by Erik Carter
And though Nash had given Dale several disinterested Hmms, the guy was still rambling on with his history lesson.
“Isn’t it just amazing? It’s my first time here too. This side of Central Avenue—all of Bathhouse Row—is NPS property. We’re in Hot Springs National Park right now. If we were to cross the road,” he said, pointing, “to the businesses on the other side, we’d be on private property. The city was named for its natural hot and cold springs, which were first discovered by the Indians. Its supposed to have amazing therapeutic qualities, which is why the spas were created. Part of the whole turn-of-the-century healthy living thing. Can’t you just imagine people in Victorian or Edwardian clothes coming and going here, laughing, getting their relaxation before returning to New York or wherever? Women in corsets, fluffy dresses. Men in waistcoats and shiny shoes tipping their hats to them. Fantastic.”
Dale had stars in his eyes.
Nash looked at him, dumbfounded.
“We’re investigating a pair of gruesome murders, you know?”
Dale glanced over at him.
“Not yet we’re not. Right now we’re strolling down world-famous Bathhouse Row. Gotta live in the moment.”
He looked back to his left at the latest grand spa they were passing by.
“Hot Springs has some seedy history too. Later on down the line, after the days of bodices and top hats. Then there were speakeasies and illegal gambling. You had mobsters here, people like Al Capone and Lucky Luciano. Imagine Capone going into one of these places and soaking in the hot water for an hour or two. Wild!”
Nash pointed ahead of them. “This should be it.”
They approached the corner and turned.
There was a sign that read: Hot Springs National Park, National Park Service, U.S. Department of the Interior.
As they headed toward the steps leading to the building’s entrance, they saw a group of people standing beside a metal fountain with multiple spigots. The people were filling up jugs of different sizes—water cooler jugs, milk jugs, small water bottles.
“The spring water?” Nash said.
Dale nodded. “That’s right. There are fountains like that all over town from the different springs where people can come and fill up containers.”
“How are they ever going to get enough to fill up a bathtub?”
“The water’s not just good for soaking in. They’re getting it to drink. It’s very healthy. And quite tasty, as I understand. Once it cools, of course.”
They took the steps and headed toward the building. In front of them was a different type of fountain, an ornamental one. It was a half-sphere rising out of an octagonal basin, water draining over the sides. Coming out of the top of the sphere was a small metal feature from which several small jets of water shot a couple inches into the air, arching back down into the pool beneath. The fountain was covered with minerals and a bright green growth of some sort.
Nash studied it.
“So that water really is hot, huh?” he said.
“Touch it and find out.”
Nash stuck his finger in and quickly pulled it out.
“Yeah, I’d say it’s hot.”
Dale grinned. “There are others around that are even hotter. You definitely don’t want to stick your fingers in those.”
Dale’s eyes moved past Nash.
“Nash, do you know anyone in town?”
Nash was looking at his finger in amazement while he dried it with his shirt.
“Just you.”
“Thought so,” Dale said, staring past him. “Which is why I’m concerned about that person hiding in the trees over there and watching us with binoculars.”
Chapter Nine
As Nash turned around to look at where Dale had indicated, Dale stepped around him, getting a bit closer to the gawker. He leaned his head down and looked over the top of his sunglasses, narrowed his eyes.
Someone wearing baggy, dark clothes—with a hood cinched up around their face—sat in the shadows of some trees beyond a decorative retaining wall, near another fountain, about a hundred feet away. This stranger was watching them with binoculars, sunlight glinting off the lenses.
Nash disregarded it.
“Just another tourist. Sightseeing. Come on,” he said, and Dale heard him start toward the building.
Dale didn’t move, though. He kept his eyes on the stranger.
“A tourist hiding in the bushes?” he said.
Dale reached his hand high above his head and gave a big, arching wave to the guy.
The stranger’s binoculars lowered. The pair of reflections off the lenses disappeared. He was completely hidden in the shadows now, a dark silhouette.
Nash stepped up from behind. “Dale, it’s nothing. We—”
“Come on,” Dale said. “Let’s go say hello.”
He started toward the stranger. After a half moment, he heard a groan from behind him and then footsteps following.
“And so it begins,” Nash said. “Another assignment with Dale Conley.”
“Good afternoon!” Dale shouted amicably to the person in the shadows. “Nice day for people-watching, isn’t it?”
The stranger stood up, climbed out from beneath the tree, and dashed away, going up a decorative brick path.
Dale didn’t hesitate. He just bolted right after the stranger. Nash followed.
“Hey!” Dale said. “Just wanna talk!”
In the bright sunlight, Dale could now clearly see the stranger. He was a diminutive man—both very short and very thin—which made his fashion sense even more peculiar. Because while Dale had noted the clothing as looking baggy when the person was still hidden in the shadows, now that he could see the guy clearly, he saw that the clothing was so oversized that it almost looked comical, clownish. Both his navy blue sweatshirt and dark tan work pants—the cargo pant style with pockets on the thighs—looked at least two sizes too big. The stranger’s feet were in big, clompy work boots, and with the guy’s slightly awkward, cumbersome stride, it seemed like they too were too large. Even the black leather gloves on his hands looked oversized. It was as though the stranger had stolen someone else’s entire outfit. Maybe he had.
