by Julie Kenner
“Go on.”
She licked her lips, not meeting his eyes as she explained how she’d discovered the body, then had run straight into the killer’s arms. “I was so scared. I was sure he was going to kill me. And then I ran into you—”
“And I scared you even more.”
“Hell yes,” she said. “You’d broken into my apartment.”
He held up a hand to ward off a fresh tirade. Her being pissed at him might have calmed her fears, but neither of them had time for another dressing-down.
“You came to help,” she said, her tone even.
“I was assigned to help.”
“Why kill Jamie and not kill me?” she asked.
“Don’t know. Different assassin, maybe.”
She cringed. “Nice to know it’s so easy to round up assassins to pick off innocent grad students.”
“Put an ad in Soldier of Fortune and you’d be surprised who’ll come running.”
“The Most Dangerous Game,” she said. “I watched that movie once. Didn’t like it much.” She met his eyes, and he was impressed by the spark of humor he saw beneath the fear. “I can’t say I like the concept any more today.”
“Me either.”
She frowned. “It could be the same killer, though. Maybe the police have a lead. Maybe they can find him. Track him down.”
“No go,” he said. “I checked. The case has gone completely cold.”
“I think I’ve just heated things up.”
“That you have. Are you going to call the police?”
Her forehead creased, and from her expression, you’d think he’d asked her if she’d like a nice glass of gasoline on ice. “I think you missed a few rules in your review,” she said.
He shook his head, not following. “So tell me.”
“It’s what the messenger meant,” she said. “Now that I know what the game is, his warning makes perfect sense.” She took a deep breath, and he saw that her hands were shaking. She clasped them together, her fingers so tightly twined her knuckles turned white. “There are authorities in the game—cops, FBI, whatever. And you can ask them for help if you want, and if you do, you might even jump a level or two. But there’s a price. Any target who calls in an authority for help loses their protector. Get it?”
He got it, all right. She called in the cops, and the assassin would pick him off. Or try to, anyway.
“Don’t even think it,” she said.
He met her eyes, careful to keep his expression bland. “Think what?”
“I’m not calling the cops. For one thing, he told me not to, and I’m beginning to think that’s an order I should follow. Mostly, though, I’m not about to hang you out there like that.”
“I know how to watch my back.” Not entirely true. He was good, but even he couldn’t stop a sniper’s bullet if he didn’t know when or where it was coming from.
“Maybe,” she said, “but I couldn’t stand the guilt. Todd’s already dead. It’s not my fault, I know that. But I don’t want your blood on my hands, too.”
She rushed on before he could get a word in. “If he kills you too, I’m on my own.” Her eyes flashed with dark humor. “And if I’m stuck playing this game, I’d just as soon have company, you know?”
“I know.” He took her hand, gently squeezing her fingers. “I’m sticking to you like glue, Melanie.”
She managed a smile. “Call me Mel.”
He nodded, then swung an arm around her shoulder and pulled her close, half expecting her to tug away, insisting on her own personal space. She didn’t. Instead, she leaned against him, the soft sound of her breathing marking time in the otherwise silent apartment. He wanted to whisper comforting words, to tell her it would all be okay and that they’d get through this nightmare. But he couldn’t. Melanie already knew the score, and he wasn’t about to lie to her. Comfort, yes. But lie? Never.
They sat that way for a while before she spoke again, so softly that he had to strain to hear her. “I don’t think Todd even played PSW. Why did they have to go and kill him?”
“I don’t know.”
A tear trickled down her cheek, and Stryker steeled himself against the urge to wipe it away. “I said I wasn’t going to play. Todd even crumpled the note and we threw it away, just like Jamie Tate did. So why is she dead and I’m still alive?”
“Maybe he didn’t have any fun with Jamie.”
She pulled out of his embrace then and turned to face him, her brow furrowed in concentration. “What do you mean?”
“The chase,” he said. “That’s got to be why he signed on. That and the money.” How the killer knew Melanie wasn’t going to play remained a question Stryker coudn’t yet answer.
“So he killed her and then realized that it was all over. With me, he thought he’d try a little persuasion?”
“It’s only a guess.”
“We need that message.” She closed her eyes, then sighed deeply before adding, “There was more to it. Nonsense stuff. The next clue, I guess.”
“So we go get it,” he said.
“Todd’s place.” Her voice was flat, leaving no doubt that she didn’t want to go back to that apartment.
He took her hand, surprised when she didn’t jerk it away. “I know you don’t want to, but we don’t have a choice.”
“I know. Like the note said—‘Play or Die.’” She met his eyes, hers cold and full of determination. “Looks like I’m going to play.”
Chapter
19
S tryker got us into Todd’s apartment—I didn’t ask how—but I couldn’t bring myself to follow him in. I also couldn’t handle waiting in the hall by myself, so I ended up just inside the door, my back pressed against the wall, as Stryker crossed the short distance to the sofabed.
I realized that something was wrong about the time Stryker lifted the sheet, and when he turned back to look at me, I already knew what he was going to say.
“The sheets are clean. Someone’s done a number on this apartment.”
