“The dates sound like they match,” I said, my excitement nearly matching Hilary’s own.

“Even better, the articles from the New York papers talk about how the police thought the killer was using a scarf to strangle his victims,” she continued. “And here’s the clincher.” She paused, as if to heighten the drama of her revelation.

“I’m waiting.”

“Work with me, Rach. This is called building tension so the climax is all the more stunning. It’s a writer thing.”

“Whatever. What’s the clincher?”

“From the fibers they found, the police thought the scarf was red and gold.”

“And how is that a clincher?”

“Those are the colors of the Marine Corps. And Crocker was a marine, right?”

I had to admit, that was a pretty good clincher. “Now that I think about it, I vaguely remember Grant having a red-and-gold-striped scarf that he seemed to wear everywhere in the winter months. That is pretty good.”

“Good? It’s brilliant.”

“You should tell O’Connell.”

“I’m going to. I mean, he must know about the New York killings, and I guess Gabrielle will tell him what she told you, but being able to point out that Crocker was in both places and was a marine has got to be helpful. I’ll go call him right now. The reception down here is lousy, so I’m going to have to go out into the main lobby. I’ll be back in a few minutes, and then we can go up to Jane’s together.” She took her phone and strode off, the stiletto heels of her boots echoing in the empty hallway.

I took the chair Hilary had vacated and began reading more carefully through the pages she’d printed out. There had been five murders in New York during the killer’s eighteen-month spree, and they did all sound exactly like the murders here in Boston. I was immersed in one of the articles when a drop of water splattered on the page. I wiped it away with my sleeve and looked up, wondering if there was a leaky pipe somewhere in the building.

But there was no leaky pipe. Instead there was Grant Crocker, looming behind me and reading over my shoulder. A few melting snowflakes adorned his crew cut.

“Hello, Rachel. What are you reading?”

I screamed. This scream was even more bloodcurdling than my earlier scream in the Coop, because the acoustics of the stacks amplified the sound. It echoed against the concrete floors and metal shelving. But no one came to see what the problem was. For once I wished the stacks were a bit more heavily trafficked. They were lonesome enough during normal hours; early on a Saturday evening they were deserted.

“What-what are you doing here?” I stuttered, twisting in my seat to face him.

He chuckled. “Well, I’d been following our friend, Ms. LeFavre, and I was hoping to get her alone. But she drove off with Professor Beasley. So I thought I’d see what lies she might have been spreading about me.”

“I don’t think they’re lies,” I countered, playing for time.

He smiled, the sort of smile the psycho always gives in bad horror movies just before he attacks his next victim. And then he lunged for me.

Without thinking, I grabbed one of Hilary’s books and swung it like a bat. It crashed into Grant’s nose with a satisfying crunch. “Oof,” I heard him say.

He was bent over double, holding his nose with both hands, and I used this opportunity to shove him aside and make a run for it. But while I knew where the elevator was, I wasn’t eager to wait for its arrival since I doubted that I’d incapacitated Grant for more than a few moments. I needed to find the stairwell, and quickly, but with yet another sense of déjà vu I realized I couldn’t remember where it was. I didn’t see a soul as I tore along the hallway, looking in vain for a sign that would point me to the stairs.

I heard heavy pounding footsteps behind me, and I tried to pick up the pace, but while I’d had lots of practice running in heels, primarily while sprinting for planes, the floor was slippery and I was sliding more than I was running. I careered around a corner, only to see yet more endless rows of books and no sign for the stairs. If I got out of this alive, I vowed never again to go into a bookstore, library or other venue where books were housed without a bodyguard, attack dog and sensible shoes.

“You’re not going to get away, Rachel!” I heard Grant yell, and his voice was discomfitingly close, albeit its newly nasal twang indicated that I might have done some serious damage to his nose.

I wasn’t going to be able to outrun him, I realized as I skated around another corner, catching hold of a bookshelf to prevent myself from wiping out. I was going to have to outsmart him.

I stopped running, dragged a foot against the floor so it made a squealing noise, and shrieked, as if I’d fallen. Only a couple of seconds passed before Grant appeared around the corner of the row into which I’d turned, running at full tilt.

He’d probably expected to find me in a heap on the floor, nursing a twisted ankle or a broken heel. He probably hadn’t expected me to be pressed against the shelves with my foot strategically stretched into the aisle. His speed put him at a disadvantage. He tripped over my foot and was promptly airborne, sailing down the aisle headfirst. He hit the floor a good ten feet from where I was before sliding several more yards.

I grabbed several books from the nearest shelves and began pelting them at him with all of the force I could muster. But like the horror-movie monster that just won’t die, he was pulling himself upright, apparently immune to the onslaught. Blood was gushing out of his nose, and combined with the black eye, he was a pretty unpleasant sight. I pulled another book from the shelf and threw it with all my strength, aiming for his head. It got him in the neck instead, but it seemed to wind him. He grabbed at his throat and opened his mouth, but all that came out was a croak. Still he kept moving toward me.

There was only one thing left to do. Something I’d always dreamed of doing. And my shoes may have lacked the appropriate traction for high-speed chases down slippery hallways, but their pointy toes had to be good for something.

I ran at Grant, closing the gap between us with a few steps. I swung my leg back, and then forward, putting all my weight into the kick. My foot connected with his groin as if it had been shot from a cannon. I won’t describe what, exactly, it felt like on my end, but based on Grant’s reaction, on his end it wasn’t good.

His eyes rolled up into the back of his head, revealing their white undersides. Soundlessly, he crumpled to the floor.

“R achel?”

I looked up in relief, glad to hear Hilary’s familiar voice.

Grant was curled into a fetal position, moaning, so his face wasn’t visible, but she assessed the situation quickly. “Crocker?” she asked.

I nodded.

“You kicked him in the balls?”

I nodded again.

“Excellent. I’ve always wanted to do that to a guy.”

“I know. Me, too. And I have to admit there was something sort of gratifying about it.”

“I bet. I’m sorry I missed it.”

“If he ever recovers, I might need some help restraining him until reinforcements arrive.”

“Shall I call the police again?” asked Hilary.

“No, I’ll go,” I volunteered. “But keep an eye on Crocker. I don’t want him to get away.”

“Sure thing. Worst case, I’ll just give him another little kick.” Judging from her enthusiastic tone, she seemed almost hopeful that such measures would be required.

Alas, Grant remained in his fetal position until security arrived. O’Connell showed up soon after with a fleet of additional police officers. He made fast work of reading Grant his rights before instructing his team to take him into custody. Perhaps the most surprising turn of events, however, was that when Hilary invited O’Connell to join us for dinner, he agreed to come. “I’m going to need to spend some time at the station,” he said, “but I’ll swing by as soon as I’m done.”