“We may get it whether we want it or not,” I grumbled. “Most of these clowns are already half smashed.”
“Can you blame them? Check out their dates. No wonder they call it a pig party.”
“No offense, lady, but you’re not exactly primped for prime time yourself.”
“Thanks for noticing,” she said acidly. “The difference is, I worked damned hard to look this bad. These porkers are trying to look their pathetic best. Come on, dance with me.”
Not a request, an order. Taking my arm, she hauled me into the swirling crush of the tennis court without waiting for a reply. I’m no Fred Astaire, but the action on the floor was so frantic I found myself dancing in self-defense. And managed not to embarrass myself, I thought.
Not that Sara noticed. She was dancing strictly on autopilot, her moves totally disconnected from the urban rap raging from the speakers. Seemed much more interested in scanning the crowd than grooving to the rhythm of the music. Fortunately we didn’t suffer for long. The DJ punched up an old B.B. King blues grind, and things got simpler. I usually enjoy slow dancing. I’ve always considered it romantic, even with a stranger. Maybe more so with a stranger.
But not with Sara. When she snuggled against my shoulder, there was nothing seductive about it. She was slyly snapping pictures as we danced, scanning the crowd between shots, steering me around the dance floor like a wheelbarrow to get the photos she wanted.
“Take it easy,” I murmured, “we’ve got all night.”
“Actually, we haven’t,” she said, leading me off the floor before the song ended, still scanning the crowd.
“Why not?”
“Because I’ve enjoyed as much of this as I can stand!” she snapped. “You were right, Malloy, this is wretched.”
“Don’t dally on my account. If you want to split, let’s go.”
“Not quite yet,” she said, checking her watch. “I want to get a look inside the Delta House itself.”
“Whoa up, Sara, that’s a whole different deal. The yard party’s open, but the House is limited to members only.”
“I only see one guy working the door.”
“That one’s enough, lady. He’s Drew Braxton, the all-star linebacker for the Wildcats.”
“Then start earning your money, Malloy. Knock him out or something.”
“Yeah, right,” I said, thinking a mile a minute. I knew Braxton from around. Big beer barrel of a guy, mean as a snake, rough as a box of rocks. A born football player with pro prospects. No chance I could mix it up with him and survive, but...
“Okay,” I said, taking a deep breath, “there may be a way to get past him but you’re not going to like it.”
“Tell me.”
So I did. And I was right. She didn’t like it. But we tried it anyway.
Unbuttoning her garish blouse, Sara clung to my arm as we staggered up to the door.
“Hey, Brax,” I said, slurring my words. “Remember me? Malloy from Shannon’s? I got me an emergency situation here.”
“Porta-Potties are around the side, dude,” he said, unimpressed.
“I don’t need a john, buddy,” I said, holding out a folded twenty between my fingertips. “We need a room. Help a brother out?”
He glanced at Sara, who snuggled closer, giggling, flashing him her widest steel and rubber band smile.
“You don’t need a room, sport, you need your frickin’ head examined,” Braxton said, palming the twenty, but checking Sara’s student ID. “Ground-floor guest rooms ain’t locked, but you’d best knock first. Some of ’em are already busy.”
“Thanks, man,” I said, “I appreciate it.”
He shrugged. “Maybe now. But you’re gonna hate me in the morning. And yourself, too.”
“Jerk!” Sara muttered as we staggered through the foyer. A wide-screen TV was on in the guest lounge, replaying a Michigan State game. Two couples were sprawled out on a sofa watching it, the boys more interested in the game than in their plain-Jane dates. They paid no attention to us at all.
Until Sara took their picture.
“Hey, what the hell was that?” one of the guys said, straightening up, bleary-eyed, but not quite as wrecked as the others. “Was that a camera?”
“Nah, cigarette lighter,” I said, hustling Sara down the corridor. Yanking open the first door I came to, I pushed her inside.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she said, whirling on me, furious.
“Saving our butts! If you want photos for your story, you have to be more careful! You can’t just snap away at these clowns.”
“They’re so drunk I’m amazed they noticed.”
“You’ll be even more amazed if they spot that camera and decide to feed it to us.” Inching open the door, I scanned the hall. Empty. “Okay, all clear. I don’t think anyone followed us. Now what?”
“We give the rooms a quick check,” she said, glancing at her watch. “I need—”
“That’s twice you’ve looked at the time,” I said, cutting her off. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing! Except for you losing your nerve!” she said, pushing past me out the door. “Are you coming or not?”
“To do what?” I asked, following her down the hall. “We can’t just crash in on people!”
“Of course we can. It’s a pig party, right? We need a room so we can have our way with each other. Oops! Sorry!” she said, opening a door, then closing it again. But not before she’d snapped a quick photo.
“This is crazy,” I said, following, checking our back trail. “You’re going to get us stomped!”
She ignored me, continuing down the hall, opening doors.
“Oops! So sorry!” Then on to the next. Until the fourth or fifth door. When she didn’t say a word. She popped the door open, then went dead white, the color draining from her face. Then she eased the door closed quietly. And leaned against the wall.
“What’s wrong?”
“That girl,” she said, swallowing. “She’s...” She shook her head, clearing it. Then took a cell phone out of her purse and tapped a speed-dial tab. “I’ve found her. We’re in the Delta house, first floor.”
“Sara, what the hell’s going on?”
“The girl in that room is being assaulted.”
“What?”
“Assaulted, Malloy! Raped! You’ve got to stop it!”
“Are you sure? You just glanced—”
“Do something!” she shrieked. And she wasn’t the only one screaming. Sirens were howling towards Delta House like a pack of wolves as police cars roared in. Cops piling out, trying to make themselves heard over the music.
I tried the door, but it was locked now! Rearing back, I kicked it open and charged in. Then dove for the floor as the frat boy inside swung a golf club at my head, barely missing me. Pure reflex. I grappled with him, grabbing him around the knees, wrestling him down. Managed to clock him with a stiff right cross as he fell. He hit the floor like a sack of cement. Out cold.
“Stop it! You’re killing him!” a chunky, red-haired girl screeched. Naked to the waist, she threw herself across the unconscious kid on the floor to protect him, sobbing.
“Miss, it’s all right,” I said, kneeling beside her. “We’re here to help you—”
“Get away from me! Leave us alone!” she screamed, snatching up the golf club, whipping it back. Raising my hands, I backed away. She wasn’t kidding. Through the tears and smeared mascara, I could read pure murder in her eyes.
“Emily, come on!” Sara said, grabbing up the girl’s purse, holding out her blouse. “You’ve got to get out of here.”
But the girl was beyond reason. “You get out!” she screamed. “Help! Somebody help me!”
Somebody did. Two cops in riot gear burst through the door, nightsticks at the ready.
“Get down!” they roared together. “Down on the floor!”