I checked the trash can and the table, but the crumpled message wasn’t there. Neither was the menu with my decoded message.
The situation was surreal, and part of me expected Todd to walk in at any moment and ask what the hell we were up to.
Please, please, please let him walk in….
He wasn’t going to, though. I knew that. And reality tugged at me like the tide. I held on tight to the back of the kitchen chair and just breathed, waiting for my equilibrium to return.
“You doing okay?”
“I’ve been better.”
“Let’s get out of here.”
I liked that idea. Liked it a lot, actually, but first I had to do one thing. I took a deep breath and circled the bed. Sure enough, my clothes and my new red Givenchy shoes were still in the tangled mess I’d left before falling into bed with Todd last night. I grabbed them up, then followed Stryker back out onto the street. I eyed the passersby while he hailed a cab. No sign of the messenger, though, and I wasn’t certain if that made me feel better or worse.
I did know that I was exhausted. I collapsed gratefully into the cab, and when Stryker put an arm around me and told me to lean back and relax, I didn’t argue. I liked the feel of him next to me, and I liked that he was there to protect me. I didn’t know him—not really—but I was grateful not to have to go this alone.
He smelled like safety, all soap and fabric softener, and for the first time since I’d seen Todd on the bed, I relaxed. I closed my eyes and faded into that familiar half-sleep that comes from riding in one too many unair-conditioned taxicabs.
All too quickly the lulling bounce of the shock-absorber-less cab ended, and we screeched to a halt in front of my building. I knew we were there even without Stryker nudging me. That’s the sign of a true Manhattanite—knowing the cab’s arrived at your apartment even from the depths of a catnap.
Stryker paid the driver, and we headed into the building. As we were about to step into the stairwell, I noticed a
n envelope shoved into the space between my mailbox and the mailbox for 4E, the same place where Mr. Abernathy leaves the overdue rent notices.
“Stryker…”
He turned in the direction I was looking, then crossed to the row of mailboxes and plucked up the envelope. Even from that distance, I could see that my name was printed across it in neat block letters. He handed me the envelope, and I slipped my finger under the flap, breaking the seal. I peered inside. The note. “Play or Die.”
“He’s giving you a second chance,” Stryker said.
I nodded, not sure how I felt about that. Angry. Bewildered. Grateful. Not to mention incredibly confused.
Right then I was sure about only two things: that I wanted to nail the son of a bitch who’d done this to me, and that I was glad Stryker was there. Maybe I was being stupid and naïve and he was going to blow a hole through my head, too. But I didn’t believe it. There was too much comfort in his touch, and when I pushed away, my skin was hot and my movements awkward.
“Looks like we’re back to square one,” I said, holding up the envelope. “Let’s go figure out what this message means.”
Chapter
20
PLAY
OR
DIE
***
PRESTIGE
PARK
39A 89225
Stryker and I stared at the paper now lying on my kitchen table. “The ‘Play or Die’ part I think we’ve figured out,” I said. “I’m not sure about the rest of it.”
“Well, it’s a park, right?”
I shrugged. “I’ve never heard of it.” Jenn and I have a tourist map of New York pinned to the back of the front door, and I marched over to it, my eye drifting first to Central Park and then to all the other little dots of green across the map. I frowned. “There’s a lot of them. And we don’t even know if it’s in Manhattan.”
He moved to stand beside me. “It probably is. PSW is set here. I’d bet we’re playing the game here, too.”
“Shouldn’t there be a list of parks? I don’t see a list.” I started poking at the tape that held the map down, trying to slide my fingernail underneath. “Maybe there’s a list on the other side.” I gave up on the tape and just yanked the damn thing down. It ripped at the bottom corner, leaving a tiny bit of lower Manhattan taped to the back of the door.
Stryker took the map from me and spread it on the table. We both leaned over, concentrating on the tiny printed lists. Hotels, Restaurants, Museums, Parks. I ran my finger down the column, squinting as the letters seemed to swim in front of my eyes. I didn’t see Prestige Park, but I wasn’t trusting myself at the moment. I scanned the list again. “I don’t see it.”
“Me either,” he said, then pushed back from the table. “Got a phone book?”
I shrugged. I rarely know if there’s food in the apartment. The odds that I’d know where to find a phone book were slim. “I can look.”
The place isn’t overflowing with space or storage capabilities, so it didn’t take me long to check all the various nooks and crannies. “No luck,” I said. “Why would it be in the phone book, anyway?”
“Maybe it’s not a park,” he said. “Maybe it’s a parking garage.”
“Well, duh,” I said. “We should have figured that right off the bat.”
He tilted his head and smiled—he had a really nice smile. “It’s been a rather unusual day. I think we can cut ourselves some slack for not thinking completely clearly.”
He had a point. “Okay. So, should I go ask my neighbor for a phone book?”
“Let’s try the Internet first.”
He tugged Jennifer’s laptop over and hit the power switch. While the machine booted up, I pulled my feet up on the chair and hooked my arms around my legs. I propped my chin on my knees and voiced something that had been bugging me. “Why clean Todd’s apartment?”