The wide walkway that the stranger was sprinting on ascended a ridge that ran behind the spas of Bathhouse Row. The walkway was wide and inlaid with ornamental brick. The area surrounding it was a well-maintained park with stately trees, decorative bushes, and lush, green lawns. Spaced along the walkway were comfortable benches and clearings with scenic views of the city. This was the Grand Promenade.
The Promenade was full of tourists—taking pictures, strolling hand-in-hand, walking dogs—and the stranger’s disruption brought lots of shouts and finger-pointing as he pushed his way through, sprinting between the people.
Dale and Nash ran up three sets of steep steps, bringing them level with the top of the Promenade, and Dale was surprised to see that the stranger had gotten a big lead on them. He was way up ahead on the walkway. A damn fast runner. Lithe and light on his feet. Clearly, Dale had underestimated the stranger, and he pushed on at full speed, yelling at the tourists in front of him.
“Coming through! Make way!”
Ahead, Dale saw that the stranger had taken a ramp off the main brick pathway. The cement-paved footpath descended to the back side of one of the bathhouses. The stranger disappeared from sight.
Dale and Nash reached this ramp and ran down at full speed, tourists plastering themselves to the side to get out of their way. Ahead, the stranger rounded the corner.
A couple moments later, Dale and Nash had also made it down the ramp and turned the corner. There was a gap between the bathhouse and the adjacent one—a pathway that led out to Central Avenue. This could have been the perfect escape route for the stranger … if the area between the two buildings hadn’t been filled with a loitering crowd of tourists.
Dale and Nash slowed to a walk and began squeezing their way through the people. It was a small city market, about eight boo
ths or so. Dale spotted the stranger, ahead, worming his way through the thick crowd, moving toward Central Avenue, but finding his path blocked by a group of people surrounding a street performer.
The stranger looked back at them. It was the first time they’d gotten a good look at him. And now they could see that the stranger had his hood cinched up tight around his face—almost comically so—all the way up to his nose. Beneath the hood, the stranger wore a big pair of aviator sunglasses, concealing the rest of his face, only tiny bits of skin showing.
The stranger took another look at the blocked path in front of him, and then darted toward the building, disappearing around the front corner.
As Dale and Nash took off toward the front of the building, there was a loud crash of glass. Tourists screamed.
They rounded the corner to find one of the building’s large front windows busted. Dale used his elbow to knock out some of the jagged glass remaining in the window frame.
He stole a glance back at Nash, giving him a quick look that said, Are you up for this?
Nash nodded.
As Dale turned back around and stuck his boot through the mangled window, there was a quick flash of light, a blur of movement, and he yanked his head back just in time to miss it. A foot-long piece of the broken glass came flying at him from inside the bathhouse, and the stranger—arm extended downward from the throw—turned and dashed into a hallway.
The glass sailed between Dale and Nash and went right toward a group of tourists, narrowly missing them. It shattered on the cement, shards exploding in all directions. People screamed, ran.
Now things had changed. There was no doubt anymore. The mysterious stranger hiding his face behind a cinched-sweatshirt had less-than-noble intentions.
And he’d attacked.
Dale quickly drew his Smith & Wesson Model 36—a small, snub-nosed revolver—and looked at Nash, nodding toward the gun, indicating that he was armed and Nash was not.
“Stay back,” he said.
Nash shook his head no.
Dale didn’t have time to argue. He hopped over the broken glass and crossed into the building. Nash followed.
Inside, the bathhouse was dusty and neglected. It must have been shut down for a long time. They were in what would have been the lobby area, covered in tiny tile, white and black, arranged into a decorative pattern. The walls were marble and matched the color of the tiles—white with black streaks.
Dale came to a stop and held up a hand, signifying for Nash to do the same. He listened. Echoey footsteps. In the distance. Coming from above.
They took off, going through a doorway past the reception area. Dale jumped over a collapsed, broken cabinet, and saw a stairwell to his right. He dashed up the marble steps, which were slippery smooth and scalloped in the center from decades of use.
On the second floor, Dale rounded the corner. More debris. More dust. Gun at the ready, he moved past doors with health equipment from a forgotten time—porcelain tubs and metal pipes and vents and odd apparatuses. All of it very Victorian-looking. God knew what it was all for.
He looked back. He’d lost Nash.
Footsteps ahead. Closer now.
There was a doorway with a sign above that said MEN’S. He dashed across the hall, through the doorway …
And found an endless expanse of doors.
It was a massive changing room, which was divided further into a giant collection of smaller rooms—veneered wooden walls that went three-quarters of the way to the ceiling, small doors every few feet. They must have been changing rooms and perhaps personal relaxation spaces during the spa’s time of operation. But no matter what their original purpose was, one thing was clear: aside from the occasional door hanging from its hinges, all of the dozens of doors were closed.
A hundred or so small, closed rooms.
Any one of which the stranger could be hiding in.
Well, now… Dale thought.
He inched his way into the room, tightening his grip on the Model 36. His boots crunched on the debris strewn on the tile floor—the same small tiles that had been in the lobby, arranged in a different pattern.
