Read The Killing Game for Free Online

realm of Me. When you are your own universe, there’s no place for Us.”
    “But they have to deal with the Us,” Amanda Sanchez said. “Doesn’t that pull them into the real world or whatever?”
    I said, “Take it, Holliday.”
    Confusion in her eyes. “Excuse me, Detective?”
    “I’m ceding the floor. Answer the question: How do sociopaths deal with the concept of Us?”
    Holliday swallowed hard. “Uh, I guess in their world it’s not Us, it’s Them. Me versus Them. Me is inflated via pathological megalomania or narcissism, while Them is demoted to insignificance, a collection of idiots and fools.”
    “Good,” I said. “Us is an inclusive collective, Them isn’t.”
    “My head’s spinning,” someone said, sparking laughter.
    “Are such people born or made?” Jason Kellogg asked.
    “Some might be born that way. An anomaly in the brain. The ones I’ve seen – the homicidal – were created, often by childhoods that made the Spanish Inquisition seem pleasant.” I shot a glance at the clock. “That’s it,” I said. “We’re outta here.”
    I began stuffing material in my briefcase, then heard metallic clicks and saw an anxious Holliday approaching. “Why are you clicking?” I asked, looking at blue shoes crisscrossed with zippy white detailing.
    “I’m wearing cleats. Bike shoes. I forgot my regular shoes. You wanted to see me, Detective Ryder?”
    “Your comments on affect and emotion were phrased to sound like errant facts grazed somewhere,” I said, leaning against the lectern and looking her in the eye. “But later remarks suggest you know the lingo, perhaps through study. How am I doing?”
    Embarrassment colored her long neck. “Psychology was my major, along with law enforcement.”
    Two majors. I closed my eyes. “All right. See you at the next class.”
    She turned and hustled toward the door. “Holliday?” I said to her back.
    She turned. “Yes, Detective Ryder?”
    “Don’t pretend uncertainty in my classroom, kid. If you know something for a fact, say it. And be goddamn proud you took the time to learn it.”
    She nodded and left the room. I left seconds later. Leaning against the hall wall was a familiar man in a puce shirt, lavender slacks and blue running shoes. All he seemed to lack were purple socks, which I noted when he stepped from the wall.
    I hadn’t told Harry I’d been hijacked into servitude, but police departments held few secrets. A regular academy instructor, Harry had been trying to wrangle me into a classroom stint for years. “I heard the great Carson Ryder finally deigned to teach,” he grinned. “You enjoying the experience?”
    I shrugged,
no big deal
.
    Harry laughed and clasped my shoulder. “Bullshit, Cars. You love it. Where else are guys like us gonna find a roomful of people to hang on our every word? Let’s go grab a beer and—”
    My cell trilled. The screen showed
C. Peltier
.
    “What’s up, Clair?” I asked, seeing motion outside the window, Holliday blowing past on a bicycle, hair trailing from an orange helmet.
    Clair said, “I finished that extracurricular project of yours.”
    The cats. “What’d you find?”
    A pause. “I’ve been in the morgue for fourteen straight hours. How about you buy me a cocktail at Tango?”

8
    The Sex Itch commandeered Gregory’s head. He’d been making discoveries with his new cat, but when the Itch got this strong nothing was a distraction; he needed to empty into a woman. It was Ladies Night at a lot of local bars, desperate women everywhere, and Gregory knew if he wasn’t choosy, he could be in and out of one in a couple of hours.
    Gregory shaved and showered and tried a new moisturizer he’d created from olive oil, honey, retinol and a dab of Preparation H. The oil smoothed, the honey nourished, the retinol restored, and Preparation H drew out the tiny crow’s feet at the edges of his eyes, a flaw in the smooth perfection of his face.
    He wore the concoction as a mask, saturating