by Erik Carter
Then she spoke again.
“So you’re up in Memphis,” she said, “minding your business, living the gas station life, when suddenly Conley comes to visit. What was it like, after all those years, seeing the man who ruined your world?”
“It was ... unexpected.”
Chapter Six
Two days earlier, Nash had been sleeping soundly—just before it all started.
It was late in the morning, about eleven o’clock, and Nash awoke with a jolt in the over-the-cab bunk in his pickup camper. He was unshaven, wearing a tank top, eyes bloodshot.
There was an incessant tapping coming from the square of glass on the camper’s door. It was piercingly loud—or at least it sounded that way to Nash’s hangover.
He climbed down from the bunk, groggy, and stumbled through the filthy camper, dodging empty cans and strewn clothes.
He went to the door, where there was the towel he kept draped over the small window. He put his finger on the towel, inched it back a tad.
And when he saw the person outside—standing on the metal steps, right on the other side of the door—he felt his mouth open, followed by a flush to his cheeks.
Next to the doorframe, resting against the wall, were a pair of tall, thin items: a double-barreled shotgun and a Louisville Slugger. For a moment, Nash considered the shotgun. But he grabbed the baseball bat instead.
He swung the thin door open.
Standing in the bright sunshine was Dale Conley.
Smiling.
The jackass was actually smiling.
He wore a light green, V-neck T-shirt and a pair of jeans. Sunglasses. His orange De Tomaso Pantera was parked several feet back, toward the front of Nash’s rented property, under the shade of the oak tree.
Dale smiled larger, all big and toothy. “Miss me?”
Nash stormed through the door and squinted in the sunshine. It was a hot day. And muggy. Nash had been avoiding the sun in the shade of his camper, but he hadn’t been able to escape the humidity. Not with his half-functioning window-unit air conditioner.
The highway rumbled nearby. The cicadas were deafening. Godforsaken dogs barked in the distance. And from the trailer park were the screams of children, shrieking domestic disputes.
Nash clenched the bat midway up the shaft and approached Dale menacingly, holding it high in the air.
Dale eyeballed the bat and stepped away, down the steps, and onto the dusty ground. The smile largely, but not entirely, disappeared from his lips.
Nash followed.
“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t bash your head in!”
Dale’s eyes flicked to the bat again.
“I’ll give you two.” He held up a finger. “One, you wouldn’t want to mess up a mug this handsome, would ya?” He extended a second finger. “Two, the last time I checked, murder is still illegal in the United States. Killing a federal agent is especially bad.”
Nash stared at him, a low growl rumbling out of his throat.
He wanted to. So badly.
The feeling was there.
The fantasy.
Though it wasn’t the same. This wasn’t a woman.
But there were personal reasons. Oh-so delicious personal reasons.
The bat swinging. A scream from Dale before the crack of his skull. Him collapsing to the ground. Swinging and swinging. Crimson splashes. Warm droplets. Until there was no more of that smirking, smartass face.
Different thoughts then, more rational ones. Memories. About everything this man had done for him, to him. The terrible things…
But also the good.
After a moment of staring at Dale, Nash realized his nostrils were flaring. He could feel them sucking in big breaths.
He lowered the bat. Stared at Dale for a moment longer. Then threw the bat down. It clattered on the dusty ground.
He crossed his arms.
Dale still had that stupid smile on his face, but Nash could also see some relief in his eyes. He’d put the fear in Dale for a moment. With the bat. He felt rather good about that.
Nash wondered what differences Dale could perceive. It had been three years since they’d seen each other. Nash’s life had been nothing like his current one. Clearly Dale couldn't help but see the camper, the parched earth with scraggly patches of grass, the trailer park surrounding them, peeking through the gaps in the trees.
But Nash wondered if Dale also saw the differences in Nash himself. In his current existence, Nash shaved only when he had to. Which was rarely. It wasn't required for his job, after all. His skin was blotchy, frequently infected, and home to more acne than he’d had as a teenager. Beer and frozen pizza will do that to a man. He’d also gained twenty pounds, and when Dale had known him, Nash didn't have the hint of a second chin that he now had.
Nash felt pathetic.
Years ago, there had been something about Dale that made Nash feel like a better man—a man who could quite possibly be a decent person after all. Pridefully, Nash had never told Dale, but the guy had been a bit of a role model to him.
Once the series of events began, though, Dale’s shining image had made Nash feel weak. Small. Like the monster he'd been told he was. And that was before Nash had gained all the weight. Before the second chin. Before the greasy skin and hair.
He crossed his arms and barked out a question, trying to maintain some level of power, dignity.
“What the hell do you want, Dale?”
“I need your help. I’m on my way down to Arkansas. I’ve got a case where—”
He was here to ask for help??
Nash snapped.
“You son of a bitch!”
He threw a swing at Dale, who ducked the punch. Another swing, which Dale also dodged. Dale wasn’t fighting back, and he was easily avoiding Nash’s attack.
The third swing from Nash was unavoidable, and it caught Dale in the side, bending him over.
This angered Dale. His eyes grew dark.
And now he fought back.
He took a swing at Nash, slugging him across the jaw. There was a jolt of pain. Nash stumbled back toward the truck/camper combo.
