earlier, but I’ve been busy.”
I hear convulsive laughter. Whoever it is on the other end of the phone is having a really good time. I instantly suspect students.
Drunk students.
“No, it’s not Tad,” the voice says. “It’s actually a friend of yours from last night. Don’t tell me you don’t remember.”
And suddenly the memory of those ice-blue eyes on mine comes flooding back.
And all the blood seems to leave my extremities. I’m sitting there, frozen to the spot, holding the phone with my dad asleep on one side of me, and Lucy asleep on the other.
“Hello, Steve,” I manage to say, through lips that have gone cold. “How did you get my number?”
“How’d I figure out your last name and look it up, you mean?” Steve asks, with a laugh. “A little bird told me. Do you want to speak to him? He’s right here.”
The next thing I know, a voice that is unmistakably Gavin McGoren’s is swearing—steadily, and with much imagination—into the phone. I’d recognize those “motherfuckin’s” anywhere. They are the same ones Gavin regularly uttered back when I used to catch him elevator-surfing.
Then I hear a smacking sound—like skin on skin—and a second later, Steve is saying, “Tell her, goddamn you. Tell her what we told you to say.”
“FUCK…YOU,” is Gavin’s response. This is followed by a scuffling sound, and more smacking. When I hear Steve’s voice again, it’s out of breath.
“Well, I think you get the idea, anyway,” he says. “We’re having another party. And this time, you’re actually invited. And to make sure you show, we have your friend Gavin here. Unless you do exactly what I tell you, he’s going to suffer some bodily injury. And you wouldn’t want that, now, would you?”
I’m so horrified I can barely breathe. I say, “No.”
“I didn’t think so. So here’s the dealio. You come here. Alone. If you call the cops, he will get hurt. If you don’t show, he—”
“HEATHER, DON’T—” I hear Gavin start to bellow, but his voice is quickly smothered.
“—could get very, very hurt,” Steve finishes. “Got it?”
“I got it,” I say. “I’ll be there. But where’s here? The Tau Phi House?”
“Please,” Steve says, sounding bored. “We’rehere , Heather. I think you know where.”
“Fischer Hall,” I say, my gaze going toward my living room windows, which look out at the back of the twenty-story building that is my place of work. It’s still early, by New York College residence hall standards, which means that most of the lights in the windows are blazing as the building’s occupants prepare to go out, apparently completely unaware that down on the first floor, in the closed and locked
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cafeteria, something unspeakable is about to take place.
Which is when I stop feeling cold, and start feeling angry. How dare they? Seriously. How dare they think they can get away with thisagain ? Do they really believe I’m going to sit idly back andlet them turn Fischer Hall into Death Dorm?
And okay, maybe it alreadyis Death Dorm. But I’m not going to let it stay that way.
“Heather?” Steve’s voice is warm in my ear. It’s amazing how charming psychopathic killers can be, when they put their minds to it. “Are you still there?”
“Oh, I’m here,” I tell him. “And I’ll be right over.”
“Good,” Steve says, sounding pleased. “We’ll be looking forward to seeing you. Alone, like I said.”
“Don’t worry,” I assure him. “I’ll be alone.” Like I need any help kicking his skinny ass. Steve Winer is making an extremely bad decision, challenging me to a confrontation on my own turf. He might have been able to off a girl as tiny as Lindsay without getting caught, but if he thinks a girl like me is going to go down without a fight—a fight loud enough to bring the entire building banging on the cafeteria doors—he’s got another think coming.
But then again, he, like his brother, doesn’t strike me as the sharpest knife in the drawer.
“Good,” Steve says. “And remember. No cops. Or your boyfriend’s a dead man.”
I hear a thump, and then a scream. The scream comes from Gavin.
And I know that, stupid though he might be, Steve Winer isn’t someone to underestimate.
I slam down the receiver and spin around to see my dad sitting up, blinking groggily.
“Heather?” he says. “What’s the matter?”