“Maybe it’s like you said. Keep the police out of it. Even if you had decided to run to the police, think what it would look like if there’s no body, no sign of a struggle…”
“They’d just think I’m a kooky ex-girlfriend.”
“Maybe.”
I didn’t like this (okay, that’s pretty much a given, but I really didn’t like this). I snatched up my phone and called Todd’s direct dial at the office. His secretary picked up.
“Hi, Jan. It’s Mel. Can I talk to Todd?”
“Well, a blast from the past. How’ve you been?” I closed my eyes, fighting frustration. Jan is a few years past sixty and has mentally adopted Todd. I think she was more distressed than either Todd or me when I pulled the plug on the relationship.
“I’m fine,” I said. “But I’m in a bit of a rush. Is he available?”
“Oh, sweetie, I’m afraid he’s not in today.”
“Oh.” I realized then that I’d really expected to hear his voice. Jan hadn’t spouted gloom and doom, and I’d immediately latched onto that as good news. “Do you know when he’ll be back?”
“Actually, I don’t. He was very vague. Frankly,” she said, lowering her voice. “I’m a little concerned. It’s not like him to just take off like that.”
“He was vague?” I repeated, hope swelling. “You talked to him? When?” I’d seen Todd myself, all bloody in the bed. But I’d been freaking out, too. Had I seen someone else? Had it all been some horrible joke?
“This morning,” she said, and just as I was about to fall to my knees and thank God, she added, “Well, I didn’t actually speak to him. He sent an email.”
“An email?” I closed my eyes, certain I knew the end to this story. Stryker reached out and touched my arm. He was only getting my side of the conversation, but I was pretty sure he’d clued in to the more salient points.
“Apparently he was heading off to catch a plane. Some sort of family emergency. Douglas was not happy,” she added, referring to the firm’s senior partner.
“No,” I said. “I bet he wasn’t.”
Jan chattered on a bit more, but I’d quit listening. When she paused for breath, I made the appropriate good-bye noises, then hung up the phone.
“He’s gone home,” I said, my voice tight. “Family emergency.”
“I’m sorry, Mel.”
I felt hollow as I crossed to the sink. I turned on the cold water, then shoved my wrists under the stream. I don’t know when I’d first picked up that habit, but it never failed to calm me. And right then, I felt remarkably calm, all things considered.
As I stood there, another thought occurred to me, and I turned around, my hip pressed against the countertop as I faced him. “Have you checked your message log?”
“That’s how I knew about the money, remember?”
“I meant recently. In the game, sometimes the assassin will send a message. At least, that’s how it was set up when I played.” Actually, all the players communicated by sending messages among themselves. Getting a message from your assassin psyched some players out. And if you were playing the assassin’s role, getting a message from your target could be just as unnerving.
“Shit,” he said. “We should have looked hours ago.”
“Sorry.”
He held out a hand, urging me toward him. “Not your fault,” he said. “Like I said, I’m not totally ignorant about how the game is played, and I didn’t think of it, either.”
“You wouldn’t have. It’s not a rule, or even anything that you’d find in the FAQs. It’s one of those things you have to actually play to learn.”
I’d moved beside him, but I hadn’t taken his hand. Now he took mine, his expression serious. “I may not know the ins and outs of PSW, but I do know the real world. More important, I know how to fight. And how to kill if it comes to that. Don’t doubt me, Mel. I promise I won’t let you down.”
“I believe you,” I said. And it was true. I might not know him, but I didn’t doubt him.
He’d said his piece, and now he concentrated on the computer. I pulled one of the chairs over beside him so that I could see
the screen, too. As he typed, his arm brushed against mine. He was solid and warm, a man’s man kind of guy. The kind of man I’d pretty much avoided in my dating life, tending more toward the guys I could talk numbers with. The jocks always bored me to tears. Now, though, I wasn’t interested in brains. I wanted brawn, and lots of it. What can I say? I’m adaptable.
He typed in his login information, then entered the site and navigated to the message center. Two messages. Stryker looked at me, then clicked the icon to open the first one. The sender was someone named Lynx—and it didn’t take long to realize that Lynx was the assassin, and that he’d started the game by killing Todd.
And that he’d been watching me.
“Eavesdropping equipment,” I said with a shudder. I remembered making love to Todd, sickened at the thought of someone listening in on our private moments. “Bastard.”
To say I didn’t like being a victim was putting it mildly. I’d been in control my whole life—graduating as my high school valedictorian, organizing the first-ever science fair at my school, finding my own tuition help for college since the high school counselor was such a twit, making my own way in New York since my parents refused to toss any cash my way, and on and on and on. The only possible exception was my relationships with men. There my confidence lapses. But even so, I’ve never been a victim. Any asshole creep of a guy treats me badly, and I’m out of there in a heartbeat.
With this asshole, there wasn’t any place to go.
“I hate this,” I said.
“I know,” Stryker said. He moved to the television and turned it on. Loud. Then he came back and leaned in close to my ear. “It gets worse, too. If he eavesdropped on you and Todd, who knows what he’s doing now.”
Well, hell. Stryker was right. The killer could be listening to us right then. The idea gave me the shivers.