Dale punched a second time, landing a blow to Nash’s stomach, pushing him farther back. Nash felt sick. There were several beers inside him. The blow threw him back again, and he smacked into the camper with a loud crack.
Dale lunged at him, but Nash sidestepped and used Dale’s misbalanced forward momentum against him, swinging his arm around Dale’s neck and throwing a leg in front of him.
They fell in a tangle to the bare earth, tossing up a cloud of dust. Hands and arms grabbed at each other, years of built-up tension working its way out. They struggled, contorting and twisting, the dust cloud growing large around them.
Dale got behind him, placing a forearm in front of his neck. He yanked back.
Nash coughed.
“Yield!” Dale shouted.
No response.
Dale yanked harder.
“Yield!”
Nash waved a hand in the air. “All right, all right!”
Dale climbed off him, panting. They both crawled to the side of the camper, put their backs against it.
“I told you to leave me alone,” Nash said, gasping for breath. “And you just show up at my doorstep years later ... asking for help? I can’t believe you. What help could you possibly want from me, Dale?”
Dale wiped sweat from his forehead.
“Hot Springs, Arkansas. Copycat killer. Two women have been chopped up already. Our guy is imitating serial killers from history who were never identified. My liaison for the case is from the Park Service ISB, Special Agent Greg Fulton. And I want to bring you on as a consultant.”
Nash stared forward, not looking at Dale.
“Because I dream about doing the sort of shit your killer is actually doing,” Nash said. “Is that it? You want to get inside his head by getting inside mine?”
“That’s right. I know you never really wanted to hurt anyone, that
you wanted to do just the opposite—you wanted to help people. Now’s your chance to do that again.”
“I got things to do. I have to work.”
“At?”
Nash turned his head farther away from Dale, not looking at him.
“A gas station.”
“My agency can help you out when this is over. Get you a better job, a fresh start. You know this. We could have set you up in the first place. If you’d only taken my offer, you wouldn’t be living like this.”
“You’ll forgive me for not accepting a damn thing from you.”
Dale didn’t respond for a moment. They sat there with the sounds of cicadas and dogs and highway noise.
Finally, Dale said, “What do you say, Nash? Will you help me?”
Chapter Seven
Alberta Ventress couldn't believe the absolute cavalcade of bullshit that she'd heard in an hour.
She kept running the time through her mind.
One.
Hour.
She'd only been there for sixty minutes, and she’d already heard so much stupidity she felt like her head was going to pop. Ventress had always had faith in the system, but the fact that this strange group—this BEI—could operate without her knowledge for so long and with such incompetent members—if Conley was any indication—put serious doubt in her brain about ... well, everything. The federal law enforcement community on the whole.
She tried to comfort herself, to remind herself that her viewpoints were necessarily slanted. Her job required her to iron out the wrinkles that other investigations had created. As such, she was forced to see other professionals and other agencies at their worst. Or at least not at their best.
But after hearing the stories about Dale Conley—both how he conducted his operations with Nash Harbick in Chicago and his disappearance in Hot Springs—she couldn't give any leniency to this mysterious Bureau of Esoteric Investigation. The agency was obviously a mismanaged shithole, one that would just continue to get shittier. Because there was no oversight. Walter Taft was clearly not a man in charge, after all. And given that Taft felt like Conley was the best the BEI had to offer, Ventress shuddered to think what the other BEI agents must be like.
But as she looked at the other people in the board room, she wondered if this serial killer investigation wouldn't still be a shit storm even if Conley hadn’t kidnapped the girl, even if Conley wasn’t involved at all. Because she'd never seen such a bunch of impotent and asinine men assembled in one room.
In addition to Taft, there was, of course, Harbick. The psycho freak. The monster. A sad-looking, reddish-haired, blue-eyed shell of a man. He had a bit of a gut, a bit of a second chin, and a huge loser attitude.
But there were the other imbeciles too. There was Greg Fulton, the unpunctual ISB agent. Mr. Cool with his expensive suit, cleanly-shaven head, and neat mustache. And that smug, self-righteously confident face.
Sitting next to Fulton was Detective Bill Sadler of the Hot Springs Police Department, the man in charge of the local investigation. The guy had a black eye. That alone should say something. Aside from the shiner, Sadler sounded like a hillbilly—with his thick, Southern accent—and he looked like a hillbilly as well. A small hillbilly. Before he sat down, Ventress had noted that he couldn't have been more than five-foot-seven. Thin lips. Curly, blond hair. He looked like he should be behind the wheel of a big-rig, going on three hours sleep, cursing the thought of returning home to his wife. Gotta get that shipment of frozen peas to Omaha by 2 AM. Boy howdy!
Gross.
On the other side of the table, sitting between Taft and Harbick, was Merle Higgins of the NPS, head of the law enforcement rangers for Hot Springs National Park. He was an older guy who had proudly proclaimed that he was three months away from retirement, and it was clear that he didn't give a shit. Which was probably a good thing because the guy was so absentminded, Ventress wondered as to his competence.