“Something’s going down at the dorm,” I say, grabbing a piece of paper and writing a number on it. “I mean, residence hall. Something bad. I need you to call this person and tell him he needs to get over there as fast as possible. Tell him I’ll meet him in the caf. Tell him to bring backup.”
Dad squints down at the number. “Where are you going?”
“I’m going to Fischer Hall,” I say, grabbing my coat. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
Dad looks confused. “I don’t like this, Heather,” he says. “They don’t pay you enough for you to be hurrying over there in the dead of night like this.”
“Tell me about it,” I say, and I’m out the door.
The walk to Fischer Hall has never seemed so long. Even though I’m half running, it seems to take forever to get there. Partly because of the slick sidewalks I have to navigate, but also, I’m convinced, because of how hard my heart is hammering inside my chest. If they did anything to hurt Gavin…if they
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so much as bruised him—
I’m so intent on getting where I’m going that I don’t even see Reggie until I crash into him.
“Whoa, little lady,” he cries, as we collide. “Where would you be off to in such a hurry so late at night?”
“Geez, Reggie,” I say, struggling to catch my breath. “Don’t you ever go home?”
“Fridays are my best nights,” Reggie says. “Heather, what’s the matter? You’re white as—well, a white girl.”
“It’s those guys,” I pant. “The ones I told you about. They have one of my residents. In the caf. They’re going to hurt him if I don’t get there, fast—”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Reggie has hold of both my arms and doesn’t seem eager to let go. “Are you serious? Heather, don’t you think you should call the police?”
“I did!” I have to windmill both my arms before I manage to break free of his grip. “My dad’s calling them. But someone has to get in there in the meantime—”
“Why does that someone have to be you?” Reggie wants to know.
But it’s too late. I’m already off and running again, my Timberlands pounding on the newly shoveled sidewalk, my heart pounding in my throat.
When I throw open the door to Fischer Hall, the mystery of how Doug and his fellow frat brothers—not to mention his real brother—got into the building to kill Lindsay without actually being signed in is cleared up the minute I walk through the door and see the security guard.
“You!” I cry. It’s the crusty old guard from the security desk in Waverly Hall.
“ID,” he says.He doesn’t even recognize me .
“You were at Waverly Hall last night,” I pant, pointing at him accusingly.
“Yeah,” Crusty Old Guard says, with a shrug. “That’s my regular spot. I fill in other places when there’s an opening. Like here, tonight. I need to see your ID before I can let you in.”
I’m flipping open my wallet to show him my staff identification. “I’m the assistant director of this building,” I say to him. “I know you let a bunch of Tau Phis in here tonight without making them sign in.
Just like you did Monday night, when they killed someone.”
Crusty Old Guard—his name tag says Curtiss—grunts. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says grumpily.
“Yeah,” I say. “Well, you’ll find out in a minute, believe me. In the meantime, I want you to phone up to the building director and tell him to head to the caf. And when the cops show up, send them there, too.”
“Cops?” Crusty Curtiss looks startled. “What—”
But I’m already running past him.
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I don’t head for the main doors to the caf, though. I’m not about to go walking blindly into their trap—lame as it might be. Instead, I dash down the hall, past my office, then the student government’s office—closed and locked, as always—and finally past the dining manager’s office, to the back entrance to the kitchen. The door, as I’d known it would be, is locked.
But I have my master key. I slip it from my pocket and—cradling a can of pepper spray in my free hand—unlock the door as quietly as I can and let myself into the kitchen.
It’s dark. As I’d expected, they’re in the dining hall itself. They don’t have anyone stationed in the kitchen. They haven’t even bothered turning the lights on in here. Amateurs.
I creep along the galley, straining my ears. I can hear the murmur of male voices out in the dining area.
There’s a light on there, as well…but not the lights in the chandeliers. They haven’t turned on the overheads. Instead, they’ve got some kind of flickering lamp on…flashlights?
Or flames?
If they’re burning candles in there, they are in so much trouble. Burning candles isn’t allowed in any of the residence halls.
