by Erik Carter
Nash knew that there were two female BEI agents, so Ventress’ “men’s club” assertion was blatantly wrong. He could have called her on it, but he could already tell that Ventress was a force to be reckoned with, a person with whom one must choose one’s battles. He decided to pass on this battle. He remained quiet.
“And I got news for ya, Taft,” Ventress continued. “Your golden boy has lost his mind and kidnapped an injured witness from a hospital. If that woman dies, the blood is on your hands.” She pointed at Fulton again. “Yours too, Mr. Fancy Pants.”
Fulton started to speak.
“Shut up,” Ventress said. She turned to Nash. “Conley wouldn’t let you go into the hospital with him, wouldn’t tell you why he was going back in. So I’ll assume you were caught off guard when he came back outside with the girl.”
“More than caught off guard,” Nash said. “I was stunned.”
“And what did Conley say to you?”
Nash stood outside the entrance to Newman Regional Hospital.
In the middle of the pouring rain.
The water coursing over his flesh was cold, almost shockingly so, but his mouth hung open not from physical shock but from a deep, hurtful sense of rejection caused by the man standing a few feet in front of him, facing him. Dale. The dry shelter beneath the porte cochere was only a few feet behind them, but Nash had chased after Dale, stomping out into the rain, shouting at him until he got him to stop, turn around, and speak to him. In Dale’s hand was a plastic bag with NEWMAN REGIONAL HOSPITAL PHARMACY printed on the side, and standing next to him, also getting drenched by the cold rain, was Mira Lyndon.
She was thirty-ish, extremely petite, beautiful. Sexy. Dark brown hair. Brown eyes behind rain-speckled glasses. A gray sweatshirt. Tight, flared jeans. There were white bandages coming out from the neck of her shirt, adhesive bandages on her right ear, and contusions and abrasions all over her visible flesh. Dale’s leather jacket was draped over her shoulders. Every couple seconds she shuddered in the cold.
“I thought we were in this together,” Nash said. “Dale, tell me what’s going on.”
Dale shook his head. Rain ran off his wet hair, over his cheeks.
“No, Nash. You’re done here.”
“But…”
Dale sighed. “Get out of here. But don’t go back to Memphis. They’re going to be looking for you. Hide out somewhere. I’ll find you when all this passes.”
“I started this with you,” Nash said. “And I’m seeing it through.”
Frustration swept over Nash. Dale had treated him so condescendingly, so paternally during this investigation, and now he was trying to completely shut him out.
Nash wasn’t going to let that happen.
He took a step closer.
“No,” Dale said and took out his revolver. He pointed it at Nash’s chest. “Go away, Nash.”
Ventress tsked.
“He pointed a gun at you.”
She turned to Taft.
“That’s your top man, Taft.”
Taft stared back at her, coldly.
Ventress stepped away from the table, approached one of the windows, and pulled back the sheer curtain, looked out to the dark murk beyond. Nash could see the sheets of rain tossing about in the wind, moving like waves.
Without turning back around, Ventress said, “Do you think Conley’s hurting that girl right now, Mr. Harbick?”
“No,” Nash said. “Whatever Dale’s done, he’s done it with good reason. You might think that you’re getting a read on Dale’s character right now. But you’ve not met him. If you did, you’d see the most sincere and dedicated agent you’ve ever encountered. His actions here in Hot Springs might seem erratic, but wherever he is right now, whatever he’s doing, I’m certain that he has the situation completely under control.”
Chapter Four
A hundred feet away. Just outside the hotel.
The sheets of rain pelted Dale Conley as he moved quickly along a wide, elaborately decorated walkway. Benches lined the sides. Decorative fencing. Well-trimmed bushes. This was Hot Spring’s Grand Promenade. While the place would normally be flooded with people enjoying the picturesque landscaping and scenic views, Dale was completely alone. No one else was out in the nasty weather.
Dale kept his eyes cast down, watching for puddles. As if it mattered. He was completely drenched, head to toe. Dale hated the feeling of wet clothes, and it seemed as though he’d been soaked for the entirety of the last two days. The wet bricks passing beneath his motorcycle boots were laid out in decorative patterns with an X-figure across the center at regular intervals. This shape reminded Dale of the X-brace facade of Chicago’s Hancock Tower, the coincidence of which made Dale shake his head, even in his current predicament—because the last time he’d seen the Hancock Tower was during his ill-fated assignment with Nash Harbick…
The man he’d brought with him here to Hot Springs.
The man he’d abandoned yesterday afternoon.
The man he’d aimed his gun at.
Dale walked at a brisk, purposeful pace. Not running, though. Just walking quickly. Running would draw even more attention to the only person crossing through the park in the pouring rain. And attention was exactly what Dale didn’t need. His hands were in his pockets, and he kept his head low. Rain streamed off the bill of the trucker cap he was wearing, which he’d pulled low, concealing as much of his face as possible.
Dale had been in many tight spots, and he had bent more than a few rules as a federal agent. On a couple occasions, he’d even found himself a temporary fugitive, like he was now. But he’d never done anything like this. Dale wasn't one to dwell on things, but at the moment, his mind couldn't help but think of all the negative ramifications that might come from all of this if things didn't turn out the way he hoped. And if he—
His train of thought was suddenly cut off.