He approached the first door, stuck his free hand on it…
And swung it open, sweeping his gun over the tiny room beyond.
Clear.
He looked out over the expanse of short, wooden walls before him.
That’s one down, he thought. And a shitload more to go.
Hand on the second door. Pushed it open. Swept the gun. Clear.
Third door. Open. Clear.
Fourth. Clear.
A sense of defeat filled him. While he was clearing these dozens of rooms, the stranger was most likely long gone, having tip-toed out, laughing under his breath at Dale.
It was with these thoughts that Dale put his hand on the fifth door and pushed.
Only to have it swing back at him.
It struck Dale head-on, and he stumbled back.
There was a rush of movement, and the tiny man hopped out of the changing room, swinging his clasped hands like a club. They caught Dale across the jaw, spinning him around and sending him into the wall.
He hit hard and fell to the tile.
He shook his head, clearing his vision, and quickly looked up to the opposite side of the room, bringing the Model 36 up at the same time.
There was just a glimpse of the stranger as he disappeared around the corner.
“Dammit!” Dale said, scrambling to his feet.
He bolted across the room, all the tiny, wooden doors flying past him in a blur. He rounded the corner and saw the figure at the end of the hall. He leveled the Model 36 at him.
And then quickly lowered it.
It was Nash, not the stranger.
Nash was panting and shaking his head with a disappointed look on his face.
“Look,” he said, pointing to an open window.
Dale bounded over and came to a quick stop. His boots squeaked on the tile. He looked out the window.
Directly below was the roof of a utility shed, which would have been the stranger’s means of escape. Farther past that, the stranger was halfway across a grassy zone of the Promenade, almost to the brick walkway. He stopped and looked back to the bathhouse. His face, such as it was—the sunglasses and tiny bit of exposed skin—looked right at them. He raised a gloved hand, fluttered his fingers, and turned back around.
He slipped into the crowd and disappeared.
Chapter Ten
Merle Higgins had his hands behind his back as he looked out the window. Dale could see red and blue police lights through the glass, from the squad cars parked on the street beyond. Higgins was in his green park ranger uniform, and when he turned back around, Dale saw that Higgins’ face had the same grouchy expression that it had since Dale met him five minutes ago.
But Dale had quickly realized that Higgins’ grouchy look wasn’t aimed at Dale personally. Like Dale’s boss, SAC Walter Taft, Higgins was just a grumpy old fart. But unlike Taft, whose grouchiness was explosive and triggerable, Higgins had the more subdued variety. The I-only-have-X-number-of-months-until-I-retire variety. Indeed, in those five minutes Dale had known him, Higgins had told him that he was three months away from retirement.
He’d mentioned this twice already.
Dale and Nash were seated across from a desk in the main space of the Hot Springs National Park administration building, the building they had been about to enter when they had taken off after the small man who'd been spying on them. This was not the headquarters for law enforcement rangers, like Higgins—rather it was the headquarters for the park on the whole—but it had become the central hub for the federal side of the serial killer investigation. As such, the office space around them was filled with a mix of people in standard civilian clothes, interpretive park ranger uniforms, and law enforcement park ranger uniforms.
Higgins stepped away from the window. Sighing. He had white hair, thinning with old age, dark eyebrows, and a big round nose. He w
as a large man. Not huge, just kind of round. He looked a bit like a cartoon walrus.
“So you’re supposed to be some kind of history expert, eh?”
His slow, grumbly voice was rather walrus-like as well.
Dale was leaning back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head. "That's what they tell me.”
Higgins sighed again, lumbered closer to the desk, and opened a drawer. He took out two file folders and dropped them in front of Dale.
"Maybe you can make sense of this, then. Find some sort of damn connection. As best we can tell, the first victim is meant to emulate the Cleveland Torso Murderer.”
Dale drew the folders closer and opened the top one. Nash leaned closer and looked, and Higgins plodded around the desk and stepped behind them.
As soon as Dale opened the folder, he was greeted with an image of a torso.
Dale exhaled and looked away. “Holy shit…”
“Mmm hmm,” Higgins said, standing behind him.
Dale looked at Nash before turning back to the folder. Nash had his eyes right on the image. There was no expression in his face. Dale wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing.
From the moment Dale had considered bringing Nash on the case, he’d had his reservations. Surely there would be no one better to help him look into the mind of a serial killer than someone who was a serial killer in every way except the actual killing part. Yet Dale also considered that bringing Nash on might have been a reckless move on his part. He knew Nash would never actually hurt anyone, so that wasn't a concern. His concern was that exposing Nash to the realities of his dreams might send the guy spiraling further into the darkness of his fantasies.
Nash had enough problems. Dale didn't want to make them worse.
Dale also wondered, had he brought Nash onto the case for his own reasons? Was he doing this truly because he thought Nash could help, or was he doing this so that he could bury a hatchet, get closure to a dark chapter in his life? He couldn’t be sure at the moment, and it was something to ponder.
But as Dale watched Nash blankly stare at the gruesome image, he reminded himself that whatever help he could get in stopping another senseless slaying like this was a good thing.