Sitting in the chairs against the wall behind Sadler were three uniformed HSPD officers, representatives of the department. There were two muscly, jock type men, and, sitting between them, a pretty little blonde thing with a name tag that said HENSLEY. Just exactly the type of woman that Ventress hated seeing in law enforcement. Cute and girly. Flirtatious.
A twit.
Aside from Ventress herself, the only light of reason in the room were her guys, sitting against the opposite wall. All three wearing their SWAT gear, ready to go at a moment’s notice. Prepared to take down Conley. Square-jawed. Cold and precise. Tools of destruction used for a job.
Ventress couldn't deny that Harbick had, to a small degree, shown there to be some potential in Dale Conley. The man did seem idealistic, she would admit to that. But the fact that he may have been idealistic yesterday meant nothing now. Because he’d since snapped. And taken the girl.
So while part of Ventress wanted to be proven wrong—didn't want to believe that someone could take advantage of a person so wounded, so vulnerable—in her heart of hearts, Ventress felt that Conley had lost the handle.
And she wanted to bring his ass down.
But Ventress was a fair woman, so she would hear out the evidence.
She looked at Harbick.
“So you agreed to Conley’s proposition,” she said, “and you came down here to Hot Springs where it was to be Conley and Fulton investigating and you as the consultant into the serial killer’s deranged mind.”
“That was the idea, yes.”
“But it didn’t turn out that way because Fulton wasn’t here.” She turned to face the man in question. “Isn’t that right?”
Fulton opened his mouth, and the beginning of a word came out before Ventress cut him off.
“Rhetorical question,” she said.
She walked along the side of the conference table, behind Fulton and Bill Sadler. Rain hissed against the windows. She locked eyes with Harbick as she continued to slowly walk away from him.
“You and Conley got down here, and a park ranger took Fulton’s place.”
“Ranger Plunkett, yes.”
Ventress doubled back, heading in his direction again, never taking her eyes off him. “Then the adventure began. An insane person, a doofusy, rule-bending secret agent, and a park ranger who works in a resort town. And the three of you were going to catch a serial killer. What a comedy of errors. What a crock of shit.”
She stopped pacing. Her eyes scanned over the people sitting at the table and along the walls.
“I’ll tell ya, Harbick, the picture you’ve painted of Dale Conley has done nothing to persuade me. I think the man’s lost it. The roguish agent with a penchant for the ladies has had one too many dark assignments and finally snapped, taking the most vulnerable woman imaginable hostage. But Taft’s right. I need to hear the full story before I sign his life away.”
She looked at the clock on the wall. It was a few minutes after 2.
“I could give you a full work day to prove Conley’s case. But I’m not. It’s already 2. I’m not dragging this into a second day. He’s got a hostage, and we’ve got a serial killer running loose as well. You’ve got until 5, Harbick. Start from the beginning. Tell me exactly what happened here. Three hours. That’s all you get to convince me not to have one of my guys put a bullet between Conley’s eyes.”
She gave him a long stare.
“So ... what happened when you got to Hot Springs?”
Chapter Eight
The sun was bright, the surroundings were picturesque, and Nash was somewhere he’d never visited before. Oh, and he was getting a stipend, as much money as he would have made in four months at the gas station for what would likely end up being no more than a week or two of work—work that required him to do nothing more than offer his so-called expert opinion.
On the surface, it would seem like a pretty damn good scenario.
But as Nash walked with Dale down the sidewalk lining the beautiful and world-famous Bathhouse Row in Hot Springs, Arkansas, two notions clouded what could
be a perfect moment. First, the tranquility was about to be spoiled by the real purpose for this visit to the resort town—he and Dale were heading to their first meeting, their introduction to the investigation they were about to embark upon—crime scene descriptions of two grisly murders.
Nash wasn’t certain how he would respond. He wanted to be appalled. He wanted to feel the same instant revulsion that a normal person would. But he was brought here for the very reason that he wasn’t a normal person, that he might not be disgusted by what he saw. He might actually like it.
Nash didn’t want to like it. But he knew that he might.
The second thing spoiling the moment was the man walking next to him. Dale. Nash had been trying for three years to form a new life, and during those three years, he had also tried to forget Dale Conley.
But here he was. Back in Nash’s life.
And he wouldn’t shut the hell up.
Dale had already explained to Nash that Bathhouse Row was a line of Victorian Era spas stretching down Central Avenue, utilizing the natural hot spring waters of the town. He’d gone on to describe the dates of some of the buildings, specifics on how the land was the first protected by the National Park Service…
And on and on…
And while this was all at least marginally interesting, Nash would much rather simply enjoy the view. The line of buildings to their left was a long row of beautiful, ornate bathhouses. Each spa had its own unique flair, yet together they formed a cohesive aesthetic. They were stately and detailed and looked very Victorian. The landscaping, too, was exquisite. Everything was picturesque and immaculate.
The sidewalk was full of tourists. People loitered at the spas’ front porches, some of them in large, fluffy robes. On the other side of the street were shops, restaurants, tourist shops.
He looked up, through the glossy leaves of the magnolia trees lining Central. The sky was a cheerful blue with fluffy, white clouds. There were some gray clouds too, and they looked like they were closing in. But for now, all was bright and beautiful.