Someone jumped out into the path in front of him, fifty feet away. The cop. Officer Brennan. Black, young, thin, and tall. Scraggly mustache. There was a bright slash of green paint splattered diagonally across his dark uniform. The same paint covered his face, and there were smear marks around his eyes where he’d wiped it away. Rain streamed off him, little tendrils of green washing down his body.
His expression was pissed. His teeth were bared and clenched. He drew his revolver.
“Freeze!”
Dale’s eyes went wide, and he stopped in his tracks. He put his hands in the air.
Brennan slowly, cautiously approached.
Dale maintained eye contact.
And just as Brennan reached for his handcuffs...
...Dale sprang into action, grabbing the barrel of the gun and pulling it to the side while simultaneously lunging toward Brennan, landing his shoulder into the cop’s chest.
The gun went off.
Crack!
A small, wet explosion in the earth next to them, mud flying out in a big, brown fan.
Brennan laid a punch under Dale’s jaw, staggering him. Dale felt an arm grab him. It hooked around his neck, and Brennan positioned himself behind Dale.
Dale reached for his Model 36, in the holster tucked into the back of his jeans. Couldn’t get it. Brennan’s torso blocked him. Dale threw an elbow back, catching Brennan in the ribs.
Brennan doubled over, and in this brief moment of opportunity, Dale shoved him hard toward the metal guardrail running alongside the path. Brennan’s head struck the railing with a loud, metallic DING, and he collapsed onto the brickwork.
Dale bent over and took the man’s gun and handcuffs. He stood back up, flinging the wet hair out of his face.
Shaken, Brennan looked up at him.
“I hate to do this,” Dale said.
He snapped a handcuff to Brennan’s wrist and then secured the other side to the handrail. He took a step back.
Brennan, his head wobbling on his neck, glared up at Dale.
“You son of a bitch.”
Dale popped the cylinder on Brennan’s g
un, ejected the rounds into his hand, and tossed them into the trees.
He handed the gun back to Brennan and gave him a small nod.
“Sorry to leave you in the rain, pal.”
Earlier Dale had avoided running, not wanting to draw attention.
But with a beaten-up, handcuffed cop sitting at his feet, he couldn’t worry about that anymore.
He sprinted away, splashing through the large puddles gathered on the brick path.
A few minutes later, Dale plodded through the muddy, wet forest. He was off the trail, and he shielded his face as he pushed sopping branches out of the way. He hadn’t seen the entrance yet, and he was starting to get concerned. He had only made this trip once before, yesterday, and that was with assistance. He didn't know these trees.
He pushed another branch aside and then looked up and saw it. In the rock face halfway up the hill before him was a dark hole with a bit of light peeking out from within. The mouth of the cave.
Dale breathed a small sigh of relief. Finally, out of the rain. But there was also a sense of dread. Although this place was his bit of safety for the moment—both from the weather and from the forces he now knew were pursuing him—it also reminded him of the dark set of circumstances that had led him there. And in the cave was the person he was protecting, Mira, so the place also reminded Dale of the terrible things that had happened to her. The worst things that human beings can do to one another.
He paused for just a moment in the rain, looking at the cave.
And then he climbed toward it.
Dale stepped into the dry, dusty space, which was about twenty feet squared and had a ceiling just tall enough that he didn’t have to duck. Immediately he felt a bit warmer, a bit less soaked. He took off the trucker cap, tossed it to the side.
A flashlight in the corner put out a scant amount of light. Next to it were Mira’s bottles of medication and a large bucket of water with two tin cups sitting to the side. In the other corner was a queen-size mattress, filthy and worn with a few blankets and a pair of pillows. And standing beside the mattress was Mira Lyndon.
She stepped over to him.
“Oh my goodness,” she said. “What happened to you? What’s all this green paint?”
He looked down at his leather jacket, which now had streaks of the paint that had been on Brennan.
“Let’s just say I had a colorful run-in with the law.”
She pointed at his face. “You didn’t have a goatee when you left.”
While he was in town, Dale had stopped for some impromptu grooming, something to help hide his identity.
He gave her a smile. It was a weak smile, not his usual gregariousness. It was the best he could do at the moment.
“Enough about my fashion choices.” He pointed to the mattress. “Why aren’t you resting?
“Too anxious.”
“You need to take it easy and recover for a while.” He paused. “Because tonight we’re leaving Hot Springs.”
Chapter Five
Ventress stared down at Nash from her standing position. And Nash hated himself for feeling so damn inferior.
There was a time—only three years ago—when nothing would have made him feel lesser. He’d been an FBI agent. He worked in a large city, Detroit. He had money and a title and a degree.
And respect.
But respect was something of which he now had none. No one respected the sad-looking man who worked a midnight shift on a shithole side of town, selling fuel to the occasional 3 AM customer, but primarily cleaning and stocking to prepare the gas station for those with the more prestigious daytime and evening shifts. Even they were above Nash now.
Nash scuttled through existence like a cockroach. Beneath feet, hiding under tables, eating what was dropped and forgotten.
