Thinking about his past crimes made him unwind the way a hot cup of tea relaxed a normal person. Revulsion churned in Grace’s stomach, but she kept her voice low, inviting, nonjudgmental.

  “It was . . . beautiful,” he mused, his voice full of awe.

  “And it just got better with each one, didn’t it?”

  “Yes,” he whispered.

  “And got easier.”

  “It was so easy,” he said, the wonder in his voice making her want to shoot him then and there. But Dorothy was the priority. She glanced down at the girl, nodding slightly. Dorothy raised her eyebrows, showing her she understood.

  “It’s much easier to sow chaos than to maintain order,” she said, her soft voice turning to steel.

  His eyes widened immediately. “My kind of chaos is a work of art. I had you all fooled.”

  “You took the easy path, Carthage,” Grace said, letting the disgust show on her face. She had to make him confused. To shift her moods, to keep him distracted and uneasy.

  It made things more dangerous, but it gave her cover as she inched closer.

  “I took the only path back to you,” he growled. “I watched you that night . . . that night at the awards banquet. I know you saw me, but you never approached me.”