I’m not really sure what my plan is. I figure I’ll creep as close as I can behind the service counters, then peer out over them to see what the boys are up to. Then I’ll creep back and report what I’ve seen to Detective Canavan when he arrives with backup. That way they’ll have a good idea how many people they’re dealing with.
I crawl along behind the steam tables, thinking that I’m really going to have to have words with Gerald, because it is just disgusting back there. Seriously, the knees of my jeans are getting filthy, and my hand lands on something squishy that I sincerely hope is a furry Tater Tot.
Except that Tater Tots don’t make squeaking noises and jump away.
It’s all I can do to restrain a scream.
Good thing I go to the trouble, though. Because when I peek up over the top of the steam tables, I see something that both horrifies and stuns me.
And that’s a dozen figures in deeply hooded robes—like monks wear—only blood red, standing around one of the dining tables, which has been dragged from its normal place and put in a position of prominence in the center of the room, and covered with a blood-red cloth. On top of it are various items I’m too far away to identify. One of them, though, has to be a candelabra or something. The flickering light I’m seeing really is candlelight.
I’m not too far away to identify the figure that’s sitting off to one side, his wrists tied to the arms of one of the dining chairs. It’s Gavin. With duct tape over his mouth.
That is totally going to hurt when I pull it off. I mean, when it catches on his goatee.
Of course, I know right away what I’m looking at. I subscribe to all the premium cable channels, after all. It’s some kind of fraternity initiation ritual, like in that movieThe Skulls .
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And I want no part of it. Gavin appears to be all right—at least, he doesn’t seem to be in any imminent danger. I decide the best thing to do might be to retreat and wait for reinforcements.
Which is why I’m crawling back toward the kitchen when my coat pocket catches on a steel mixing bowl stashed way too low on a shelf. It falls to the (grimy) floor with a clatter, and the next thing I know, there are a pair of Adidas in front of me, peeping out from the hem of a red robe.
“Look what we have here,” a deep male voice says. And a second later, hard hands slip beneath my armpits and pull me to my feet.
Not that I go quietly, of course. I lift my hand to direct a stream of pepper spray inside the hood, only to have the canister knocked from my hand. I am, however, wearing Timberlands, the footwear of choice for the intrepid Manhattan assistant dorm director. I level one of my steel-encased toes at the shins of my captor, causing him to swear colorfully.
Sadly, however, he doesn’t release me, and the only result is that another robed guy comes up and grabs me, too. Plus a lot more mixing bowls fall down, making a horrendous racket.
But a racket is what Iwant to make now. I want everyone in the building to come running. Which is why I start screaming my head off as I’m dragged over to the ceremonial table the Tau Phis have set up.
At least until Steve Winer—or a guy I assume is him; he’s the tallest and has fancy gold trim around the cowl of his robe, as befitting the president of a frat house—walks over to where Gavin is sitting and smacks him, hard, across the face with some kind of scepter he’s holding.
I stop screaming. Gavin’s head has snapped back at the blow. For a minute it stays that way. Then, slowly, he turns his neck, and I see the gash that’s opened up on his cheek…and the fury blazing in his eyes.
Along with the tears.
“No more screaming,” Steve says, pointing at me.
“She kicked me, too,” says Adidas, beside me.
“No more kicking,” Steve adds. “You kick and scream, the kid gets whacked again. Understand?”
I say, in what I consider a relatively calm voice, “The cops are going to be here any minute. I know you said not to call them, but…too late.”
Steve pushes back his hood so he can see me better. The only light source—it really is a candelabra, sitting on the middle of the altar he’s created—isn’t exactly bright, but I can see his expression well enough. He doesn’t, however, look alarmed.
And this alarmsme .
Especially when, a second later, the double doors to the caf are thrown open, and Crusty Curtiss comes shuffling in, looking annoyed. He’s got a half-eaten sandwich in his hand. It appears to be a Blimpie Best.
Which just happens to be one of my favorites, especially with sweet and hot pickles.
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“Can’t you keep her quiet?” he asks Steve, in an irritated voice. “People are wondering what the hell is going on in here.”
I stare at him in horror. Seeing my expression, Steve chuckles.