He had gone from the heights of life to the absolute depths. The only thing worse would be if he slipped into drugs, which he promised himself he never would, no matter how bad things got. But he had certainly dipped into alcohol, and it had taken a toll. Adding to his weight, his expenses, and degrading his health.
It's funny what something like a job or money or power or titles can do to a man. All intangible concepts, all man-made ideas. But they can change one's total perspective.
When Nash had agreed to go along with Conley on this assignment, he had cleaned himself up as best he could. He shaved, and he’d been able to find a couple polo shirts among the filth in his camper, though he knew they would look tattered and faded and disgusting compared to the dress clothes worn by the people he was sure to encounter over the course of the investigation with Dale. So before he even got into the passenger side of Arancia and headed toward Arkansas, he was already feeling small.
And that was before he met Ventress. Before all her questions. He could never have predicted he would be put on the stand at an impromptu trial. If he'd felt small before, he felt microscopic now.
She just kept coming at him with the questions.
Again and again…
“So Conley is ‘sincere and dedicated,’” Ventress said in that contemptuous, hostile tone of hers. “Coming from someone like yourself, that’s a really strong testimonial, let me tell ya.” She laughed cruelly. “Someone who got kicked out of the FBI for being batshit crazy. You and Conley must have become really close during your assignment together up north.”
Nash didn't appreciate how derisively she spoke about his experience with Dale. No matter how things had turned out, the truth was Dale had done a lot for Nash. So while Nash’s connection with Dale was certainly a love-hate one—with plenty of checks in the hate column—he didn't want someone like Ventress dissecting it.
But sitting there, with her looking down at him, his internal resistance dissipated, and all he said was, “We were friends, yes.”
She snickered.
“How sweet. And then he ratted you out, told the Bureau what he found out about your sick fantasies.”
“He did.”
This was the moment that Nash had been dreading. The moment he knew was going to come eventually. His pulse quickened.
Ventress walked away and picked up the folder she’d retrieved earlier, flipped through some papers inside.
“Let me get this straight. You have fantasies about hurting and killing women.”
Nash could feel every eye in the room turn to him. It'd been a long time since he had discussed any of this. With anyone. He’d never talked about it in front of a group. Or against his will. Or illegally, which is what this “trial” was.
“Yes,” he said plainly. Simple truth, he reasoned, was his best shield against this attack.
The room became more quiet, and Nash could hear people turning in their seats, the squeaking of chairs. Turning of necks. They all wanted to see the freak. The monster.
Ventress flipped some more pages.
“You imagine yourself strangling and cutting them.”
“Yes, I do,” he said.
Hensley gasped. Someone cleared their throat. Rain tapped hard against the window.
“You get off on the idea of bringing women pain, causing their deaths.”
Nash didn’t respond.
“Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
He heard more of the little noises he was expecting from the others. Not quite shudders but the sounds of people who had never heard something quite so revolting in their whole lives.
“Disgusting,” Ventress said. “And yet somehow you made it past the psychological screening for the FBI.”
“They’re just fantasies. I know how to control them.”
Back when he was an agent, back when he was somebody, when he was a man, Nash had always felt that being defensive was the weakest thing a person could do. And yet now, all he knew to do, the only thing he could do, was defend himself. Against the whole damn room.
Ventress was showing them who he was.
Ventress was painting a picture of the monster.
“You know ‘how to
control them,’” she repeated. “You also know how to display yourself as a decent, normal human being. How to hide your true self, getting so far as becoming an FBI agent. That’s quite impressive, Harbick. I have to hand it to you. You fooled ’em all. Until you met Dale Conley, that is.”
She looked at him, wanting him to respond.
He just stared back at her.
“And how have you kept yourself busy since you left the FBI?”
“I stock shelves and mop floors. At a gas station.”
Ventress scoffed again. “How glamorous.”
“It’s a little hard to use your college degree when your resume says you were kicked out of the FBI after twelve years of service.”
“Without telling them you’re screwed up in the head. Blech. You make my skin crawl. Sicko.”
More noise from the room. Increased shuffling in the seats. Papers and briefcases being adjusted. Small coughs. The discomfort level was rising. People had seen what Ventress was trying to show them—that Nash was indeed the monster.
“As I said, they’re just fantasies. I’ve never hurt a soul.”
“Fantasies. About hurting women,” she said and stared at him for a moment. “I’m a woman. Do you feel like hurting me?”
Yes.
“No.”
She narrowed her eyes, twisted her cruel mouth into a bit of a smirk. “Do you want to watch the last breaths flutter out of my mouth, Harbick?”
Absolutely.
“Of course not.”
Ventress in the darkness. She was a mean old thing, ruthless and nasty, but she wasn’t without her appeal. Her figure was surprisingly trim and shapely for a woman her age. Perhaps unnoticed by some. By many, even. But Nash had noticed. In that skirted business suit. That he tore off her. Screaming. Stepping behind her. A foot to the back, shoving her to the ground. Hands beneath her jaw. Yanking back hard.
Ventress crossed in front of the window. There was a gust of wind outside. A wave of rain slapped the glass. She looked Nash over, giving him an undeniable non-verbal message: You make me sick.
