She waited for a moment, then knocked on the door again. Still no answer. No one home. She should have called first. Would have, if she’d been willing to admit to herself that this was where she was going when she left the station.
She was turning back toward her car when she heard a heavy footstep from inside. After a moment the door swung open and Shawn stood in front of her.
Actually, to say he stood was something of an exaggeration. Shawn slouched, holding on to the doorframe for support. He looked like he might tumble to the floor if he let go.
O’Hara stared at him, stunned. She was sure it had only been a few weeks since she’d last seen Shawn, but he looked like he’d been living on the streets through an entire winter. And not a Santa Barbara winter, but an East Coast one. His face had gone pale, at least the part of it that was visible through the heavy beard stubble. His eyes were bloodshot and half closed, and his limbs seemed to have lost all their strength.
“Jules,” he croaked in a craggy whisper. “Thank God you’re here. We’ve got to go.”
“Right now,” she said, and took his arm. He let go of the doorframe and nearly fell into her arms before righting himself. She pulled the office door closed behind them, shook the knob to make sure it was locked, and half led, half carried him to her waiting sedan.
“We don’t have a lot of time,” Shawn said.
“There’s plenty of time,” O’Hara said, trying to keep the worry out of her voice. “You’ll be just fine.”
She loaded Shawn into the passenger’s seat and wrapped the seat belt around him, then ran to her own door and got in, jamming the key into the ignition. She took a quick glance in the rearview, then slammed the car into gear and squealed out.
“Hey, the freeway’s back there,” Shawn said, as she made a screaming left turn toward the city’s center.
“And the emergency room is this way,” O’Hara said.
“I’m sorry. If you need help on a case, I’m usually there for you,” Shawn said. “But I’m in the middle of my own, and I don’t have any time to spare.”
“I don’t have a case at the emergency room,” she said, trying to follow his logic. “I’m taking you there because you look like you’re about to die.”
“I’m fine,” Shawn said.
“You could barely stand up when I came to your door,” O’Hara said.
“So I’m a little tired,” Shawn said. “I haven’t been sleeping a lot lately.”
“Or eating?”
“I went to BurgerZone just, um…” His voice trailed off as he tried to remember exactly when that had been. “They don’t allow food in the Imaginarium, and by the time I get out everything is closed. Besides, when you’ve spent the entire night trying to cut through steel plate with a butter knife, it’s hard to work up an appetite.”
“Shawn, listen to yourself,” she said. “You’re hallucinating.”
“I’m not.”
O’Hara had wondered what the breakup with Gus might have done to Shawn. Gus had always been his anchor, the one who kept him from flying off into flights of fantasy. But she couldn’t bring herself to believe that this might have been literally the truth. That without Gus, Shawn would actually spiral down into insanity. Something else was going on.
“I’m going to get you to the hospital,” O’Hara said. “You’re exhausted, probably dehydrated. A little rest, some IV fluids, and you won’t believe how much better you’ll feel.”
“There’s only one thing that’s going to make me feel better and that’s to make that scrawny college girl talk to me,” Shawn said.
Was it possible that this was the problem? Shawn was in love and the object of his affection had shut him out of her life? If so, this was a side of Shawn she’d never seen. He’d been with women before, one of whom was a regular-or at least regularly recurring-for a good twenty-six weeks before he’d allowed her to be written out of his life. But he’d never acted obsessed like this.
“If you’d like me to talk to her, I can do that,” O’Hara said carefully. “Just as soon as we get you to the hospital.”
Shawn brightened, and for the first time since he’d opened the door she saw a little of his usual cockiness. “You could talk to her,” Shawn said. “You can probably speak her language.”
“What language is that?”
“Student,” Shawn said. “You went to college, right? You must have known women like this. Turn right here and get on the freeway.”
“Hospital first,” O’Hara said.
“I don’t need a hospital. I need a translator,” Shawn said. “There’s a man missing out there, and if I don’t find him he might die. And I can’t do anything about it if that girl won’t tell me what she knows.”
O’Hara knew she should slam her foot down on the accelerator and get Shawn to the emergency room as fast as possible. But before she could put that plan into action, she made one mistake-she looked over at him. And what she saw was not the hollow, shambling mockery of a man who had answered the door, but a pale, shaky version of her old friend. The light was back in his eye and the grin on his face.
“I’ll give it half an hour,” she said. “And then I’m taking you to the hospital.”
Chapter Seventeen
“What the hell are you doing?”Juliet O’Hara backed away from Shawn, but not fast enough. She could feel the bullet whizzing past her ear.
“The guard was reaching for his gun,” Shawn said, wheeling around to level his shotgun at the other security guard, who was cowering under a desk.
“So you killed three hostages to teach him a lesson?” she said, pointing at the bodies lying on the jewelry store’s marble floor.
“Oh, no,” Shawn said. “That’s going to cost me a chunk of my inventory. We’d better check their pockets to see if there’s anything we can use.”
O’Hara looked around the jewelry store in disgust. She’d been at hundreds of crime scenes in her career, and seen more than one hostage situation go bad. But she’d never actually been one of the hostage takers before, and even though the victims were all virtual, she wanted to throw up.
“People do this for fun?” she said, practically spitting the last word.
“Not yet they don’t,” Shawn said. “I’m the only outsider who’s been allowed to play the game. Except for Gus, of course, and he left before he got anywhere near level seven.”
“At least I can see why you were looking so bad when I picked you up,” she said. “This can’t be good for you.”
“It’s just a game, Jules,” Shawn said. “Don’t take it so seriously.”
If she had been taking this seriously, O’Hara thought, she would have pulled off her helmet after thirty seconds and called Judge Sanderson to get a warrant to shut the entire company down. She wasn’t sure what law this game violated, but there had to be something. And if there wasn’t, she’d run for Congress so she could write one.
It wasn’t that O’Hara had anything against computer games. She’d grown up playing Zork and Myst, and even wasted some time at her previous jobs blowing away Nazi soldiers in Castle Wolfenstein.
But Criminal Genius wasn’t just a game. It was an entire world, completely immersive and realistic in almost every way. And it wasn’t just sights and sounds. Thanks to the full-body virtual suits, the game also provided a sense of touch. When you picked up a virtual object you could feel its weight, its texture. O’Hara had to admit that when Shawn first led her into Darksyde City she had been astonished. This was an entirely new art form, and one that could bring marvels to life.
Unfortunately, the designers of Criminal Genius apparently had no interest in bring marvels-or anything else-to life. Every bit of technological and artistic wizardry that had gone into the game had only one purpose: to teach the player how to be a successful criminal. And the more vicious, the better.
This wasn’t a computer game-it was a training program for incipient psychopaths. And as she looked at Shawn aiming his gun at the trembling hostages, she saw the virtual world’s effect on him. He was enjoying this, committing hideous acts of virtual violence even when he didn’t need to in order to advance the plot. What kind of impact would this have on him in the real world?